Shadows of the deep, p.32
Shadows of the Deep, page 32
“Roger that, we’ve got two that made it off the trawler alive. The local law enforcement is on the hunt for one—a bloke named Guano. Disappeared into thin air. They’ve pegged him as crew on that overturned catamaran.”
“Vanished, just like that?” Cutler’s question was sharp, a blade cutting through ambiguity.
The crackle of the speaker preceded Fabienne’s seasoned tone. “Cyprus has become a magnet for those dodging the border controls. Illegals tend to blend in, working for next to nothing. I’d bet Guano’s gone to ground, scared witless of being sent back.”
“Any leads on him, Fabienne?” Cutler’s voice was all business.
“Just one. He pulled a girl from the water—gave her a message. Told her to tell the police it was Arabs who hit them. But there’s a twist—one of them, maybe the leader, spoke English to a couple on board before killing them, some odd accent, then switched to fluent Arabic with his mates,” Fabienne briefed with a hint of intrigue.
“You reckon the head honcho could be British?” Cutler’s question sliced through the static, his voice carrying the weight of a new and pressing suspicion.
Fabienne’s response was quick and sure, not a flicker of doubt in her tone. “I’d stake my last dollar on it,” she asserted. The certainty in her voice suggested she had more than just a hunch.
“Where could Guano be now?” Cutler prodded.
“Best guess—he’s bolted for familiar ground. The skipper of the catamaran, a guy named Paccar, he died in the raid, but his wife might be shielding him. I’m sending you Paccar’s address,” Fabienne offered.
“And the police, they’ve checked this out?” Cutler pushed for operational clarity.
“They went there but Paccar’s wife is a mess, said she’s not seen him You’ll have Paccar’s details in a moment,” she assured.
“Appreciate it. Out for now,” Cutler signed off, the line going dead as he pivoted to the group of men beside him.
Cutler nodded, processing the information. “We move out in five. Christensen, you speak Greek, we’ll need you as interpreter.”
Paccar’s place was straight out of a Greek travel magazine. The main house stood proud, its white walls gleaming under the Cypriot sun, fresh blue tiles crowning its roof. A patio complete with a water drinking fountain suggested a life of simple luxuries. But it was the second, shabbier structure that drew Cutler’s eye—a storehouse bulging with marine paraphernalia, its peeling paint and sagging roof. The grounds were a camouflage of domestic normality; olive trees and aloe vera plants dotted around, but the centrepiece was different—an ancient fig tree, its limbs contorted with time.
As Cutler’s boots crunched on the gravel, he noted the figure huddled on the terrace. Paccar’s wife, a picture of grief-stricken abandonment, didn’t even twitch at his approach. She was lost in her own world of sorrow, clutching a teddy bear—likely an emblem of her son’s youth, now lost—and an old jumper belonging to her husband that must’ve carried his scent.
She murmured through her tears, a litany of heartbreak, her voice barely rising above the whisper of the leaves. “Romano…” she sobbed, pressing her lips to the plush toy as though it could answer her. “His first toy,” she wept, drowning in the fabric of the jumper as if trying to inhale her husband’s presence from its threads. Her laments were in English; Cutler would not need Christensen to translate after all.
Cutler’s past was a relentless instructor; experience had etched into him that in the face of such raw grief, words were futile. He left the widow to her sorrow and made his way to the outhouses, knowing that time and action were the currencies he now traded in.
The outhouse greeted him with the acrid tang of diesel that clawed at the back of his throat, a sharp contrast to the open air outside. A constellation of light pierced the dilapidated roof, revealing workbenches cluttered with mechanical entrails. At the far end, hidden behind a metal rack hid Guano. His bare torso was a canvas of toil and pain, marked by a crimson stain that seeped from his shoulder. Blood on the floor gave away his position.
The man’s gaze lifted weakly as Cutler approached. “Are you here to deport me?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper of defeat.
“I’m here for answers, not your extradition. But first, we stop you from bleeding out,” Cutler replied, his voice low and even. “Your name’s Guano, right?”
Affirmation came with a nod.
