Page 8 of All The Way Under

I’m setting off for a side quest tomorrow and won’t be able to email or call for a while.

Please tell Mom and Dad I’m okay. You would be happy if I could tell you what I have to do and how uncomfortable it’s going to make me.

Happy in a good for you way, not a torture my twin way.

I hope the new location isn’t tanking too hard.

Kiss Grimace for me and tell him I’ll save him from your merriment as soon as I can.

I’m sure he’s seizing from the joy he’s surrounded by. I hope no one has touched his feet.

Your brother,

McBrode.

When I fall asleep, my mind plays a dreamscape of the Wyndham family across my eyelids. They’re like fictional characters come to life. Saylor Wyndham isn’t just all of her accomplishments and her last name. Now she’s my problem.

The wind is whipping my face as I fuck with the sails to make them do what I want. While I’m sure brute strength isn’t the right way to accomplish this, it’s my way to do it.

Another ship dropped off my sailboat for the mission, and I set off for my intended destination in the afternoon because I need to arrive at the Mozambique Channel by nightfall, when the pirates hunt.

They typically kidnap on a schedule, a week on and a week off, so we know they’ll be out here trying to catch another bounty after the Wyndham woman.

I drop the anchor and curse when it doesn’t do what I want the first time. I don’t have the finesse to enjoy sailing as an actual sport, and I can’t let the pirates see that. This is supposed to be my hobby. I need to look like a lost, dumb sailor looking for help.

“Damn it all to hell. Who the fuck does this for a good time?”

I’m all for suffering for fun, but this is another level.

The rain hitting my face sideways feels like pinpricks and the damn sails have a mind of their own.

While I have my captain’s license, it isn’t something I sought out.

It was a check in the box. A requirement for my profession in this area.

Most SEALs loathe the fucking water—detest being on a ship and would rather skin themselves alive than spend long periods of time at sea.

My stomach tips and heaves as the boat rocks.

When the anchor release finally works, I’m a second away from breaking something.

If this were a normal mission, I’d have a wetsuit, and I’d be under the water, using a rebreather system called a Draeger.

I’d swim through the ocean undetected at night, and sneak onto the beach to overtake the enemy.

That’s what I’ve practiced hundreds of times.

What I’m good at. Some may even use the word perfect as a descriptor.

The wind blows a gust of sharp raindrops into my left eye.

Fuck this kind of water . Fuck this. I rub my eye using a fist, and I wait to be captured .

The thought makes me sick. I plug in my coordinates and send them back to the naval ship, where Commander and my teammates are tracking my every move.

I wish they could see me. I throw both middle fingers up to the sky and growl like a damn grizzly bear.

You signed up for this , I remind myself.

I sit down in the small seat that barely fits my ass and cross my arms for warmth.

It’s a bit chilly. One more thing added to my growing list of discontentment.

I’m cold and wet. My boat isn’t nearly as nice as Saylor Wyndham’s technical dream—there were images of it in the folder—but it’s fine enough to entice a pirate to look twice. That’s all I need.

It would be fantastic if they could hurry up and steal my boat and kidnap me already. Let’s get to the gritty part.

I use my radio to send out a distress signal using a channel that isn’t secure, but also not the main emergency channel.

The pirates will be listening and plotting, if they aren’t already.

The lights of both shores of Mozambique and Madagascar are visible through my telescope.

One side looks lively, a bustling city filled with life, and the other side looks like a ghost town with dim, sparsely lit areas.

Rubbing my wrist where the new implant itches my skin, reminding me that I won’t be alone, I relish and curse this assignment. I decide to go below cabin to get away from the rain when I see the fucking telltale flashlights in the distance. A boat is approaching from the side.

Game time.

I toss my hand up in the air and wave it left and right in the direction of the boat.

“Come and get me, motherfuckers,” I say, grinning to myself as the boat gets closer.

I can tell from here that they’re from the sector that took the Wyndham woman. There are differences between the factions: how nice their boats are, what they’re wearing, and what direction they’re coming from. They’re closer now, and I can see what they’re wearing: black hoods. That’s a tell.

Take me to the promised land, I muse. Take me to her.

When they raise their guns, it takes everything inside my damn soul not to decimate them. It takes a few seconds to swallow the lump in my throat. Not because I’m scared, but because I have to let them do what they will with me.

I was told if they sense I’m a threat, they may not take me.

I need to appear weak in will and musculature.

I’m six foot four, so there’s no hiding my height.

My hands are in fists down at my sides, about to burst from the pressure of clenching them.

When they get close enough, I recognize they’re speaking Portuguese.

“Put your hands up!”

I comply after slamming the button to tell my ship I’ve made contact. It also erases the connection to them, so it can’t be traced.

“Help me,” I say. “My systems are down.”

I know I’m not saying the right words, but I continue to blather on as they board my boat.

“I need to dock at Maputo,” I explain.

I say the port name twice, so they know exactly what I’m saying. Feigning stupidity is not my strong suit, but I need to appear inept.

“No,” the captain of the boat says. “You’re coming with us.”

