Bait: A Novel (13 page)

T
he night passed in a euphoric blur. With two dead from the original group, the survivors had plenty of heroin to go around. They indulged, snorting again and again, throwing their heads back to stare at the moon and stars as the opiate seeped into their bloodstreams. The worms in their heads grew fat and satisfied, rolling cool and wet through their disjointed thoughts.

For the first time they enjoyed each other’s company, laughing giddily as junk coursed through their veins. They strode and staggered around the trunk, shouting, dancing. Every now and then one of them would collapse into a giggling heap. Once or twice the heroin’s potency caused them to forget their ordeal completely. At all other times the horror was kept dulled and distant enough, though they instinctively avoided the water. In the darkened sea a half dozen fins patrolled the shallows, never changing speed, gliding to kill time. Had there been enough light for any of the stranded to see the lurking predators, one or two would have considered taking the easy way out. The intake of one whole pile at once might have been enough to finish someone, yet the thought of overdosing never crossed their minds. When the last of the heroin had been consumed the survivors fell into a deep, uninterrupted slumber.

But inside that slumber, worlds were turned on their heads. The dreams that came were so vivid, so effective, so rooted in alternate realities of what might have been, that it brought tears to the closed eyes of those sleeping. Felix dreamed of fighting, using his fists to save his deadbeat mother from abusive men, being the protector he’d always wanted to be and not the attacker he’d been groomed to become. Ginger dreamed of pursuit, chasing a small laughing boy around a raggedy garden until she snatched him up and held him tight. Nash dreamed of fame, playing his guitar onstage night after night to crowds of adoring fans under multicolored spotlights. Maria dreamed of home, walking the white beaches of Cayo Coco with her brothers and sisters, now grown up, pointing at crabs scuttling under shrubs while they consumed mouthfuls of dark rum and talked of a past that never happened.

Nash woke late next morning in considerable pain. His body felt drained. His joints were rusty, his stomach empty and rumbling. Every muscle in his body ached, his exposed skin sore and hot from sunburn. The others slept nearby, covered in the sand they had rolled in during the night. Nash crawled on hands and knees around the trunk, examining the lid for leftovers, wanting another taste. Not a single speck of white dust remained. He decided to address the issue of hunger, though it was a distant second. He opened the box and rummaged inside.

Food and water lay within, like the box before, but what grabbed Nash’s attention was the new envelope among the supplies, the one that Felix had discarded the previous afternoon. Nash went to grab it, but stopped short, his fingers tingling, unsure of whether to even touch it. He suddenly remembered the blood, the screaming.

Don’t leave me, you fuck!

Everything came rushing back, the horrors of the days before revisited in a single moment—Tal gibbering and drooling, fins slicing through sea, the bump that rocked Nash in the water like a buoy. And then the memory of Kenny came, his cries for help and shrieks of pain echoing inside Nash’s head. He saw it all again, running like a film reel, the boy trying to swim to safety with a stump for an arm before being dragged under the waves by a streamlined shape with glassy black eyes and endless pointed white in its mouth.

Nash felt sick. A new nausea, brought on by fear and not chemical dependence, cramped his chin and twisted his guts. He glanced nervously at the sea. It was calmer than the day before, small waves rolling toward shore, softer sounds of them crashing on the beach. The ominous yacht was in the same spot. Only one figure sat on the deck. The figure waved to Nash. He ignored it.

“Up bright and early, I see,” Nash mumbled. “You don’t want to miss a damn thing, do you?”

Nash’s trembling fingers plucked the envelope from the box. He inspected it, wondering if his tormentor’s fingerprints were on it. They were too careful, Nash knew, too precise. He tore open the envelope and slid out the letter.

Dear civilians,

Congratulations on surviving the first swim. You have now successfully completed one half of your ordeal. You will find this box identical to the last one, with the added bonus of your promised heroin. We hope you enjoy your prize. You’ve earned it. There is another island to the north of this one. You must traverse the channel in order to reach the third and final box. Box #3 has a much larger supply of heroin and food within it. There are further instructions to retrieve something more for your troubles. A small boat and navigational equipment have been left for you on the beach, which you may use to reach safety.

Nash groaned. He wanted the game to be over already. Only the mention of heroin and a means of escape stopped him from losing all hope. He read the letter over again, reaffirming the few details provided. The man on the yacht stood and walked around the deck, attracting Nash’s attention.

What’s your deal?
he thought.
Just who the hell are you—

The tap on his shoulder caused him to scream out in surprise, a primal, pathetic sound. He threw the note up in the air, where the breeze carried it for a moment before ending up crushed in Felix’s grip.

