Out Too Farr Read online

  “I hope you don’t give up on love. And I hope, even though things look dark now, you and Moj can find a way to be together.”

  The old guy let his words sink in. Then he grinned. “Grab yer shit, now. Chewy and I drew straws, and I got the short one. Looks like I’m running a goddamn water taxi.”

  Tommy turned and walked down the corridor leaving Rania alone with her thoughts… and her regrets.

  * * *

  Captain Lindsay Fisher stood in hazy sunshine watching Rania zoom off in the launch.

  Her engineer had left the Bonnie Blue with a simple duffel bag tossed over her shoulder. She’d exchanged her normal bikini and overalls garb for conservative slacks and a shirt. Short heels dangled from her hand. Watching her leave made Lindsay’s gut ache.

  Then strong arms enfolded her. Alton’s aftershave tickled her nose, and she relaxed back into him.

  “She’ll be all right,” Alton whispered into her ear. “Look, she loses this job, and she has another lined up immediately. Complete with a helicopter.”

  “I feel awful firing her,” Lindsay said. “Worse yet, she and Moj could’ve have had something. I haven’t seen him so in love since Fiona. Now what is he going to do?”

  Alton turned her around.

  “Uh, get on his private jet and fly away to his swank lifestyle. It was a fling. Flings end.”

  Anger swept through Lindsay. “We were only a fling when you got kicked off the Bonnie Blue. Were you that callous?”

  Alton grinned. “No way, Baby. I knew you and me were destined to be together. That’s why I showed up to rescue you.”

  “You and René,” Lindsay corrected.

  “Yes,” Alton conceded. “Me and Frenchie. But he’s the perfect example. René and CeCe got together again after they had some tough times. You and I got together, never mind the gunfire, poisoned soup, and Carrothers’s villainous shenanigans. Dude, if it’s meant to be, Moj and Rania will somehow work things out.”

  Lindsay frowned. “Did you just call me dude?”

  “Better than bro, right?” Alton asked with an easy grin.

  Lindsay skewered him with her eyes. “Not the right time.”

  “No,” Alton said. “You’re right. Really, though, if you want to feel sorry for someone, what about me? I have all this food for Moj, and all we’re left with is Cloude, who eats like a fussy toddler.”

  “What about Manning and his boyz?” Lindsay. “Heavy on the z’s.”

  “I hate feeding mercenaries,” Alton said. “They don’t eat with any real enjoyment. When you’re that much of a badass, you only hunger for battle.”

  Lindsay rolled her eyes, grabbed him hard, and kissed him harder. The kiss made her remember their first break-up, first and last. She was determined never to suffer again through such a dark time.

  Poor Rania. Poor Moj.

  * * *

  Vikram sat with his incompetent partners in the harbor bar, sipping a crappy African beer and feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t see the woman, but perked up when Wally blurted out, “Bert, mate, I think that’s the chick who shot me.”

  Bert squinted. “No, you know who that is?” He screwed up his face in confusion. “Oh, I forget, but no, man, I’ve seen her before on the Internet. She’s famous.”

  “Right, mate,” Wally insisted, “famous for shooting me.”

  “No, no, no, I think she was on season six of Dancing with the Stars.”

  “Hush!” Vikram hissed. “It is the Egyptian woman, Moj’s bodyguard. And she did shoot you, Wally.”

  “Almost lost my hat,” Wally flicked the brim. “But I got her back. It’s my lucky hat.”

  “Lucky with the ladies!” Bert and Wally high-fived. Bert’s beard split into a grin, the tip of his tongue sticking between his teeth. “Now I remember. I read all about her on the Celeb Beat blog. Rania is her name, and she is end-of-world-volcano hot. Back when she was younger, she almost married this guy in Egypt who is all pissed off. She’s Muslim, but like next-generation Muslim, all self-empowered and proud to be a woman.”

  Vikram smacked at Bert’s arm, but the angle was wrong, and it came off pathetic. Dammit.

  He’d been doing some hard thinking. Wally and Bert were useless. Of course they’d made nearly two-hundred thousand South African rand dropping the cigarettes off with the Somali pirates, yet Vikram needed far more money to win back his criminal empire.