Though I can tell he’s hesitant as he looks me up and down.

Sell it. Sell it. Sell this fucking charade.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I say, nearly choking on the pussy words.

The sentence tastes so bitter and wrong that my voice actually shakes.

“I just need to dock at Maputo. I don’t have a lot of money on me.”

I might just make myself sick with this, but I lay it on thick, bringing my voice up, and sliding my hand into my pocket.

“I have some cash if that’s what you’re after,” I say, bringing up a wad of Euros. “Here, take this. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Take him,” one man says to the other. “Both of you,” he adds once his gaze flits over my size again.

They board the boat, and I do my best to look scared, but I have a feeling I might look bored as I allow them to zip tie my hands and jerk me onto their little boat.

I do protest and plead like a good civilian would, but I don’t make their lives as hard as I could, given that I could kill them with ease right here and now.

I know they drug most of the victims, and while I hope they don’t do that to me, I’m ready for it if they do. I’ve prepared my body and hydrated so it will get out of my system quickly. This mission has a lot hinging on the fact that I need to roll with whatever happens.

I speak in their language again, pleading with them to release me, telling them I don’t have money for ransom.

There’s a whole story they prepared for me.

It’s imperative that I hide the truth about who I really am.

So I tell these men my story—test out the waters of believability.

I was willed the sailboat by a friend who recently passed away.

I was taking this sailing trip because it was his dying wish.

He wanted his ashes spread at sea in a particular spot I couldn’t find.

I don’t have any family, as I was in the foster system in America. My name is Brody still.

I say it quickly, so they perceive it as nerves and trepidation. Overshare. That is what the normal person would do in a state of distress. I also say it in English, so they know that’s my native tongue. Verbal vomit.

They ask me questions about my life and conclude that my ransom money will have to come from the government if it’s going to come at all.

I keep them talking the entire ride to their beach camp and continue prattling on about whatever I think sounds desperate and makes me seem terrified.

There are lulls, but my adrenaline is off the charts, so time passes quickly.

Finally, they pull into one of Madagascar’s many bays.

Even at night, I can tell how white the beach sands are.

They load me into a Jeep and drive through a tropical jungle.

There are plateaus, valleys, and thick vegetation from what I’m cataloging on the drive.

I’m being a top-notch captive, so there’s no talk of using the sedatives, and I’m watching them like a hawk in case they try to deliver a dose on the down low.

The man in the passenger seat turns to look at me, and for the first time, I sense distrust. My stomach turns, but I remind myself they don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of.

Maybe my lies just seem too practiced, too smooth.

“What will happen to my boat?” I say in their native language. “It’s important to me. Will I see it again?”

That’s a question a normal citizen might ask, I think.

What would Nolan say? I quickly decide to make that my new motto.

“Don’t destroy it, please. I’ll pay for it.”

The man in the passenger seat narrows his eyes at me in the dim light.

“Should we destroy you instead?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t mean anyone any harm. Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you say. I just miss my friend, and that boat was the last thing left of him.”

The driver calms him, using his name, Raza. Raza seems satisfied, or maybe carsick from the winding roads we’re speeding on. He turns back to face the windshield.

I notice he’s fidgeting with something in his lap, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to get a better view without being obvious.

My hands are zip tied behind my back, so when he turns back to face me and I see the syringe, I have a knee-jerk reaction to bash my head forward into Raza’s.

But the forward motion was perfect, and even though his nose is bleeding, the needle went through my jeans and into my thigh.

The sedation seeps over my body like a web. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s begun. The part of this that will be the hardest. The unpredictable nature.

Raza is staring at me, fury singeing holes into my soul as blood trickles down his face. “I told you he was holding back,” he says in English.

He wanted me to hear. So he knows I know my act sucks.

“He’s not who he says he is.”

Before I drift completely, I’m hit with a profound sense of failure. I fucked this up before it even began—didn’t even make it to second base.

When I open my eyes, two men are dragging me, legs dangling, to a door that’s built into the side of a craggy, mountain-like feature.

The drugs cause me to process everything in a foggy dream state.

I hear them grunting as they maneuver my limp body across the sand, but I know the second my thoughts crystallize.

When I hear her scream.

It’s not the scream of fear or panic like you’d expect.

No, no, this woman is fucking furious, incensed beyond all recognition.

Then she comes into view, hands wrapped around the bars she’s encased behind, blonde hair wild, hanging loose around her face, mouth open as she devastates our goddamn ear drums with her war cries.

“Put him with asset twelve. Maybe she’ll kill him and make light work for us now that we know he’s not worth much.”

I recognize neither of the men carrying me are the men I know from the drive here.

One of them laughs. “Maybe it will calm her down. She can take out some of that aggression on him.”

We’re close enough now that the burning torches are illuminating her face. Her blue eyes meet mine, and maybe it’s the sedative, or possibly exhaustion, or maybe it’s because I told myself I’d be more like my brother to get through this, but all she looks like is trouble.

Saylor Wyndham locks her gaze with mine and lets out the most feral scream I’ve ever heard in my life.