Page 14 of All The Way Under
I was told if they sense I’m a threat, they may not take me. I need to appear weak in will and musculature. I’m six foot four, so there’s no hiding my height. My hands are in fists down at my sides, about to burst from the pressure of clenching them. When they get close enough, I recognize they’re speaking Portuguese.
“Put your hands up!”
I comply after slamming the button to tell my ship I’ve made contact. It also erases the connection to them, so it can’t be traced.
“Help me,” I say. “My systems are down.”
I know I’m not saying the right words, but I continue to blather on as they board my boat.
“I need to dock at Maputo,” I explain.
I say the port name twice, so they know exactly what I’m saying. Feigning stupidity is not my strong suit, but I need to appear inept.
“No,” the captain of the boat says. “You’re coming with us.”
Though I can tell he’s hesitant as he looks me up and down.
Sell it. Sell it. Sell this fucking charade.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I say, nearly choking on the pussy words.
The sentence tastes so bitter and wrong that my voice actually shakes.
“I just need to dock at Maputo. I don’t have a lot of money on me.”
I might just make myself sick with this, but I lay it on thick, bringing my voice up, and sliding my hand into my pocket.
“I have some cash if that’s what you’re after,” I say, bringing up a wad of Euros. “Here, take this. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Take him,” one man says to the other. “Both of you,” he adds once his gaze flits over my size again.
They board the boat, and I do my best to look scared, but I have a feeling I might look bored as I allow them to zip tie my hands and jerk me onto their little boat. I do protest and plead like a good civilian would, but I don’t make their lives as hard as I could, given that I could kill them with ease right here and now.
I know they drug most of the victims, and while I hope they don’t do that to me, I’m ready for it if they do. I’ve prepared my body and hydrated so it will get out of my system quickly. This mission has a lot hinging on the fact that I need to roll with whatever happens.
I speak in their language again, pleading with them to release me, telling them I don’t have money for ransom. There’s a wholestory they prepared for me. It’s imperative that I hide the truth about who I really am. So I tell these men my story—test out the waters of believability. I was willed the sailboat by a friend who recently passed away. I was taking this sailing trip because it was his dying wish. He wanted his ashes spread at sea in a particular spot I couldn’t find. I don’t have any family, as I was in the foster system in America. My name is Brody still.
I say it quickly, so they perceive it as nerves and trepidation. Overshare. That is what the normal person would do in a state of distress. I also say it in English, so they know that’s my native tongue. Verbal vomit.
They ask me questions about my life and conclude that my ransom money will have to come from the government if it’s going to come at all. I keep them talking the entire ride to their beach camp and continue prattling on about whatever I think sounds desperate and makes me seem terrified. There are lulls, but my adrenaline is off the charts, so time passes quickly. Finally, they pull into one of Madagascar’s many bays. Even at night, I can tell how white the beach sands are.
They load me into a Jeep and drive through a tropical jungle. There are plateaus, valleys, and thick vegetation from what I’m cataloging on the drive. I’m being a top-notch captive, so there’s no talk of using the sedatives, and I’m watching them like a hawk in case they try to deliver a dose on the down low.
The man in the passenger seat turns to look at me, and for the first time, I sense distrust. My stomach turns, but I remind myself they don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of.
Maybe my lies just seem too practiced, too smooth.
“What will happen to my boat?” I say in their native language. “It’s important to me. Will I see it again?”
That’s a question a normal citizen might ask, I think.
What would Nolan say? I quickly decide to make that my new motto.
“Don’t destroy it, please. I’ll pay for it.”
The man in the passenger seat narrows his eyes at me in the dim light.
“Should we destroy you instead?” he asks.
