Shadows of the deep, p.10
Shadows of the Deep, page 10
Then, with the fallen knife now in his possession, Colton became a figure of sheer terror. The blade moved as an extension of his own will, a silver flash of death in the dim light. It was a dance with the devil, each step measured, each stroke promising oblivion. The remaining assailants, witnessing the swift downfall of their comrades, were gripped by a primal fear that eclipsed their lust for violence.
Their courage shattered, a raw, instinctive need to survive overtook them. It screamed through their veins louder than any battle cry, urging them to flee. As if sharing a single terrified thought, they backed away before turning to run, their bravado abandoned, leaving behind only the echo of their footfalls against the cold, uncaring concrete.
Their frantic retreat echoed through the dimly lit alleyway as they scrambled away from Colton’s deadly presence. Though Colton held his blade steady, prepared to defend himself against any sudden turn of events, it soon became evident that the assailants had seen enough. The only sounds that remained in the alley were the soft groans of the incapacitated gang members, as silence descended once more, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city beyond.
Tuck, still holding the gang leader in a vice-like grip, demanded information about Adi’s whereabouts. With a knife dangerously close to the man’s face, he threatened to gouge his eye.
In a desperate plea for mercy, the gang leader revealed Adi’s location, but Tuck remained sceptical. He twisted the man’s arm, snapping it, to ensure they wouldn’t be followed.
Colton, observing the wounded man and the pooling blood, offered him his shirt as a makeshift bandage. “Wrap it tight; we don’t want the roaches getting a free meal.”
“Fuck him!”
Tuck pulled harder on the arm, and the man finally screamed out Adi’s address.
Tuck realised the information they had received was accurate, leading them to the seventh house with minimal security. Overpowering the lone guard, they made their way inside.
Adi, fuelled by drugs, initially proved difficult to subdue. Even after Tuck fractured his leg with a sweeping kick, Adi continued to resist Colton’s formidable grip. With resourcefulness, they bound and subdued him, eventually forcing him to the ground.
Tuck, catching his breath, mused about the effects of cocaine, acknowledging its ability to grant seemingly superhuman strength. He retrieved sodas from the fridge, sharing one with Colton. “Mother fucker had some fight in him, be the drugs”
Colton couldn’t help but comment on Tuck’s frequent use of expletives. “Ever complete a sentence without the ‘F’ word?”
Tuck, shaking his head, responded defensively, “I don’t curse in front of Esme, my adopted daughter.”
Their focus shifted back to Adi, realizing they needed to find his vulnerability to extract information about the yacht heists. Colton, examining the room, discovered hidden stashes of drugs and a significant amount of cash.
“Let’s move him to the kitchen, Tuck,” Colton suggested, positioning Adi where he could witness the disposal of his narcotics.
As Colton flushed the drugs down the drain, Adi’s desperation grew. Threats of violence filled the room as the remaining narcotics met a watery demise.
“Once this is all gone, your stash is next,” Tuck warned. “Now, who has the means to hijack and move yachts around Bali?”
Adi, fearing the loss of his illicit fortune, began to spill the information they sought. “Mayan, he’s the only one with a boatyard.”
With instructions to stay with Adi, Colton watched over their captive while Tuck relayed the newfound lead to Fabienne. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together, and their pursuit of the yacht thieves was gaining momentum.
Tuck’s conversation with Fabienne had shed some light on their situation. He relayed the information to Colton, who stood a safe distance from Adi, primarily due to the overpowering halitosis emanating from the captured gangster.
“Colton, no record of a boatyard, but the satellite images show what appears to be a boat repair yard, complete with a channel and docking stage suitable for sizable ships,” Tuck informed him. “And there’s something else, a gang in Jakarta that seems mightily interested in getting their hands on our friend Adi.”
“Thanks for the update, Fabienne,” Tuck said as he closed his phone.
Colton remained vigilant over Adi, keeping a cautious distance. The question now was what to do with Adi to ensure he remained silent about their involvement. Tuck contemplated their options aloud.