In swift, practised motions, Cutler was back from the car with a first aid kit. The course from Miami hadn’t just been another box to tick—it was preparation for moments like this. Cutler didn’t wait for consent; his hands were already assessing Guano, fingers probing for hidden damage, the pulse under his fingertips spelling out the urgency of the situation.
Cutler worked with the deft precision of a seasoned veteran. The wounds on Guano’s body were telling—the bullet had carved a clean path through flesh and bone, but fortune had favoured the man; the damage was not beyond the reach of makeshift field treatment. Cutler’s hands, steady and resolute, moved with an urgency that betrayed no hesitation.
However, the battered state of Guano’s face spoke of violence that had left deeper scars than the bullet had. Cutler’s gaze momentarily took in the ragged damage to Guano’s mouth—the shattered teeth, the torn lip, the bruised gums, all mute testimony to brutality. There was an intimate horror to such injuries that could unsettle even the most steeled operative, but Cutler had long learned to lock away such reactions. These were injuries beyond his ability to remedy in the field.
For a moment, his hands paused, recognizing the boundary of his capabilities. Cutler focused on what he could fix, bandaging the shoulder with practiced efficiency, staunching the flow of life from Guano’s body.
There would be time later for surgeons and dentists. For now, Cutler’s task was to keep the man alive, to hold onto the thread of Guano’s story that could help them find out who was responsible for the attack.
Guano’s words tumbled out, each one slurred by the trauma to his mouth, each sentence an effort as he recounted the nightmare. His English, usually articulate, was now distorted, the sounds struggling to find their shape around the injuries.
“I pushed the throttle as hard as I could,” he began, the recollection darkening his eyes with the memory. “The catamaran jolted forward.” He paused, wincing as he relived the moment. “That’s when the bullet hit me.”
The shed fell into a tense silence, punctuated only by the sound of Guano’s laborious swallow, a sound that carried the weight of his agony. “The men,” he resumed, voice barely above a whisper, “they didn’t hesitate. They… they ran over the clients, shot them without a second thought, and then… then they turned to us.”
Cutler listened, his expression hardening with each word. The horror of what Guano described was stark, brutal, the kind of violence that left a permanent mark not just on the bodies of those who suffered it, but on the souls of those who survived to tell the tale. He absorbed every detail, every piece of the jigsaw that Guano’s testimony provided, knowing it was vital intelligence.
Cutler’s grip tightened around the needle. He could picture it, the chaos, the screams of terror mixed with the staccato rhythm of gunfire.
The raw admission came from Guano, a murmur of lingering shock and pain that threaded through the dim space of the outhouse. “They thought I was dead,” he uttered, each syllable heavy with the weight of his ordeal. His gaze seemed to drift, lost in the horrific replay of that day.
Guano shifted, a wince crossing his features as he recounted the harrowing moment. “I was beneath a tyre, hidden from their view,” he continued, his voice a haunted whisper. “One of them… he shot at it.” His hand hesitantly rose to touch his mouth, fingers trembling as they hovered over the destruction left in that moment of callous amusement.
“It tore out my snorkel, and the bullet—” Guano stopped, the memories visibly fighting their way past the barrier of his pain. He didn’t need to finish; the wounds spoke the grim remainder of the story. It was a grim testimony to the savagery he had endured, a cruel twist of fate that had saved his life while mutilating his body.
Cutler’s face remained an unreadable mask, trained to keep his emotions in check, but his eyes were sharp with empathy and rage.
Guano shuddered, his body quaking with the intensity of the memory. Cutler resumed his stitching, the motion automatic. “
Guano’s voice held a desperate edge, the words tumbling out in a frantic cadence as Cutler worked with methodical precision on the exit wound. His hands were steady, but his mind was attuned to the urgency in Guano’s plea.
“The police, they can’t find me. I can’t go back,” Guano’s eyes flickered with a wild fear, the kind that came from harrowing memories and the threat of being thrust back into them.
Cutler didn’t look up from his task, but his response was immediate and calm, designed to install a measure of confidence in the man before him. “The local authorities are stretched thin, Guano,” he assured him, his tone carrying the cool surety of someone who had assessed every angle.