  Beyond that, he needed better lackeys; Wally and Bert were too good-natured. His two sidekicks had spent several hours with the Somalis, discussing the best way to quit smoking, while all of them smoked. Several hours.

  Vikram either needed to give up on his dreams of running a criminal empire or find himself a new gang.

  He would give them one last chance.

  “Silence, fools,” Vikram hissed. “Don’t you see? We can kidnap her and then make Moj pay a ransom. This is another chance to make millions.”

  Wally screwed up his face. “Nah.”

  Bert nodded. “I agree, this whole gun and violence bit, it’s not our thing. But Vik, thanks anyway for giving us the chance to be proper criminals. We’re just not evil.”

  Vikram jammed his hand into his shoulder holster, but his 9mm wasn’t there.

  Wally and Bert grinned and high-fived again.

  Wally wiggled his fingers at Vikram. “I had a buddy who taught me how to pick pockets in Durban. But I never liked stealing. I’d always feel too guilty afterward.”

  “We didn’t want you shooting anyone,” Bert explained. “Your gun is back on the boat.”

  Rage heated Vikram’s face to about one million degrees Celsius. “You two, this is it. This is over.”

  Bert ignored him and pointed. “Look. Those guys, they’re following the chick.”

  Vikram turned to see two large Middle Eastern men in shiny gray suits walk quickly past the harbor shops. They were keeping their distance, but both men had their eyes glued to Moj’s girlfriend.

  “Oh, man,” Bert set his beer down and looked worried. “I bet you those men work for her husband, no, not her husband but her almost-husband. They were never officially married. This guy signed papers saying they were. He’s this Egyptian bigwig, what’s his name?”

  Vikram knew immediately and felt the hate fill him. “Nassef Youssef Fayed.”

  Wally snapped his fingers. “Didn’t you say that was the guy who helped kick you out of Durban?”

  “The same.” Vikram felt his lip curl in loathing. “He presents himself as a legitimate Egyptian businessman, but in reality, he has ties to the underworld in most African countries. He is more than corrupt. He is rotten to the core.” Then he sighed. “You see, that’s who we could be. Powerful, rich, evil, feared. Don’t you want that?”

  “Not a bit,” Bert said. “But hey, she might be in trouble. We should go help her.”

  Wally adjusted his hat and horn-rimmed glasses. “Yeah, we should.”

  Both men chugged their beers, belched, and slid off their barstools.

  They stepped into the sunshine, and then it was Bert who turned. “You coming, Vik? Let’s try being good guys. Maybe you’ll like it better.”

  “Yeah, come on, Vik,” Wally said.

  Vikram felt a warm glow in his belly. They were inviting him along. They were waiting for him. If they had been monstrous power-hungry villains, rich beyond belief, they would not have cared. At that moment, he realized he had nothing to lose except for their friendship.

  And if those men following the Egyptian woman did work for Fayed, Vikram could exact his vengeance.

  Maybe it was good he didn’t have his pistol. Wally and Bert wouldn’t have helped him get revenge if bullets were involved. And Vikram would need their help.

  “Okay, let’s try and be heroes.” He couldn’t believe he’d said those words as he hurried after Bert and Wally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  4°19′48″S; 55°44′48″E

  April 27

  Praslin Airport

 
Moj had been in his fair share of airports across the world, but he’d never seen one like Praslin’s. It was part sizzling-asphalt airstrip and part market, at least on Saturdays. Vendors hawked their wares in hastily made stalls on the side: racks of jewelry, shelves of clothes, beach stuff, luggage, DVDs and Blu-Rays, grilled fish, live goats, and of course, chickens, running everywhere.

  Behind the market lay a strip of green jungle that melted into the pale gold of another beach. Gleaming turquoise water marked by white surf rolled onto the sand. A few guys were surfing and some beach chairs littered the strand.

  The Praslin airport bar was an outside affair, palm fronds overhead and a long stretch of concrete for serving booze. Liquor bottles filled a wooden shelf behind the makeshift bar; the wood was warped and discolored from the elements. Shafts of sunlight broke from the leafy ceiling to shine through the bottles and heat the wood.

