Deception Island (22 page)

He'd have to paddle for it and hope for a miracle.

* * *

Holly yanked the sweater down to cover her pocket and turned, fists clenched. The four women had returned with two large metal platters. One was heaped with rice, the other noodles.

Lunch. Just lunch. She'd have to bide her time. She released her hands. The women settled the dishes on the floor. The others surged at them, snatching handfuls of food and shoving them into their mouths. The guard stood, stretched and ambled to the doorway. Facing out, he spoke to the other goons.

A woman wearing a grubby yellow dress grabbed Holly's sleeve and urged her toward the food. Holly shook her head. She'd been eating like a princess for days—she had plenty of reserves. By the way the women were sucking up the food, she guessed they needed it more. The woman sank her fingertips into Holly's biceps. “Come!” she whispered, her eyes wide with meaning, yanking Holly toward the dish furthest from the guard.

Holly stumbled after her. The woman knelt, grabbed a fistful of rice and held it over her mouth. Holly copied. “You are English?” she muttered into her hand.

“American. You speak English.”

“Yes. You are here to be trafficked, too?”

“So I'm told. Who are these women? What happened to them, to you?”

“They are from Cambodia. Some of them were sold by their families, some are from the street, some paid a lot of money to be secured factory jobs in other cities, other countries. You see that girl?” She nodded to the girl in the Justin Bieber T-shirt. “She is twelve.”

“Twelve?” Holly's throat dried.

“Her name is Devi. She was sold by her mother, who has too many children and cannot afford them all.”

“Her mother sold her.”

“Many girls are sold by their mothers. The mothers convince themselves they are sending the girls out to work, just like in the fields, but they know the truth.”

“And you?”

“I am not like these women. I was born in Cambodia but I am an Australian national. I work for an aid agency trying to stop human trafficking. I was working undercover to find out what was happening to women like these, and I was kidnapped, too.” She shrugged. “The plan worked a little too well.”

“What will happen to them? You?”
Me?

“We will be sold to brothels, probably in Asia or Europe. We will be told we can earn our freedom, earn money for our families. But that won't happen. We will be kept in servitude for as long as we are useful, then we will disappear.”

Holly bit her lower lip. Hell, compared with that her own life had been sheltered. “Where are we?”

“I don't know. We left Cambodia from the Port of Sihanoukville, but we spent so long locked in the hold of a cargo ship that I lost track of night and day, let alone direction. When I was taken, I tried to leave behind a message for my colleagues to at least tell them which gang we were dealing with, but I was caught. People will be looking for me, but they won't know where to start.”

“I was taken from Indonesian waters. It was a short flight—maybe half an hour, plus a helicopter ride—but I don't know which direction.”

“Still, that suggests the boat came south, putting us in Malaysia, maybe, or Indonesia.”

Holly swallowed. “Would it help if your colleagues knew that?”

“They would at least know which authorities to pressure.” She shook her head. “But it is hopeless.”

Holly ate a few grains of rice. Maybe not so hopeless. Could she trust this woman? “How long have you been here?”

The woman paused. Noting the change of subject? “Two weeks, I think. They are breaking us. Forcing us to accept our new fate, showing us we are worthless.”

Holly nodded at the bloodstain on the floor. It glistened—still wet. “They're being violent?”

The woman followed her gaze. She crossed herself. “One woman...she...stood up to them, last night. These men are monsters. I've never seen men like this. They are dead in their eyes.”

“Are you let out of this room? Other than to empty the bucket and to bring in food?”

The woman eyed the guard, who was paying scant attention to the scrabbling women. “Only to be raped.”

Holly choked on the rice. She coughed and swallowed, her eyes watering. “Have you...?” The words stalled in her windpipe.

“We all have, except the youngest ones.” She indicated the girl in the Bieber T-shirt—Devi. “They are virgins, so they are worth more intact, but the threat is still there. These men—” She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together.

Anger flashed hot in Holly's chest. “How long will you—we—be kept here? Do you know?”

“We believe women are usually kept in holding areas for a few weeks. Just long enough to break their spirits.”

Holly made a snap decision. “Do you have someone you can text? Do you know how to use an iPhone?”

The woman's brown eyes widened. “You have one?”

Holly chewed her lip. She could be jeopardizing her only means of contacting Rafe.

“Please. I can contact my agency.”

Holly glanced up at the door. The men were still talking. She caught the eye of Devi, who shyly averted her gaze. Quickly, she reached under her sweater and pulled out the phone, keeping it covered by her hands. She pressed it into the woman's stomach. “What's your name?”

“Amina.”

“Be careful, Amina. Don't get caught.”

The guard turned, and shouted at the women. He strode up to the nearest dish, and kicked aside a woman who was leaning over it. Lunch was over.

“I won't get caught.” The woman—Amina—teared up, as she slipped the phone down her top, into her bra. “God bless you.”

