Jamie Freveletti: Running Dark

Running Dark Jamie Freveletti

For my father, who says if you’re going to dream, dream big.

With love, J

1

EMMA CALDRIDGE PASSED MILE THIRTY-SIX OF THE FIFTY-FIVE-MILEComrades ultramarathon in South Africa when a roadside car bomb exploded. The force of the explosion blew her out of her shoes and catapulted her into the air ten feet before hammering her into the dirt at the side of the road. The detonated car burned, flames leaping out of the shattered windows. She lay in the clay-colored dust with the hot sun beating down, blinding her. She moaned, turned her head away from the sun’s glare, closed her eyes, and lay still, trying to gather her wits about her. A shadow fell over her face. She opened her eyes without moving her head and saw the blurry image of a man’s legs from the knees down. The limbs appeared to shimmer in the heat waves thrown by the burning vehicle. He wore running shoes, like everyone else that day. The shoes stopped next to her and rose to their toes as the person crouched down. A silver necklace in the shape of an antelope head swung into her line of vision. The amulet hung on a black rawhide cord. Emma tried to ask for help, but her dry mouth wouldn’t form the words.

The man’s dark hand came into view, holding a white plastic injector, similar to an EpiPen carried by people with allergies. In the next instant, the hand jammed the tip into Emma’s forearm, right above the wrist. She felt the prick of a needle and the rush of medication pulsing into her skin. Before she even had a chance to make a sound, he jerked the point out of her arm. The shoes flattened onto the dust and walked away with a crunching noise.

2

KHALIL IBRAHIM MUNGABE’S NICKNAME WAS “THE BONE PICKER,”because he began his career stealing the leftover shreds of offal found on the commercial fishing boats that trawled the seas off the coast of Somalia. It was said that Mungabe liked nothing and no one, but that wasn’t exactly true. He tolerated his wives well enough, and his children occasionally did something to make him laugh, even if he didn’t know their names and so could not praise them. He called them “that one” or “this one” and left it there.

He sat in Dubai and shivered in the snow. Dubai’s temperature that day was a blistering thirty degrees Celsius and rising higher, but inside the mall where he sat, it was snowing fake snow. Mungabe thought the affectation ridiculous. To him it just highlighted how the Saudis had bowed their heads to the European oppressors. He sat in the food court and waited for his contact, fingering the silver ring he wore in the shape of an antelope head as he did.

Mungabe’s power was on the verge of exploding, and he was taking the next logical step to ensure his future in this life and beyond. The man he was to meet had the power to bridge Mungabe’s world and the European world, and Mungabe planned on exploiting him and then killing him, in that order.

The man strolled up, tall and thin, like Mungabe himself, but wearing an expensive suit purchased in London. He had the hard, pointed face that Mungabe thought was the mark of a European. The man’s nickname was “the Vulture,” because he’d risen to power by driving his rivals into crisis through any means necessary. When the distressed companies began selling their assets one by one in their frantic attempts to save their floundering businesses, the Vulture would swoop down to snatch up the bones.

The Vulture took a seat across from Mungabe, looking unaffected by the freezing air, which Mungabe thought might be real rather than false bravado. Likely he was far more accustomed to such temperatures than Mungabe.

“How do you like the snow? I thought you’d want to experience it,” the Vulture said.

Mungabe clamped his teeth together to stop their clattering. He hated the snow, and he suspected that the Vulture knew it. It was all calculated to put him at a disadvantage. Mungabe couldn’t wait to complete their joint mission and then finish the man off. He’d do it in Somalia and leave his carcass in the sun to rot. Wonder how he’d feel then? Mungabe thought. He shifted in his seat and got right down to business.

“Tell me what you require. I haven’t much time. My ship leaves from the port today. Did my associate in South Africa perform well for you?”

The Vulture raised an eyebrow. “You look cold. Perhaps we take a seat in the restaurant.” The Vulture smiled a fake smile and waved Mungabe to the nearby bistro. Once inside, the Vulture crossed his legs and leaned back in the wooden chair. A waiter came by to hand them two menus. Mungabe took one and was somewhat relieved to see pictures next to the names of the dishes offered, which made ordering much easier. The Vulture waited for the server to leave before continuing.

“Your associate worked fine. But I have another request of you. There’s a large ship off the coast of Somalia that I want you to intercept.”

Mungabe’s ears perked up. He excelled at stealing ships. He commanded a large crew of Somali pirates, and in the last years his enterprise had grown exponentially. He’d expanded his fleet and just this quarter had purchased night-vision goggles, GPS radar-scanning equipment, and new weaponry. All so his pirates could troll farther out and net bigger fish. As a result of his investment, he was having an outstanding year so far. He’d taken fifty ships to date, with eight hundred hostages, usually crewmen, and netted $20 million in ransoms paid. His spectacular successes included an oil tanker worth $90 million and two commercial tuna-fishing boats worth $20 million each. One of the boats was currently docked in the village of Eyl, where it was slowly sinking into the ocean as the result of a hole shot in the hull by one of his crew. He often warned them to shoot above the waterline so that the boat, once boarded, could be piloted back to shore for salvaging, but that particular ship had put up a fight, and the only way to take it was to disable it and kill everyone on board.

Now, however, several freighters had hired Darkview, an American security company, to protect their ships that used the Gulf of Aden trade route. In the last two months, Darkview personnel had managed to sink four of Mungabe’s boats. In one incident the security company continued to chase his crew two hundred miles, not even stopping when they came within Somali territorial waters, as they were supposed to do. Darkview had captured the pirates and dragged them into Hargeisa to be tried. Mungabe had paid a princely sum to ensure their acquittal—it would not do to have any of his men sit in prison. Prison tested a man’s loyalties, and Mungabe wanted no one to turn traitor on him. It was during the trial that he’d decided to launch his own offensive against the company that plagued him so.

“What type of ship do you want me to steal?” Mungabe said.

The waiter was back to take their order. Mungabe pointed to a fish dish, while the Vulture ordered in French. When the waiter left, the Vulture leaned in to him.

“A cruise ship. The finest in the world. It embarked on its virgin cruise from Dubai to Victoria in the Seychelles Islands a few days ago.”

Mungabe settled back in his chair while he thought about what the Vulture had said. He didn’t read papers, didn’t care about world news, and had little interest in the politics of the West, but even he could see that taking the finest ship in the world would reflect well on him. Still, he frowned.

“The cruise lines don’t come near Somali waters. Victoria is two thousand kilometers away. Too far. We’ve only taken ships at six hundred.”