“It seems we have two choices,” Tuck began. “We could burn the fucker, but then we’re left with his stash, which is a death sentence in these parts if we get caught. Or we could relieve him of his cash or both. What’s your take on this, Adi?” Colton nudged him lightly with the toe of his boot.
Adi’s response was laced with bitterness. “You’re both as good as dead.”
A sly smile formed on Tuck’s face. “Funny you should say that, Adi. You get to keep your precious Charlie and your greenbacks. However, there are conditions. If you so much as breathe a word to this Mayan character, someone will be more than happy to make a phone call to that Jakarta gang, providing them with your exact whereabouts.”
Adi’s eyes widened in a mixture of disbelief and terror as Tuck laid out the terms of their agreement. “Just don’t tell Mayan it was me who fingered him.”
****
Cutler and Basmati manoeuvred through the marina, a blend of opulent multi-million-dollar yachts and more modest hundred-thousand-dollar vessels. At the end of a mooring pier, they discovered a stone shed, its frontage cluttered with yellow, black, and grey aqualung tanks, and wet and dry suits hanging from metal rails. Cutler took his time, investing thirty minutes in selecting their diving gear, and settled the bill in local currency. He also ordered additional tanks and masks for Tuck and Colton, knowing they’d return to collect the gear once they secured a boat.
The morning proved fruitful at the marina’s bar-restaurant, but Cutler wasn’t interested in hiring from the affluent patrons; he was on the hunt for someone down on their luck. He needed both a boat and information, and he wasn’t inclined to break the bank for either. Cutler had employed this tactic before, knowing that individuals who had fallen on hard times often proved more willing to share information. Most yacht owners had a penchant for talking about themselves and their vessels.
Sipping his fourth pot of green tea, Basmati noticed Cutler’s attention shift to a dishevelled older man entering the bar. The man donned faded blue corduroy jeans and a well-worn fisherman’s khaki waistcoat. He carefully counted coins before ordering coffee. Cutler took notice and approached the man, placing three 10,000 rupiah notes on the counter to cover the cost.
“This one’s on me,” Cutler offered.
“Appreciate it. Times are tough right now, sir,” Old Joe replied.
“Let me guess, British? Ex-Royal or Merchant Navy?” Cutler enquired.
“Ex-Royal Navy—Chief Petty Officer Joe Allen. I’ve been called Old Joe since my hair turned from jet black to grey overnight after a rough day in the Falklands conflict.”
“How long have you been in Bali?” Cutler asked.
“Two months. It’ll be another three before I can scrape together enough to afford the fuel for a voyage to Perth.”
“Cutler,” he introduced himself. “So you served in the Falklands. Must have been quite an experience?”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Cutler? You buy me coffee, and I’m sure you don’t want to listen to an old man’s war stories,” Old Joe replied.
“Fair enough. I’m in search of a boat to rent, one large enough for four of us,” Cutler said.
Old Joe’s eyes gleamed with a glimmer of hope at the prospect of some unexpected income. He leaned in closer to Cutler, his voice a little more enthusiastic now.
“I do have a cat ketch,” he began, “it’s an old-timer, almost 30 years old, but let me tell you, she’s as solid as they come. The engine purrs like a kitten, and I’ve taken good care of her.”
Cutler nodded, pleased with the response. “That’s what we’re looking for, Old Joe. Solid and reliable?”
Old Joe’s weathered face broke into a grin. “Absolutely, Mr. Cutler. You won’t be disappointed. She’s not the fanciest vessel in the marina, but she’s got character and heart. I’ve named her ‘The Sea Serpent,’ and she’s taken me on some memorable journeys. What do you want her for?”
“We’re planning some diving trips, so we need a boat we can trust. Can you show it to us?”
“My arse,” Old Joe remarked, nodding toward Basmati. “He looks like a geek. You’re a little too beefy. You’re either military or ex-military.”
“Listen, let’s be frank with each other,” Cutler began. “We are ex-military, now working as insurance investigators. We’re searching for a yacht that disappeared a little over a month ago. We have two young people dead and two people missing. We need a boat, and we need information.” Cutler decided that a partial truth would be enough to gain the old sailor’s trust.
