Off Course (3 page)

The attack was swift and sudden. The gunman pounced, closing the distance between them in milliseconds, and smashed the butt of the gun into the side of Collin’s head before he could adequately shield himself. The force of the blow snapped his head sideways into the wall on his right, causing his world to go dark.

Three more gunmen stood on deck with Uzis aimed at the other four crew members and the Captain. The
Admiral Risty
had not yet cleared the harbor, but these men boldly displayed their hardware, apparently unafraid of anyone. The gunman closest to the Captain directed him to move out of the way. The green-shirted man fiddled with the instruments in the cockpit for a moment, then pointed to a spot on the Captain’s GPS map. “We go there. Now,” he demanded.

“Panama? You want to go to Panama?” asked the Captain.

“Yes. We go now.”

“OK, you’re the one with the gun. But you know it will take a week or more, don’t you?”

The lean, long-haired one standing to the Captain’s right cocked his head slightly. “You go faster. This boat very fast. You go faster. Three days.” His face was like stone and his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. Every movement was calculated and efficient. Every word carried meaning and consequences.

The Captain looked from one armed man to the other, studying their expressionless faces. He had no idea what they might do, but he had to set the right expectations from the start. He knew mean men and he knew they had to be handled with the right balance of firmness and cooperation. It was important to set the boundaries early in these situations, so the Captain held silent for a long moment, showing no fear and no desire to acquiesce to their demands. “That depends on the wind, you know?” he said, waving a hand in the air and looking at the sky around them. “No wind, no going faster.”

It was a rather surreal scene. In a matter of seconds these four highly trained, heavily armed Asian mercenaries took control of the
Admiral Risty
and altered its course and the lives of everyone onboard.

La Jolla, California

June 14, 6:08 a.m. Pacific Time

Dr. Emily Burns stood in front of the large plate-glass window in her dining room, staring out over the fog covered Pacific Ocean, which stretched to the horizon like an endless, gray burber carpet eighteen floors down and across the road. She dabbed her face with a towel after her morning run. As she drank from her sport bottle and pulled her sandy hair from its ponytail holder, she once again found her mind reeling over the tumultuous orbit of her dear friend Collin Cook.

Her life had not been the same since he reentered it. All too often, absentminded day dreaming interrupted her problem-solving thought trains. Collin was indeed a problem that needed fixing, but there seemed to be no obvious or scientific solution, unlike the problems she worked on professionally.

A mix of hope and mourning occupied the space in her brain that used to try to unravel the mystery surrounding him and his disappearance. Since he had been reported missing and presumed dead by the Coast Guard over a week ago, Emily’s heart had been troubled. The account on the FBI’s website detailed the circumstances surrounding his disappearance at sea, but she hadn’t yet fully accepted it as truth. Perhaps part of her doubt came from Collin’s mother, Sarah Cook, who was certain Collin was as alive as she was. Sarah had almost convinced Emily to believe. But Emily, the scientist, was trapped in the void between theory and proof. Sarah had a theory and the government lacked evidence to prove otherwise. What was she to believe?

Her machinations and her breakfast were interrupted by a call from an unfamiliar number originating from San Francisco. Despite her initial hesitation, she answered it.

“Dr. Burns, this is Special Agent Reggie Crabtree from the FBI. I would like to ask you a few questions about your friend, Collin Cook. Is now a good time to talk?” said a deep, sincere voice.

Astonished, she balked at the intrusion. It was 6:08 a.m., hardly a good time for anyone to be calling, let alone a government agent who, for all she knew, played a part in Collin’s death and may be calling to gloat about it. “At six o’clock in the morning? I’m sorry, Agent Crabtree, but isn’t it a bit early to be calling to harass me about a friend I recently lost?”

“I realize it’s early, Dr. Burns. And, yes, this is highly unusual. I’m not in the habit of questioning people this early. But, trust me, nothing about this Collin Cook case can be termed “usual.” And if it weren’t very urgent, I would wait until you had a little more time to cool down after your morning run.”

“How did you —”

“I’m a detective, Dr. Burns. A very good one, at that.”

Emily felt like she’d been knocked off balance. Her mind raced, trying to connect dots she couldn’t see and certainly couldn’t make sense of at this early hour. She wasn’t used to interacting with people before work. This was her quiet time, her alone time, and he was infringing—no, imposing—upon it. Why? There had to be a compelling reason. She had to come back strong. And quickly.