“You’ll be on your feet before they even start to close in on this place. Once I’ve patched you up, you’re free to disappear. They won’t get the chance to drag you anywhere you don’t want to go,” Cutler continued, his focus unyielding as he secured the final piece of gauze.
“Tell me about the leader, the one with the weird English accent” Cutler probed.
“The leader, he didn’t fit in, not like the others,” Guano’s voice was low, but it carried the weight of his conviction. “He moved with a certainty, a swagger—you could tell he wasn’t born to that desert heat, that his roots were set in cooler climates.”
“Hear and names”
“Yes, ‘Aziz’—it was said with respect, maybe even fear. And ‘Awaale,’ he spat it out like a curse.”
A heavy silence settled as Colton snipped the last of the thread. Names were leads, and in their line of work, a lead was as good as a lifeline. “Aziz and Awaale,” Cutler repeated to himself, etching the names into his own memory.
“Can you give me a description of the men?” Cutler asked.
Guano’s revelation of his artistic skill added an unexpected asset to Cutler’s operation. Even as the last stitch was tied off and Guano’s wound was bandaged, Cutler could see the beginnings of a plan taking shape. The sketch would be invaluable—evidence it was the same man who Fabienne had identified as Birmingham-born-and-bred and now calls himself ‘Aziz.’
“Colton,” Cutler called out, his voice firm with the urgency of their task. “Get that paper and pencil, fast as you can.”
“Listen carefully, Guano,” Cutler’s voice was low, deliberate. “Every piece of information you give us helps to build the bigger picture. Helps us stop them from doing this again.”
Guano nodded, his eyes reflecting the turmoil of his memories. He continued, “The African, Awaale, he was clearly terrified of the man he called Aziz. There was power in the way Aziz stood, a certain…
. “Did you notice anything else? Any specific features or behaviours that stood out?”
Guano’s gaze shifted to the ground as he thought. “The Arab men, they followed Aziz’s orders without question. The guns… they were like extensions of their arms, always ready, always pointed.”
“And Awaale? After he was silenced, what did he do?” Cutler pressed, understanding the dynamics of fear and command.
“He… he backed down. He just nodded and went along with the rest of them. But I saw it in his eyes—hesitation, maybe even regret.”
Cutler absorbed the information like a sponge. The complex hierarchy, the interplay of fear and power—it was all vital intelligence.
“Guano, you’ve done well,” Cutler affirmed, locking eyes with the injured man. “You’re a brave man.”
Colton was back in moments, handing over a notepad and a set of pencils from the car. Meanwhile, Cutler turned his attention to Christensen, who had come in with Colton.
“Christensen, we need a dentist, someone discrete,” Cutler said, the gravity of the situation clears in his voice. “Someone who can patch up Guano without raising flags or asking too many questions.”
Christensen nodded, his fingers already investigating his address book. “I might know a guy,” he murmured, his connections in the local area proving their worth once again.
As Guano braced himself against the pain, his good hand took the pencil with a determined grip. He began to sketch, lines and shadows taking form under his skilled fingers, creating a likeness that would soon be scanned and land on Fabienne’s tablet.
The men watched, a quiet tension among them. This was more than just a drawing; it was the first step in finding out who was behind the attacks.
Cutler watched the portrait emerge, knowing each stroke brought them closer to their quarry. This was what MIDAS did—turn the tables, find the threat, and neutralize it. And it all started with the face on the page, the artist’s rendering of the enemy.
“Can I go now?” Guano asked, after competing drawings of Awaale and Aziz.
“You can, but I want you to hand yourself into the police, you have information they need, and I think it will help you. We have some clout and will do everything to help you,” Cutler said.
Cutler could see the cogs turning in Guano’s head, the weight of each option being measured against a scale of risks and chances. The lines of stress on Guano’s face were like a map of the hard decisions he’d had to navigate in his life, and here was yet another. But this time, Cutler knew the stakes were higher, not just for Guano, but for the case at hand.