“Christ!” Nash put a hand to his heart. “Don’t sneak up on a dude, dude.”

“How much shit are we in?” Felix asked, looking at the paper in his grasp.

“Neck deep, if we’re lucky.”

Felix smoothed out the letter and read it over carefully to verify. His expression never changed. He hadn’t expected anything less.

“Not out of the woods yet,” he said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“At least there is a way out of the woods,” Nash replied.

Felix looked at the moored yacht. “So they say.”

“You’re not buying it?”

“Not buying it entirely.”

He handed the letter back. Both men mulled over what they’d just read in silence, taking advantage of their newly calmed minds. The heroin in the night had set the clock back on their collective time bomb, but they knew it wouldn’t last long.

“Can I see the letter?” Ginger asked.

She’d awoken and was sitting up, wiping sleep from her eyes. Maria lay nearby, curled up in a ball, eyes still closed.

“Sure, if you want to wake up on the wrong side of the bed,” said Felix.

“Look around,” Ginger replied, yawning, holding out a hand for the letter. “Someone totally shit the bed. It’s the wrong side no matter what.”

Felix didn’t laugh and that was enough to snap Ginger out of her grogginess. Nash handed her the letter without a word. She stood and read it over before dropping it back in the box with a grunt.

“Hell no,” she said. “I ain’t going through that again.”

“None of us want to,” replied Nash.

“Good.”

“But I don’t know if we have a choice. . . .”

Ginger folded her arms. “Fuck that, Nash. I’ve got a choice and I’m sure as hell gonna trust my instincts over yours this time.”

“Ginger, your instincts were the same as mine and you fucking well know it.”

“Bullshit.”

Felix nodded at the yacht. “Honey, I doubt those guys out there will be willing to give us a choice. They’ve given us orders, and they expect us to follow them.”

“Felix,” Ginger said, then paused, her resilience crumbling. “I . . . I can’t do it again. You guys can go. I’ll stay this time and—”

“And do what?” snapped Felix. “Wait until withdrawal kicks in a few hours from now and starts to mess you up all over again?”

“We can’t stay here, Ginger,” said Nash. “We’ll die if we stay.”

“We’ll die if we
leave
,” Ginger protested, pointing toward the open water. “Jesus, does anyone remember the other two guys that were with us when we started? Do we need any more proof?”

Ginger’s voice stirred Maria from slumber. She raised her head from the sand, appearing to wake slowly, but her eyes were wary and ready for anything. Ginger took one look at her and the animosity between them was back.

“Go back to sleep, bitch.”

Maria put her head back down, eyes like daggers flicking between Ginger and the two men. Nash noted the feral look in them. He’d seen cowering dogs act similar, ones in cages that couldn’t be trusted.

“Swimming that channel was crazy in the first place,” Ginger said, turning to Felix. “And to even suggest doing it again is
completely
insane.”

Felix put a hand on Ginger’s shoulder. “Look, I don’t want to be forced to swim in desperation like we did yesterday, full of pain, feeling nothing but sick and tired. It lowers our chances.”

“Our chances?” she moaned. “What chance do we really have?”

“What choice do we really have?”

“You just want more junk,” Ginger said.

“And soon you will too,” Felix said, looking her straight in the eye. “More and more every minute. . . .”

He was talking sense, and that irritated her. Had it been the day before, she would have surely lashed out at him. The dope consumed during the night renewed her patience. She would hear the man out.

“Furthermore,” Felix continued, “I’m not sure those guys on the boat will let us quit. They didn’t invest heavily in this game of theirs for nothing. We’re here to partake.”

Ginger snorted. “All the more reason not to give them the satisfaction then.”

Felix sighed. “To be honest, I think they’ll kill us outright if we don’t comply.”

Nash looked at the man on the deck of the yacht and gulped. He had no doubt that Felix was speaking the truth. Another man emerged from the yacht’s cabin, followed by a third and fourth.

“Look, here’s the deal,” Nash said. “We know our kick last night was just enough to get us through the day, and then we’ll be back to pain and puke. That’s our vicious cycle, our lot, and right now we got a little downtime, but soon we’ll need what’s in that third box. And in case you haven’t noticed, this island ain’t the one we can escape from.”

“You really think they’ve left a boat over there for us?” Ginger asked.

Nash shrugged. “They haven’t lied about anything so far.”

“I’d rather go now,” Felix said. “While we feel up to the task and know what we’re up against. Let’s use what little edge we have to our advantage.”

“You’re fucking nuts,” Ginger said.