Feeling suddenly lightheaded, she sat at her dining room table. A single sunflower stood in a tall beaker of water, half filled with glass marbles. It, too, pointed toward the window, searching for light. “I don’t know why you’re calling me, Special Agent Crabtree. Collin Cook is dead. Says so right on your agency’s website.” Not quite the strong comeback she was looking for.

“That may be true, Dr. Burns, but we are still investigating the circumstances leading up to his disappearance,” said Crabtree. “We need to know everything you know about him.”

Emily vacillated, not sure what to tell him but feeling like she had to say something. “I know nothing. We broke up years ago.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Dr. Burns. I know more about your relationship with him than you think I know.”

Still trying to recover, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “There’s nothing to know, Agent Crabtree, because there’s been no relationship since high school.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it, sensing she could get trapped in her lie.

“Now you’re assuming I haven’t done my homework. I see,” said Agent Crabtree, who sounded like he was moving and breathing quickly. “Well, we know you saw him in Chicago two weeks ago and spent some time with him there. I can only suppose you know something more than we know based on that time together.” Reggie paused. When Emily didn’t respond, he continued. “We also know you were at the funeral for Amy Cook and the children and at Petaluma Hospital with Mr. Cook after he injured himself at the time of his wife’s accident. Shall I go on?”

Her hand went to her forehead as her stomach did a back flip. She stared through the glass tabletop at her well-worn neon-pink running shoes as they tapped the floor anxiously. Breathing became a chore and forming coherent sentences a laborious effort. “It sounds like you know quite a bit. Why do you need me?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Dr. Burns?” asked Reggie. “You’ve spent more time with him in the past year than any other human being we’re aware of.”

“I don’t think I know anything that can help you, Agent Crabtree.” Emily’s voice was flat and unconvincing. She knew it and figured Crabtree was smart enough to pick up on it.

During the pause that followed, she heard something like the ding of a bell – no, an elevator door – in the background above the sound of his breathing.

“We need to know what he told you while you were together in Chicago. Certainly the two of you talked in that little café. You remember the time you spent sipping coffee at the Bio Med Conference?”

This guy knew everything. These revelations stunned her, and she struggled to keep up with the conversation. It was as if she was treading water in a sea of questions on a test that she had failed to study for. “What he told me? You want to know what he told me? Do you mean the part about how he liked my presentation? Or that he thought I looked nice?” Now that felt a little more like the spunky girl she knew she had to be.

“Dr. Burns, we can handle this one of two ways: either you cooperate with us on your own, over the phone, or you keep this up and we’ll continue this conversation at our LA field office with you in handcuffs, seated on a metal chair in front of a two-way mirror with a video camera and microphone. You choose.”

There was a forceful knock on her front door. She heard it in stereo, although the left ear heard it through her phone just a fraction of a second after the right ear heard it from across the room. She approached the door cautiously. “You’re outside my front door, aren’t you, Agent Crabtree?”

“I am, Dr. Burns. Trust me. This is for your protection.”

Emily peered through the peephole in her front door and saw a tall black man in a suit and tie holding up a badge with one hand and a cell phone to his ear with the other. He was flanked by a blond haired man wearing a dark blazer and knit tie. “Would you like me to call out my badge number so you can verify my identity, Dr. Burns? I’ve got time to wait.”

“No, no. I’m not that skeptical,” she said, swinging the door open as if revealing a grand prize. “This is for my protection? At six o’clock in the morning?”

“We believe it prudent to proceed with an abundance of caution based on the folks we’re dealing with.”

“I see,” said Emily. “But I assure you I don’t have any significant details, probably not the ones you want.” She spoke to his face, although the phone was still connected to her ear.

“Let’s start with the most important items first,” said Agent Crabtree, holding the phone in front of him as he ended the call. Emily followed suit. “Did he tell you where he was going or who he was planning to meet?”

Emily grimaced and gestured for him to enter. Not unexpectedly, his partner entered right behind him, a muscled blond standing roughly six foot four. Crabtree introduced him as Agent McCoy as he crossed the threshold of the room. She walked the door to its nearly closed position, but stuck her head out into the hallway before she shut it, as if anticipating more agents streaming in. She pulled her head inside, closed the door, and leaned her back against it.

“No.”

“Did he indicate who was helping him? We know he’s not working alone.”

