Agents In Harms Way by Don Winslow Page A

flushed, panting for air, and suddenly...abandoned.
     
    ***
     
    In a rare display of democracy, the Captain called for “the hat.” As they all knew, he could just have easily exercised his rights to have first choice among the captives for the night. But the man was feeling generous, and so the straw sombrero would be passed around; inside five metal disks, identical to the ones affixed to the girls’ collars. Of the five, three had numbers — 8, 9, and 10, inscribed on them; the other two were blanks. The unlucky guys who drew blanks would go off muttering and cursing, disgruntled, forced to content themselves with whatever solo pleasures they could find for the evening.
    The pairings were announced to the cheers of the winners, and groans of the losers: Number 8, to the Captain; Number 9, Dewayne; and Number 10, Merc. The last caused a round of crude jokes. Everyone in the room knew that Merc was fascinated with Kip’s small, rounded butt; couldn’t keep his hands off it. And before the night was over the girl would feel the big man’s ragging prick well ensconced up that tight little ass of hers. Dewayne stood before Mallory with that shit-eatin’ grin she detested — and knew so well. He placed a hand on her naked shoulder, spun her around, and shoved her forward. And when she stumbled to a halt, a swift slap on the skirted behind sent her scurrying down the carpeted passageway. And so the hapless prisoners were led off by the lottery winners, each to be taken off to the crew’s private quarters for yet another night of drunken debauchery.
     
    ***
     
    High on the bridge, totally oblivious to whatever wild sexual orgies might be taking place below deck, the one “crew member” who never slept — the NAVSTAR satellite navigation system, made still another minute correction in the southerly course. The unfolding nautical chart, recording each meter of their progress, obediently inched across the lighted display table. Had a human sailor been on the bridge that night, he would have seen their destination edge into view for the first time — the west coast of Colombia. NAVSTAR confidently estimated that at present speed, they would be at their destination – Tomocolo, in 76 hours: 23 minutes.
     

 
    Chapter Nine
     
     
    Although the prisoners were strictly forbidden to talk to one another, it was a rule that wasn’t rigidly enforced and at each day spent at sea, the crew, if not the Captain, became more relaxed regarding contact among the female prisoners. Mallory was determined to learn as much a possible about their captors; one never knew when such information might prove useful. Meghan was a great source of information. In hurried, whispered talks, Mallory learned about how the blonde girl had been taken. Once, when her kidnappers thought she was still asleep, she had overheard two of them talking about what a nice price she would bring, once “El Commandante” got a look at her. This Commandante seemed to particularly favor gringas — especially the blonde ones with large, floppy breasts.
    It was also Meghan who showed the senior agent that female “passengers” were not unknown on board the Big Wizz . To Mallory’s surprise Meghan led her to bins and racks of female clothing in an array of sizes. The boat was equipped with casual clothing: shorts and jeans and tops; underwear and lingerie; pantyhose and stockings, shoes, and a variety of kinky leather outfits. It was like a small department store, the agent marveled. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that other women may well have passed through the Captain’s greedy hands, and the words “white slaver” came to her with a ripple of fear.
    She had to get a grip on herself. This was absurd! It was the 21 st century; men simply couldn’t get away with that sort of thing anymore! Somehow, her reassurances rang hollow.
    For some time now Mallory had been convinced they were heading south, and at times they caught sight of a coast on