“Listen,” Cutler added, his tone softening just enough to show his sincerity without losing the edge of command. “The information you’ve given us, the descriptions, the sketches, they could save lives. They could prevent the next attack or bring down these killers. That’s not just a bargaining chip—it’s leverage.”
Guano’s eyes lifted to meet Cutler’s, a clear struggle behind them. “And you’ll stand by me? Really fight for my stay?”
Cutler extended his hand, a pact without paper but with the weight of his word behind it. “You won’t face this alone. MIDAS has resources and I personally will see to it that we follow through. If you help the authorities, it reflects well on you. They’re more likely to be lenient if they see you as an ally rather than a fugitive.”
A moment passed, heavy with the weight of what was unspoken—the countless stories of broken promises and shattered hopes that both men were well aware of. But then Guano’s hand met Cutler’s, a firm shake sealing the deal just as a police car arrived.
“Not us,” Cutler said.
“I’ll go,” Guano said, his voice firmer now, a decision made. “I’ll trust you What about Mrs Paccar?”
Cutler nodded, satisfied. “Good man. As for Mrs Paccar,” he said, glancing at the forlorn figure still clutching the remnants of her shattered life, “I’ll make sure the neighbour comes to look after her. No one should be alone in a time like this.”
As the police officers approached, Cutler stepped forward to greet them, his temperament one of calm authority. He would handle the exchange, ensure that Guano’s cooperation was fully understood, and that his role as a witness was valued over his status as an illegal immigrant.
“Officers,” Cutler called out as he met them halfway, “we’ve got a survivor here who’s ready to help you, please treat him with respect.”
Cutler turned to Christensen. “Get the dentist and the best lawyer on the island to meet them at the police station.”
Cutler scanned the sketches on his phone and a minute later Fabienne had fed the images into her facial recognition software.
Chapter 17: Into the Abyss
The dank chill of the holding cell seemed to seep into Old Joe’s bones, as he paced the narrow confines, the stench of urine and vomit almost palpable in the stagnant air. Sixty agonizing hours of uncertainty had crawled by, each one hammering at his resolve, before the solicitor—a sharp-eyed woman with a no-nonsense approach, dispatched by Fabienne, appeared. Her arrival was like a sudden beam of light, slicing through the murk of his dire situation.
Outside the suffocating cell, a more insidious game played out. In an illicit digital exchange, veiled by the highest grade of cyber stealth, Fabienne transferred a hefty sum from an untraceable account into the personal coffers of the senior interrogating officer. A man whose greed outweighed his duty. With the transaction, Old Joe’s paper trail would evaporate, the bureaucratic maze conveniently forgetting he ever existed. The only condition tethered to his freedom: he had to vanish from the island by sunset.
Staggering into the blinding sunlight, freedom felt like a surreal dream to Old Joe. At the harbour, a sense of displacement washed over him as he was greeted by Kai, a shipping agent with a demeanour as calm as the sea on a windless day. Cutler had prepared for everything—a package and a credit card were evidence of that.
The cat ketch moored at the dock was not his beloved vessel, the faithful companion on his nautical escapes around the world, but it was sturdier, older, its hull, one of promises of safety and endurance. Cutler had forced Conrad Ford to replace Old Joe’s previous ship.
Kai handed over a prepaid Mastercard. “There’s $50,000 here,” he explained quietly, “for fuel, food, and whatever else you might need.” The sum was staggering, ensuring not just weeks, but years of survival if he so wished. “Fabienne from MIDAS wants you to contact her before you sail.”
As the reality anchored in his mind, Old Joe’s throat tightened, emotions swelling like a tide. “Thank you, Cutler,” he whispered, casting his words into the salty breeze, hoping they’d find their way to whatever sanctuary his benefactor occupied.
The transition wasn’t seamless. Old Joe wrestled with new controls, familiarizing himself with the updated navigation system’s digital glow, and the boat’s unique quirks. Two exhaustive hours slipped by in checks and rechecks before he dared to navigate into the open sea. His course was etched in mind and map: a southerly path skirting treacherous waters, through East Timor, and ultimately, the northern shores of Australia.