  His Maker’s Mark was as warm and humid as the afternoon air. That was okay. He wasn’t drinking it for the taste. The glow of the alcohol put a nice warmth in his belly and helped a bit with his head. No wonder his mother died guzzling the stuff. As had so many talented musicians. But the warm feeling was a lie, as was his fuzzy brain.

  Being with Rania, feeling her skin, kissing her lips, and smelling her sweet scent, that had been real. But he had lost her.

  A toothless local played a perfectly tuned guitar which looked about as beaten-down as the guitarist. Remnants of white hair crowned the guy’s dark head. Wrinkles clawed his eyes and chewed his mouth. A ragged t-shirt fell to cut-off chinos. He seemed to be balanced on the little plastic chair where he played.

  And yet, he could hit every note with his guitar, and with his voice.

  Even better? Moj had been sitting on a wooden stool in front of the concrete bar for at least thirty minutes waiting for his flight to Mahé, and the guitarist had not played one song by The Eagles. Not “Hotel California,” not “Tequila Sunrise,” not even “Desperado.” Moj had no great hatred for The Eagles, but for an old guy like that, with a guitar, on an island, it was quite the achievement.

  Moj checked his watch. Fifteen more minutes, and then if they didn’t start boarding, he’d make sure they started. Moj, in control, making sure shit got done. Story of his motherfucking life.

  The guitarist started “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” softly, so softly, so slowly, that Moj didn’t recognize the tune at first. He got it before the guy started singing. It was an old Elvis tune. Moj didn’t know the history. If Cloude had been there, she’d have cited Wikipedia articles about everyone who had ever covered the song.

  He liked the tune, but those first lyrics, about wise men talking trash and fools going where they shouldn’t go, they moved him like never before. Once again, this musician impressed him. He’d taken the song and made it his own, like Johnny Cash covering Nine Inch Nails, or Jimi Hendrix taking ownership of Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.”

  It was as if the guy had melted the shattered moments of his life and poured them into that single song.

  That’s music, Moj thought. What am I doing with all this other bullshit? What’s the PR for? What good does it do anyone?

  The guy finished the song and then put the guitar down with a soft thud that reverberated through the instrument. Moj had heard that deep bass thrum a million times in dozens of different studios on every continent, but now, that sound struck something in him. Everything came into perfect clarity.

  Moj cracked a grin that felt so good.

  “Damn, but I’ve been a fool.” He didn’t need the rest of his drink. And he didn’t need any more money and certainly no more goddamn fame.

  He stood up and opened his wallet and dug out a twenty-dollar bill for the drink. “You take American currency?” he asked the bartender.

  The guy nodded, smiling at the tip. “Yes, we do. Everyone on the island does.” He leaned in close. “I know a special place, we exchange money, give you good rate.”

  “I’m on my way out of town, or I would. Thanks, though.” He moved over to the guitarist, who was turned, holding the neck of his guitar next to his cheek. The old musician stared out the airstrip, the market, and the ocean beyond. His was a worn human face with a long history that was simply taking a break from singing and preparing for the next tune. If Moj had his cameramen, he’d have them snap a picture for an album cover.

  “Hey, man,” Moj said, “Do you know who I am?”

  The old man tilted his head and then slowly shook it. “No. Not at all.”

  “Good, you speak English.” And Moj loved that the guy didn’t recognize him. “So I’ve been listening to you play. You have it, that magic, that spark. I want to thank you.”

  Ever the pro, the old guitarist pushed at his tip jar with a gray toe. “That is a thank you.” His accent was thick, but Moj got the point.

  The bartender got a twenty, but the guitarist got a crisp new one-hundred dollar bill. Moj dropped it into the taped-up tip jar at the guitarist’s feet. He figured the guitarist would go ape-shit. But no, he only nodded. “Merci. Or, thank you, whichever.”

  Moj got out one of his gold-lined business cards from the gold holder he kept next to his wallet. “I’m an American music producer, and I was wondering if you’d be open to working with me.”