The four women who'd brought lunch removed the empty platters. The guard in the bandanna returned to his chair. Another water bottle was passed around. Holly leaned against the wall. Across from her Amina did the same. She'd better have made the right call. Amina had people looking for her, which was more than Holly could claim.

After the room settled into silence, Amina stood. Holly's heart hammered. She tipped her head back against the cool concrete wall and focused on a mouse-sized cockroach creeping along the ceiling. In her peripheral vision, she tracked Amina as the woman approached the bucket. Her mouth filled with saliva, forcing her to lower her head to swallow. She didn't dare look at the women who stood sentry around Amina. Minutes passed. Holly pulled off the sweater. It caught on the amulet. At least she had less to hide for a while. She pressed her spine into the concrete, allowing the rough surface to cool the sweat seeping through her T-shirt.
Hurry up, Amina
.

Footsteps and voices sounded outside. Several men had arrived. The woman next to Holly hugged her knees, letting out a whimper. Devi hid her face. With a clatter, three men appeared in the doorway. None of the women looked up. Those standing around Amina remained frozen to the spot, fear pulling at their faces as they dropped their gazes to the ground.

One of the men stepped forward, crunching on a woman's foot. She screwed up her face, internalizing the pain. His gaze moved from woman to woman, then he advanced on one and yanked her to her feet. She cried out and tried to pull away, but his grip was sound. Holly made to stand, to defend her, but the woman beside her caught her shoulder and yanked her down, with surprising strength. The guy hoisted his quarry over his shoulder and carried her outside. She cried out, pleading. Holly's neighbor sank her fingertips into her shoulder. A second man grabbed another woman. Her face was set in solid hatred, but she shook him off and rose of her own accord, her spine rigid.

A shadow fell on Holly. Her nape prickled. Chamuel stood over her, sneering. He presented his hand with a flourish. “Miss America.”

Chapter 22

Rafe's head felt like it was jammed in a slowly tightening vise. Groaning, he tried opening his eyes. Daylight shot bolts of pain into his skull. Pain was good. Pain meant life. He was on a beach, fringed by thrashing palm trees. How did he even get here? He remembered thirst, muscles about to explode, an overwhelming urge to sleep.

Water surged around, sucking at his legs. He commando-crawled out of its grip. His muscles seemed to be working, at least. The only real pain was in his head. Dehydration, probably. He spat out salt and sand and unclipped the life jacket with fumbling fingers. Had he made it to the cay? It felt like he'd paddled to Singapore.
Merde
. He was a lucky bastard, of sorts—with all that open ocean he could have been paddling for weeks. But now he was stranded, again. What was that English expression the missionary school cook was fond of? Up shit creek without an oar?

He eased off the backpack, swung it around and yanked a piece of kelp off it. Soaked. Seawater poured out of the laptop bag. No sign of the board. He chugged from a water bottle, closing his eyes against the brilliant white clouds.

He sensed movement to his left. A boot flew toward his face. He rolled as it whooshed past, and tried to drag himself up. What the fuck? Something hard smacked into his back, knocking him flat—another boot. Groaning, he staggered to his feet and swiveled, just in time to see Kung Fu Pirate launch a foot into his stomach.
Oof
. He careened backward and landed on his ass. His pain neurons ping-ponged.

Half a dozen men surrounded him, a couple with shotguns aimed at his face. Where the hell had they come from? One of them grabbed the backpack. If he could get one of the gunmen, he could take them on. But both were several meters away, and his body wasn't at its finest—or his mind, evidently, if he'd missed six men creeping up. And if their firearms were as shoddy as the ones they'd brought to Penipuan, he might only have a couple of bullets that may or may not fly in the right direction. He held up his hands. Better to live, for now. At least he wasn't shipwrecked on a deserted island.

* * *

“Never!” Holly spat.

Chamuel sniggered, and said something to the bandanna-clad guard, who raised his eyebrows, in uneasy deference. One of the goons from the veranda darkened the doorway, holding his gun loosely but in a clear warning to Holly.

Bandanna Guy stood, letting the teetering chair fall, and advanced on Holly. Chamuel grabbed her wrist. Panic bubbled in her stomach. Her brain lit up with a memory—another man grabbing her, planning to use her like this. She could still smell the whisky on her father's breath.

Chamuel yanked her up, wrenching her arm nearly from her socket. Instinct told her to pull away, but she overrode it. Cowering, as if in submission, she steadied herself to balance on her bad knee and fisted her left hand.

His grip loosened, slightly. “Good g—”

She smashed her knuckles into his eye socket and powered her good knee into his groin. He stumbled back, clutching north and south. Bandanna Guy flew forward and tackled her. She landed face-first on the thigh of a woman next to her. He kneed her in the sacrum and pulled back her arms. She thrashed. Someone else cable-tied her wrists. Shit. Bandanna Guy and another guard wrenched her up by her armpits, and she hung between them, her feet swinging off the floor. Chamuel's face darkened. He made to step toward her, then backtracked, glancing warily at her unshackled feet.