Old Joe’s discomfort was evident. His eyes darted nervously, and Cutler could sense he was concealing something. The subject of the missing yachts had struck a chord, evident from the old man’s body language—his dry mouth, his hand clutching at his chest, and his shifting gaze hinted at concealed secrets.
Cutler had always prided himself on his ability to read people. It was a skill he had honed during his time in the Secret Service, and it had served him well in various concealed operations. He believed that all sane human beings exhibited the six classical emotions, and over time, he had trained himself to detect even the subtlest of emotions: satisfaction, regret, distaste, irritation, confusion and anxiety. These emotions, he knew, often provoked distinct physical responses that could reveal much about a person’s thoughts and feelings.
As he sat across from Old Joe in the dimly lit marina bar, Cutler couldn’t help but notice the old sailor’s body language. The news of two dead bodies from the Ford Yacht and two others missing from the Trench’s yacht had visibly shaken him. His heart rate had increased, and his blood pressure seemed to be on the rise. Old Joe appeared shocked, and he fidgeted in his seat, rubbing his eyes as if they were suddenly irritated. Cutler knew he had struck a chord with the mention of the missing children.
“You, okay? You look like a ghost just walked over your grave,” Cutler remarked, his trained eyes assessing every nuance of Old Joe’s reaction.
“Two dead kids and two missing, you say?” Old Joe replied, his voice trembling slightly. His emotions were on full display, and Cutler could see regret etched across his face. Old Joe’s sudden hyperactivity was likely the result of an adrenaline rush.
“Afraid so, maybe more,” Cutler confirmed, keeping a close watch on Old Joe’s reactions.
Cutler’s next question was calculated. “Can we pay you to use your boat?”
Old Joe hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting around nervously. Finally, he responded, “Sure, 5,000 dollars deposit, 300 bucks a day and fuel. Just leave her with a full tank of fuel.”
Without hesitation, Cutler counted out fifty-one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Old Joe, sealing the deal. He knew that money talked, and it often spoke louder than words.
As Cutler left the bar, he couldn’t help but feel that Old Joe held more information than he was letting on. Something about the missing yachts and children had touched a nerve, and Cutler was determined to uncover the truth. Their journey had only just begun, and the mystery surrounding Mayan and his operations was deepening with each passing moment.
Cutler and his team had arrived at Tanjung Benoa Beach, one of the primary hubs for watersports and recreational activities on the island of Bali. The beach was a bustling, chaotic scene, filled with tourists and locals alike, all seeking their share of sun, sea, and adrenaline.
Tanjung Benoa Beach, bathed in the golden glow of the tropical sun, was a lively tableau of sun, sea, and exhilaration. Nestled on the southern coast of Bali, this vibrant shoreline was a haven for tourists seeking aquatic adventures and thrill-seekers craving a taste of adrenaline. As the team of investigators arrived at this aquatic playground, they were immediately swept up in the frenzy of activity that defined Tanjung Benoa.
The beach stretched out like a sandy canvas, a meeting point of land and sea. It was adorned with vibrant hues, as parasails of every colour imaginable dotted the cerulean sky, their billowing canopies adding splashes of red, blue, and yellow to the natural palette. The sea was a vivid azure, its waves inviting and playful, enticing visitors to explore its depths or ride its swells.
The heart of the beach was a scene of organized chaos. Watersport enthusiasts and thrill-seekers thronged the shoreline, eager to partake in the diverse array of activities on offer. Jet skis whizzed across the water’s surface, leaving frothy trails in their wake, their riders whooping with joy as they revelled in the sensation of speed and freedom.
Parasails filled the sky like graceful, floating kites, their occupants soaring high above the beach, suspended between the heavens and the earth. The colourful parachutes bobbed and danced in the warm breeze, offering breathtaking views of the coastline and the azure expanse of the Indian Ocean.