  The bartender called over to the guitarist in the pigeon French used in the Seychelles. Moj didn’t understand a word.

  The guitarist glanced up Moj with yellowed eyes.

  “You have contacts. You are big deal, my friend say. Moj, he say. Cloude, he say. I like Cloude for she has a pure voice. You help her?”

  Moj nodded and grinned. He was going to take this guy and make him the next big thing. Change the guy’s life forever. “Yeah, I helped her. She’s amazing. And I’d like to help you.”

  “Like I say, merci for the very good tip. But I don’t want that. My grandchildren, my daughter, the island, this bar, and this music I sing. It is what I want. Anything more I want, you can’t give me. No one can. Only God. Only God.”

  Moj blinked.

  “I gotcha,” he said in a thick voice. He’d been schooled, and the lesson went deep. “I understand.” He put his fancy card away.

  Overhead, a British-accented voice announced his flight was boarding. It was repeated in French and then Seychellois Creole.

  The old man turned to look out over the ocean again. Their business was over. No negotiations. Moj had nothing the man wanted.

  Moj left the bar, pulling his slim roller case behind him.

  Then he saw Rania. She was walking down past the market toward the south end of the airstrip where a wide square of tarmac lay painted with flecked yellow landing lines. A helicopter sat there, rotors still.

  Moj watched as two muscled Middle Eastern men seized her and strong-armed her down to the helicopter.

  “Oh shit,” Moj muttered, cold fear drenching his chest. Her husband. Rania. Damn.

  * * *

  Rania struggled, but the two bruisers shoved her into the helicopter where other men seized her and threw her onto the seat. Her bag had been ripped from her. They’d also taken her pistol.

  When she’d first seen the Russian-made Mi-17V-5 helicopter, her instincts told her that something was amiss. She’d flown in other Global Security birds, but they’d always been American-made.

  Inside the helicopter, two long benches lined either side of the fuselage. Harsh sunlight glared through round windows, but this helicopter had air-conditioning pumping throughout the cabin.

  The pilots sat in the cockpit on her left, going through the flight checks. She heard one ask for permission in Arabic-accented French.

  The two goons who’d first grabbed her blocked the door. Four more toughs glowered at her from their bench across the way. All wore similar gray suits, light, silky, and shiny. Dark faces glared at her.

  On Rania’s right sat Nassef Youssef Fayed. He’d forgone a suit coat in the heat, and instead wore a loose linen shirt and white sil
k slacks, the same color as his shoes.

  He’d aged far more than she had. Bruised circles shadowed his brown eyes, and both his short-cropped hair and thin beard were more storm cloud than midnight sky. An expression of sneering victory flashed across his face.

  “You thought you could escape me. You thought I wouldn’t find you. Well, you were promised to me. But now you will not be wife number two, but wife number four.” He spoke in angry, urgent Egyptian Arabic.

  Rania used Standard Arabic to quote from the Quran, “And so our Prophet said, ‘You may marry two or three or four women whom you choose. But if you apprehend that you might not be able to do justice to them, then marry only one wife.’ You cannot do justice to even one woman. Your poor first wife, I pity her.”

  Fayed raised a hand as if to strike her.

  Rania stilled him with a smile. “No, not yet. I want to talk with you before we get to that part. How long until we take off?”

  “That does not matter,” Fayed smirked. “We have you.”

  Rania listened to the radio chatter. The Praslin airport wasn’t letting them go any time soon. She recognized the signs.

  “We have time,” Rania said. “I want to be clear. I am very happy to see you. Actually, Fayed, your timing could not have been better.”

  His face fell. “This is a joke. You can’t be happy about being kidnapped.”

  Rania leaned forward and patted his leg. “You saw me on TV, for we both know you don’t like to read, and you thought this was your great chance to steal me away from the corruption and evil of the West. So you used one of your contacts in Global Security to offer me a job and brought me here.” Rania nearly giggled.

  “And it worked so, so, perfectly.” She tapped his leg to punctuate her words.

  “Get in here,” Fayed snapped at his guards standing outside. “And close the door. She is planning something. Pilots, get us up in the air.”

  “We can’t, sir, not until we have clearance.”