Felix tried on a grin. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

He knelt in front of the open trunk and rummaged inside, pulling out supplies and laying them on the sand. Sandwiches, apples, energy bars, same as before. He scrutinized the sustenance before him, wishing more nutritional value had been provided.

“Little more than a snack, but it’ll have to do,” he said. “Y’all get stuck in now and build up your strength to swim.”

“It would be good if we go close to noon,” Ginger offered, checking the sun’s position in the sky. “I think sharks are more active at sunrise and sunset.”

“Got a feeling you’re right about that dusk and dawn shit,” Felix said, tossing apples to her and Nash. “I’m down for whatever stacks the odds in our favor.”

Maria rose from where she lay, licking her lips, taking a few timid steps toward the food that lay before Felix. He stopped her with a glare.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “You can wait and see if we leave you any scraps.”

She crouched. If looks could kill, the one Maria gave Felix would have drawn and quartered him.

K
enny Colbert had indeed been torn to pieces, and much more than a four count. Not all of the kid found its way to the bellies of beasts or the bottom of the sea either. Buchanan took a net and fished some of the young man’s remains out of the water near the yacht’s stern. He dumped them into a bucket and examined them: a partial upper thigh, a shoulder and armpit, and a section of torn flesh with a patch of hair. Turk strolled by and stopped to have a look.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the unidentifiable remain.

“Nape of his neck, I think,” Buchanan replied. “See the darker hair?”

“Yeah, I see it. Jeez, greedy bastards, ain’t they?”

“Those white-tips are worse than jackals. I’m surprised they left this much.”

Turk chuckled. “I’ll bet that tiger probably had a whole half of the kid to itself.”

Buchanan dumped the bucket’s contents into another bucket and fastened a lid on it. Turk headed back to the bow of the boat. Buchanan followed. They stopped before Greer, who sat in his deck chair, smoking and drinking in turn.

“What was left?” he asked.

“Hardly anything,” Buchanan replied. “Looks like an armpit got spat out again, though.”

“What is it with all the uneaten armpits?”

Turk laughed. “Sharks must not like the smell.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Buchanan. “This is probably the first bath these junkies have had in weeks.”

Reposo came out of the cabin with a pair of binoculars. He scanned the survivors on the beach, wondering who the weakest link was and how much it would factor into his betting strategy.

“Who do you think is next?” he asked.

“It has to be one of the women,” Greer said. “I can’t believe they’re both still in the game at this point.”

“Anyone got money on one of the girls getting bagged next?” Buchanan asked.

“We do,” Turk and Reposo replied in unison.

“Redhead or Cuban?”

Reposo adjusted his binoculars, focusing on Maria sitting by herself. “My money is on the Cuban. She’s ostracized herself now, and that sucker punch she took might have weakened her chances. Personally, I think she’s suffering a broken jaw. That girl is damaged goods.”

Greer gave a grunt. “They’re all damaged goods.”

Greer thought about damage. The damage he and his men had inflicted over the years, and the damage they had taken in return. He allowed it to prey on his mind for the first time in a long while, the injuries to body and soul that could never heal.

At what point are people beyond repair?
he thought.

Unspeakable things came to mind. Acts committed by him and those under his command in the fog of war, both sanctioned and off the record, most of it during their tours in Afghanistan. How he loathed that fucking place, the leading producer of heroin in the world, a damned desert that was good for nothing except growing poppies and producing insurgents. No matter how many fields they razed, no matter how many drug lords or tribal chiefs they assassinated, no matter how many production houses they located and leveled with air strikes, it never seemed to put a dent in America’s appetite for the drug or the Afghan’s ability to supply it. Greer hated that part of the world more than anywhere else, yet he still maintained contacts there that could provide him with the finest opiate at competitive prices.

I can’t fix things with my hands tied.

If he’d been allowed to fight the war the way he wanted, they would have been one step closer to winning the damn thing. During many a mission debriefing, his detractors had accused him of allowing too much collateral damage, referring to some of his actions as atrocities. Even the term
war crime
had come up once or twice, but Greer never believed that. What Greer and his men had done to the enemy outside of mission parameters was warranted, regardless of whether those behind desks back in Washington deemed it uncivilized. Their interpretation of orders eventually led to their dismissal from the ranks, and Greer had felt it unjust. He had never felt pity or remorse over what he had done. For him all was fair in love and war. Being relieved of command didn’t mean the mission was over. Not for him. Not for any of them.

“You okay, Cap?” asked Buchanan.

“I’m fine.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Dishonorable discharge.”

Greer said no more. He threw his cigar overboard and retreated to the cabin. The others knew better than to follow him. They kept watch while Greer sat inside and stewed in his thoughts.