Motorboats, their engines growling with power, towed parasailers into the sky, their occupants shrieking with excitement as they ascended to dizzying heights. These boats ferried tourists to and from their aquatic adventures, their crews skilled navigators of the bustling waters.
The beach was alive with the laughter and chatter of tourists from around the world, their voices blending into a symphony of excitement and anticipation. Families built sandcastles along the shoreline, children giggling as they dug moats and sculpted turrets. Sunbathers basked in the warm embrace of the sun, their bodies adorned with bronzed skin and minimal swimsuits.
Beach vendors plied their trade, offering an array of snacks and refreshments to the sun-kissed crowds. The aroma of grilled seafood and exotic spices filled the air, tempting taste buds with the flavours of Bali. Souvenir stalls displayed an assortment of trinkets and mementos, each a tangible memory of this island paradise.
As the team observed this vibrant spectacle, they couldn’t help but be captivated by the energy and vitality of Tanjung Benoa Beach. It was a place where the spirit of adventure danced on the shimmering waves, and the allure of the ocean beckoned all who sought excitement and escape. Yet beneath the surface of this idyllic paradise lay the mysteries and dangers that they were determined to uncover.
Tuck and Colton wasted no time and decided to indulge in a day of watersports as part of their cover. Tuck opted for parasailing, while Colton pushed a rented jet ski to its limits. The beach was a frenzy of activity, with jet skis zooming across the water, parasails dotting the sky, and motorboats ferrying excited tourists to and from their aquatic adventures. Basmati, on the other hand, had discovered a secluded spot on a rocky outcrop further down the beach. He unpacked his drone and prepared to capture aerial images of the bustling beach scene.
As the drone soared into the sky, Basmati watched the live feed on his iPad with a mix of amazement and shock. The sea was churned into frothy chaos by the numerous jet skis and motorboats towing parasails. The beach was a mass of humanity, and the white sand was almost entirely hidden beneath the throngs of people. It was a wonder that accidents and mishaps weren’t more common in such a crowded and chaotic environment.
Tuck had managed to gather valuable information during his conversation with Adi. It was now evident that Mayan and his gang held sway over Tanjung Benoa Beach, controlling a variety of activities, from watersports to illicit dealings involving drugs, chemical enhancers, marijuana, and prostitution. This confirmed their suspicions that they were on the right track, especially given that Mayan and his associates were on Fabienne’s list of suspects.
Inside a nearby bar that Fabienne had identified as Mayan’s central control hub, Cutler observed the enigmatic figure closely. Mayan sat comfortably in an oversized reed chair beneath a rotating ceiling fan, exuding an aura of authority that intrigued Cutler. It was a phenomenon he had noticed before—the power of certain individuals, regardless of their physical stature, to command respect and loyalty.
Beside Mayan sat his younger brother, Tut, who handled the cash transactions involving drug vendors and pimps. It was clear to Cutler that these two were deeply involved in criminal activities. Multiple Indonesians approached the bar, openly exchanging stacks of Bali rupiah notes with Tut. The lack of discretion suggested that they were possibly paying off local law enforcement. While Cutler had no doubt about their criminal affiliations, it remained unclear whether they had the infrastructure to steal and move high-value yachts worth millions of dollars.
As the team reconvened after their respective activities, Tuck shared his findings from his aerial perspective. He had observed drug dealers and pimps openly conducting their business on the beach. Furthermore, he had spotted a peculiar structure at the far end of the beach—a boat repair shed built on stilts in the water. It was guarded by two individuals, one stationed at the rear and another on the pier.
Colton had also attempted to get a closer look at the boathouse from a jet ski but had been warned off by an unfriendly guard. Tuck had noticed that buoys marked out a route leading into the boatyard, resembling a deep-water channel, which seemed odd given the beach’s recreational nature. The area appeared equipped for large ships, even boasting a small mobile crane.
With their collective observations in mind, they couldn’t ignore the significance of the guarded boathouse. It was evident that access to the boathouse was controlled from a road behind the beach, and the entire area was under constant surveillance. The presence of guards and the uncertain possibility of weapons heightened their caution.