Emily paused while she studied the faces of the two agents. Crabtree, the more experienced of the two, had a few creases around his dark eyes and in the otherwise smooth skin near his mouth. The white at his temples and in his mostly black mustache indicated he was probably in his early fifties. McCoy, she guessed, was in his thirties and from Texas.

She answered hesitantly. “I, of course, had a million questions for him. But he said that the less I know the better. He said it was for my own safety. He also told me I should go to the FBI and tell them my story.”

“Why would he say that? What about your story is so important?”

“He said that I could be in danger now since he and I met. He thinks the bad guys that are chasing him will follow me or use me to get to him.”

“So why didn’t you come to us? Why did I have to initiate this conversation?”

“I checked the FBI website shortly after I returned from Chicago and saw the reports that said he’s dead. I didn’t think you needed to know anything about a man you thought was dead. And if he’s dead, why would I be of any significance to the FBI?”

Reggie paused for a moment. “As it turns out, we believe he has some connections to crimes that are ongoing. We believe someone helped him survive that storm and that he is out there potentially committing more crimes.”

“Interesting . . .”

“We also believe you may be in grave danger.”

                                          *              *              *              *

La Jolla, California

June 14, 6:22 a.m. Pacific Time

A white Sprinter van pulled up behind the dark blue Taurus, the one with the government-issued white license plate and blue lettering. The cargo van had no side windows other than for the driver and front passenger. Magnetic decals read: “Mission Bay Home Stereo: Wiring your home for the full HD experience.” The driver was an Asian man wearing a black coat. A menacing tattoo climbed up his neck from below the coat’s upturned collar toward his scowling face. A chic pair of sunglasses hid his eyes. His partner, a fellow Asian with manicured black hair that lay at a sharp angle across his forehead with spiked tufts on top of his head, sat in the passenger’s seat. He was at least ten years the junior of the driver. His hands were gloved and his wrists adorned with spiky leather bands. He pointed an impressive camera with a long telescopic lens at the Taurus and rattled off a barrage of photos, careful not to snag the eyepiece on the long stud poking through his eyebrow. Next he aimed at the condo complex’s front door, then toward the penthouse eighteen floors up, clicking more photos as he did.

The driver dug a cell phone out of a pocket, tapped a previously dialed number, and waited for the connection to be made while the passenger surveyed his work on the camera’s display screen. He zoomed and adjusted settings to ensure the pictures were clear and that the important details could be easily discerned. He then connected the camera to his phone in order to transmit the photos to the boss.

In his native tongue, the driver explained the situation to the boss on the other end of the connection. “Feds are here . . . Because it’s the same car, government plates . . . They must have driven from San Francisco . . . Probably because the first nonstop from SFO doesn’t land here until 7:45 . . . Must be in a big hurry . . . I don’t know how, no one has followed us or traced us . . . No, nothing out of the ordinary.”

The driver stepped out of the van and surveyed the area. Satisfied, he walked to the front of the Taurus and put his hand in front of the grill. “The engine’s still hot. They haven’t been here long . . . Will do, boss . . . Yes, I will. Right away.”

As he climbed back in the van, the passenger grunted as an impious smile spread across his face. “They can see what we see. Now we just gotta get inside.”

“That is not the plan. We watch and wait until the opportunity presents itself,” the driver said with a sneer.

“I could get in there easily and get some really good footage,” said the passenger with a raunchy cackle. He reached into a black duffle bag behind his seat and pulled out a device no larger than his thumb and a handful of zip ties. “We also have cameras on the drone.”

“Not now. Not in daylight. Later, if we need it.” The driver shot his passenger a sideways glance, threw the van’s transmission into drive, then pulled away from the curb. The streets were coming alive with activity. A few cars were emerging from underground garages along the street and filing onto the wide avenue that separated the high-rise luxury condos from the vast fog-enshrouded Pacific. A handful of joggers trotted along a path at the edge of the bluff in the distance. No one paid any attention to the van or its occupants, so the driver and the passenger continued their work.

There was a lone sign post directly across from the subject’s condo building. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do for now.

The driver worked his way around the block and came back to the front of Emily’s building from the north so the ocean was on the right side of the van, thus giving the passenger the shortest distance possible to the sign post. The van would provide some cover. The passenger hopped out, checked his surroundings, then moved swiftly to the metal pole. He wrapped two zip ties around the pole and fastened the tiny camera to them. A few adjustments were necessary. He checked the image on his phone. The front entrance was visible, as was the Taurus. Step one, accomplished. The driver texted the boss to report their progress.