“Okay. I take you later. Now, I take her.” He pointed at Devi, who was still hiding her face in her hands. “For now, she is you.”

“No,” said Holly, thrashing against her captors. Not the girl. Not anyone—but definitely not the girl. “No! Fine—take me!”

Chamuel advanced on Devi and wrenched her hands from her face. She wailed and turned away, hyperventilating. The woman who'd been comforting her grabbed her hand, yelling at the pilot. He kicked the woman in the chest and shouted over his shoulder. Holly bucked, but she was powerless. Another goon charged in, grabbed Devi's friend and dragged her out. Chamuel heaved the sobbing girl over his shoulder and glared at Holly. “Next time, you to come.”

“Take me now. Not her.”

“Yes, you want this. You like Chamuel. Next time, Miss America.”

She glowered back, teeth clenched. So the Lost Boys would allow a captive to lose her value, if it meant maintaining discipline. Which meant there was nothing empty about Gabriel's threat to kill Holly if she proved difficult.

Bandanna Guy shouted at Chamuel, dropping Holly and striding forward to block his exit. She found her balance just as the other goon let go, gesturing with his gun that she should sit. She stood motionless, her mind spinning as the two men yelled at each other in rapid fire, their faces contorted. Bandanna Guy shouted Gabriel's name.

The goon rammed his rifle butt into her stomach, slamming her into the wall. Gasping for breath, she slid to the floor, ignoring the rip of pain as she tried to follow the argument. Chamuel charged for the door, Devi's legs bouncing over his shoulder. Bandanna Guy clamped a hand around the girl's ankle, pulling Chamuel up short.

Chamuel's face contorted, turning the color of sangria. Snarling at Bandanna Guy, he threw Devi across the room. Her skinny limbs flailed and she landed with a thud and a smack, sprawled over several women. Chamuel grabbed the arm of the nearest woman—the one whose foot had been crushed—and dragged her out instead.

Devi crawled, wailing, back to her spot, her companion gone. The woman next to Holly clutched her shoulder again, her quick breath heating Holly's cheek. The adrenaline had got to her, too.

Damn. Holly should have gone with Chamuel. Not only would she have saved that woman from being raped, but she could have pulled the knife on him. She'd let her urge to defend herself override the bigger goal of escape, as futile as it might be. And she'd transferred the punishment to someone else—something she would never knowingly do. God, she should have clawed Chamuel's eyes out and smashed her knee into him ten times as hard, really put him out of action. Hell, she should have pulled out the knife and cut his dick right off. Next chance she got...

Devi inhaled a heaving sob. That poor, terrified child. Across the room, Amina met Holly's gaze and nodded, quickly and grimly. Sometime in the fracas she must have got her message away. That was something. Had the iPhone been in Holly's pocket, the men might have it by now. Thank God they'd been too distracted to spot the less-obvious outline of the knife.

Holly shuffled into the least uncomfortable position she could assume with her hands tied. When could she get the phone back—at the next mealtime? She located the cockroach and resumed following its journey across the room. Not for the first time in her life, she found herself envying an insect. Cockroaches didn't entrap and abuse each other, for kicks or for profit. They just got on with their simple lives, each to his own. Humans really were the lowest life form.

It seemed like hours before the women returned. The others moved aside as they limped back to their places. Devi's friend walked in, her head high, meeting no one's gaze. She lowered herself to her spot next to the girl and clutched her, fiercely. The woman Chamuel had dragged out gulped air in strangled whimpers. Holly closed her eyes, each cry spearing her.

Even if she died doing it, she'd find a way to make Gabriel and his men pay for what they'd done to these women, and to Theo.

* * *

Rafe allowed the men to march him along the beach, his hands tied with coarse rope. With his strength returning, he could shrug off the bonds in five seconds and take out at least the two armed men, but it was wiser to cooperate until he'd scoped out which island he was on and how he could get away. The sun was low and fading, and nightfall might offer a better chance of escape.

They trudged up into soft sand and took a well-trodden path through beech forest. After about a kilometer they reached a village. Rafe's shoulders ebbed. Kids, chickens, pigs, vegetable plots, weathered men with red betel nut–stained teeth and conical hats... Ropes and nets were lined up on the dirt, decaying seaweed and drying fish scented the air, worn clothing hung from washing lines, huts were tacked together with traditional and Western materials. This wasn't the headquarters of a gang of bandits. This was a bunch of people trying to survive.

A bunch of people who probably held him responsible for the death of one of their sons. If all went to hell, perhaps he could escape into the dense bush behind the village. Assuming this was a fishing community, finding a boat wouldn't be hard.

