Off Course by Glen Robins

destination, the passenger had also connected all four cameras to his smart phone using a special app. Now they would be able to monitor their subject and act when the opportunity presented itself.
     
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    Western Caribbean Sea, 200 miles south of Grand Cayman Island
    June 14, 5:35 p.m. Caribbean Time
     
    Slowly, Collin became aware of his surroundings. Time had melted away along with the initial shock of watching his friend and shipmate murdered. As his eyes opened and focused, he saw that Mr. Green had stationed himself across the salon from the lower bunk bed where Collin lay with his hands zip tied behind his back. He was maybe twelve feet away, wiping his weapon with a cloth. The galley was to Collin’s left. The steps leading up to the deck were a few paces to his right, along the center line of the hull. Immediately to his right was the second set of bunks that lined the port side. Mr. Green sat on the end of a U-shaped bench that wrapped around a teakwood table capable of seating four men for dinner. Down a small passage to his right was the crew’s head, situated beneath the cockpit where the Captain piloted the boat, complete with toilet and shower. Beyond the galley to Collin’s left, tucked under the bow, was the Captain’s quarters with his own bathroom and closet.
    Things had changed while he was unconscious. Stinky was nowhere to be seen and Mr. Green, the trigger man, was now guarding him. Collin pushed down the rising anger that pushed him to take hasty vengeance. Everything was shiny―the walls, the floors, the table. Tog was gone. And there was a strange scent, like lemon cleaning solution had been poured over hot copper. That scent mixed with the gun oil Mr. Green was applying to his weapon.
    Collin tried to move into a more comfortable position, but every movement jostled his brain, which caused a pulsing sensation inside his skull, as if a steam piston was knocking one side of his head, then the other. The constant wave action, limited amount of fresh air, and lack of food and water combined to increase his misery. Every attempt to think and string concepts together so he could make some sort of plan ended in shear frustration. He allowed his swollen eyes to shut again and his bruised body to remain prone on his left shoulder.
    Mr. Green didn’t notice Collin’s eyes had opened. His snub-nosed Uzi lay across his lap, while he tumbled the slide-action hand gun over and over, inspecting every inch of it as he wiped it clean.
    Collin lay still, trying to push away the images of what he had witnessed, but his efforts were fruitless. And his guilt over it would not be assuaged. If only I had just turned over the laptop to them , he thought.
    The farther south the Admiral Risty plowed, the more the sea roiled. Collin needed rest. The short cat-naps these hijackers allowed him thus far were not enough to aid in his recovery. He tried once again to close his eyes and his mind, but the constant battering of the swells against the ship’s hull, accompanied by the violent rocking side to side, thwarted any chance of sleep. A call from above deck caused Mr. Green’s head to swivel and lock in anticipation. He stood and moved to the stairwell. He called out in his native tongue, then listened for a reply. Moments later, an unfamiliar face appeared, gun at the ready, to trade places with Mr. Green. Collin watched through the slits of his barely opened eyelids.
    This man walked immediately to the bunk, grunted as he hovered over Collin, poking his ribs with the muzzle of his machine gun. Collin raised his head. Another grunt, but nothing else. As Collin lay motionless, trying to sleep, this new guard roused him every ten to fifteen minutes. Each time Collin grew comfortable, slipping into a fanciful dream about breathing fresh air or having the use of his hands or standing on solid ground, Grunter would repeat the same