Dalmar was transmitting from a nondescript bedroom, a simple mud-walled space with a single bed. A second man, tall, muscular, bare chested, slept soundly wrapped in the sheets, blissful and unaware. So the rumors were true — Bettencourt could practically smell the sex through the video connection.
“Colonel!” announced Dalmar with practical glee and in near-perfect English. “I missed you! Get it?”
With that, Dalmar threw his entire head back and laughed the deepest, purest belly laugh, his shiny white teeth blinding, his echoing voice booming over the room’s PA system.
“Mr. Abdi,” said Charles.
“Oh, I see Charles Bettencourt is with you,” said Dalmar, still smiling with the last remaining chuckles. “And his pet lawyer. All of my friends are here! All of my friends, the men who give me so much money and such endless fun.”
“How many men did you lose today?” asked Colonel Westmoreland with a sadistic smile.
“None!” shouted Dalmar, his smile never wavering. “I have never lost a man. Those shot, rise as the sun sets; those drowned, swim to shore, those burned and maimed—”
Unwilling to listen to the ranting another moment, Colonel Westmoreland grabbed the prisoner by the neck and threw him to center of the camera’s view. Hands still tied behind his back, the boy stumbled and collapsed in a heap as the mercenary straddled him, yanking off his dark hood.
“And who is this?” said Dalmar. Unmoved by the display, he seemed genuinely curious.
Blinking in the sudden artificial light, Jaff immediately affixed his stare to Dalmar’s image. His eyes went wide, his mouth hung open. Celebrity? Hero worship? Was Dalmar actually Jaff’s Batman?
“Ah, I can see now!” said Dalmar. “It is my best soldier, Jaff!”
Jaff mouthed words, but no sound came out. He knows my name, the boy seemed say.
“Jaff, I am very proud of you,” said Dalmar.
“But I was captured,” the boy whispered, not certain his idol could hear him.
“There is nothing you could do that would make me disappointed in you,” responded Dalmar. “After all, what do we say to our captors?”
“Fuck your mother!” shouted Jaff.
“Very good! Very good! My friends, let us put my best soldier aside for a moment. We have business to discuss. Jaff, I promise you that your moment will come.”
Jaff bowed deeply, his face aglow with a burning pride.
“I’ll begin,” said Bettencourt. He stood up and adjusted his suit. “Dalmar, I’ll admit it. I’m impressed. They said nobody could take a vessel traveling faster than eighteen knots, and you took one. I can’t get you to retire—”
“And you cannot kill me.”
“But let’s not get bogged down in semantics,” the CEO continued. “What’s it going to take? I feel like I don’t even have a starting point with you here. Give me a number. Ask for the world and we’ll see where the negotiations take us. What do you say?”
“You wish to negotiate?” asked Dalmar, theatrically incredulous. “How does one negotiate with death? You, you people, you bring death with you. Death to our people, death to our seas, death to our hope. And I am the deathkiller. I pray for your massacres, for the poisons you pour into our waters. For every Somali you kill, I raise an army of their brothers and husbands and sons.”
Bettencourt’s phone rang, and he found himself absentmindedly checking it. Lucianna… goddamn it, every time he missed one of her kickboxing lessons she blew up his phone like some crazy stalker. Annoying as hell, almost not worth it—
“Am I boring you?” Dalmar’s voice boomed over the streaming video. Bettencourt realized the room had gone absolutely silent.
“What the hell, boss?” Westmoreland demanded. Even his lawyer seemed irritated.
“Shit, I’m sorry. It’s my kickboxing instructor, goes bonkers every time I skip my personal training session.”
“Are you screwing her?” asked Dalmar.
“Well… yeah.”
“That’s your problem right there, Boss,” muttered Westmoreland. The lawyer nodded in agreement.
“I understand, my friend,” said Dalmar, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to the sleeping man in bed behind him. “This one is unbelievable. Always wants to upgrade, whatever that means. Wants a nicer house, a nicer car. I cannot win.”
“Now do we get to talk about the prisoner I’m about to fucking execute?” asked Colonel Westmoreland, clearly annoyed.
“To business then,” said Dalmar. “I am willing to speak of Jaff, my best soldier. My best soldier knows, as all the best soldiers know, that their commander only asks one thing of them.”
Dalmar’s dark eyes pierced through the video feed, focusing all his energy on the young, enraptured pirate.
“Jaff, do you know what I am going to ask?”
Jaff shook his head.
“I only ask you die well.”
Jaff nodded in complete focus and agreement. The boy spun around and suddenly his hands were free and he launched himself at Charles Bettencourt like a cannon shot, as if the entire universe had shrunk to a singular nothingness between two immovable objects. Something glinted in his hand and Charles’s brain sputtered and spit something out like knife. The worst part was that he just stood there with his mouth hanging open like some thoughtless dumbfuck begging to get his gut slashed open. Just as fast, Westmoreland had his hands around the boy’s neck, throwing him to the ground.
Out came the colonel’s custom pistol, and it popped once, twice, three times directly into the boy’s chest, deafening in the small room. The boy sputtered once, gurgled, dropped the knife, and died.
Dalmar let out a long sigh and shook his head. “Missed again.” He smiled one last time, a wide, sad smile and said, “Until next time.” Then he closed the feed and all that remained on the screen was his main Facebook page.
“You’re welcome, Boss,” Westmoreland said.
Bettencourt didn’t look up. He was distracted, staring at his shoes around which a puddle of blood was forming. Jesus. But probably not the first pair of Pradas to walk through blood, he thought. And no, I do not need to thank you, Colonel. That’s what annual performance bonuses are for. He glanced up at the screen and then turned and headed back out to the landing deck with his lawyer, as usual, on his heels. Westmoreland’s cruel smile followed them to the massive door, disappearing only as it slid shut behind them.
Something about the sea air centered Bettencourt, putting him back into his proper alignment. It wasn’t the blood or the boy or the gunshots — not even Dalmar’s superior taunts. It was the surprise, a sensation he felt deeply unused to. He hated it.
“Walk me through my afternoon,” he said to his lawyer. He leaned against the nearest railing and peeled off his bloody shoes, holding them to his side, standing on the rough metal grating in his socks, watching the waves below.
His lawyer pulled out a Blackberry and scrolled through the new messages. “Well, the Russians are trying to get in touch. They’re pissed about the transport; want somebody’s head on a platter. It’s going to take some serious kowtowing to get out of this one.”
“I’m not in the mood. What else?”
“Um, this is a little weird, but the Conquerer is arriving in the next couple of hours. At least I think it’s the Conquerer.”
“I’m not following.”
“Let me put it this way. It sure looks like the Conquerer, but the pilot is calling her the Fool’s Errand. Somebody named Dr. Nassiri is in command, says he knows you. Says you have some kind of arrangement.”