Shouts rose up, and a woman in a batik hijab ran into a hut that had a large satellite dish propped on its roof. A middle-aged man emerged, wearing a khaki Che Guevara T-shirt and shorts. He pulled a pair of scratched glasses low on his nose and studied Rafe, as Kung Fu Pirate gave a rapid explanation. Rafe spoke a little Indonesian, but couldn't pick up any words. Could it be Javanese? Sundanese? Hell, he could be in the Philippines, for all he knew.

After a lot of questioning and nodding, the man cleared his throat and addressed Rafe. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“You came from Penipuan?” His accent was clipped and precise—the voice of a man who'd been educated by the English, like Rafe.

“I was swept off my Windsurfer. I washed up here.” Better to be frugal with the truth, for now.

“That is a long way to come on a Windsurfer. You became lost?”

“I went off course.”

“You are a lucky man, to wash up here and not...” He trailed off.

Rafe frowned. Not where?

“You were windsurfing in a cyclone?”

“Best time to windsurf.”

“With a laptop and a knife?”

Rafe shrugged. No mention of the Makarov—had it been silently pocketed? “In case I got blown off course.”

“I see. And your name?”

“Jack.”

“Jack,” the man repeated, as if testing the likelihood it was the truth. “You may call me Mr. Buana. Perhaps you would like to come inside and tell me the entire story, including what happened to my son, with whom I believe you were briefly acquainted.”

His son. Oh, shit.

Mr. Buana bowed slightly, sweeping his hand toward the hut's doorway. He spoke softly to the woman in the hijab and followed Rafe into a living room with a vaulted dark teak ceiling and a concrete floor patchworked with rattan mats. Woven bamboo partitions veiled other rooms. A bead curtain to their right was swept aside, revealing a rudimentary kitchen with walls of blackened brick and bunches of sweetcorn and purple shallots hanging from the roof. The scent of charcoal and coffee hung heavily in the air, spun lazily through the room by a ceiling fan.

“You must be very thirsty,” said Mr. Buana.

The woman swept past them into the kitchen and brought out a carafe of cloudy water and two earthenware mugs, which she placed on a tabletop covered with yellow plastic. Rafe's throat burned at the sight of water. Shooting pains in his head warned of dehydration, but he couldn't risk catching a waterborne bug.

“Can I drink the water I brought with me, in my bag?”

Mr. Buana nodded. He spoke to the woman, who left.

Rafe noted a wall of photos, mostly in yellowed black and white. In the darkening room, his eyes strained to catch details: solemn framed portraits of men in fine suits, alongside pinned snapshots printed from a computer of children in Western settings and a postcard from Paris. A progression of framed certificates marched along the top of the wall, all headed up University of Oxford, with dates going back decades.

Mr. Buana stepped up beside him, sipping from a mug. “That is mine.” He pointed at the last degree along the row. “That is my father's. My grandfather's. My great-grandfather's. Every eldest son in our family, for four generations.” He indicated an empty spot on the wall, next to his certificate. “It is a luxury we could not afford for my eldest. We are a noble family. Unfortunately, there is little money in that anymore. Now, we are just poor fishermen.”

“Your son—he came to Penipuan?”

Mr. Buana's mouth tightened. “You speak of my youngest son. He causes me many problems.”

Rafe winced.
Causes
. Present tense, when his son was resoundingly past. “He was the one who didn't come back?”

“He is dead?” The man's voice wavered.

“I'm sorry, yes. He fell from a cliff, in the dark.”

Mr. Buana nodded, the skin around his eyes bunching, sending deep parallel lines across his cheeks. “Ah.” He fell into silence. A minute passed.

“His body is still on the island?” the man said, quietly. “I would like to bury him.”

Rafe swallowed. The mechanism in his throat felt rusty. Which version of the truth should he tell? It would be honest enough to say the body was swept out to sea and lost—Gabriel's men would have disposed of it quickly. The pain in Mr. Buana's eyes decided it. He'd lost a son. Rafe owed him the truth.
Au combat tu respectes les ennemis vaincus. In combat you respect defeated enemies.

“I brought your son's body to the villa on the island.” He paused. How much detail should he go into? “A helicopter came this morning and removed it. I wasn't there. I don't know where they took it, but I imagine he was buried at sea.”

Mr. Buana lowered his head. Rafe gave him time. He didn't know this man, but he well knew the greatest fear of a father. After a few minutes, Mr. Buana looked up and spoke. His eyes glistened. “This helicopter, it was red, with a white stripe?”

Rafe's eyes narrowed, the movement firing pain through his brow. “You know it?”

Mr. Buana frowned. “You must be tired. Please, sit.”

Before Rafe could press the issue, the woman returned with his backpack. Nearly falling on her, he dug out a bottle of water and guzzled. He had the hunger of a wolf, too, but that would have to wait. Sure enough, the pistol was gone.