Off Course by Glen Robins Page A

sequence of actions: Grunt, mumble, poke, grunt.
    Collin had now met all four hijackers. So far, Grunter appeared to be the least violent of them. But, he remained vigilant at his post, not allowing Collin to rest and regain his strength.
    Time passed, although it was hard to measure in his semi-conscious state. All Collin knew was that the rays of the sun were at a much shallower angle now, coming in the small, shaded window above the dining table on the starboard side. Dusk approached. And with it, a calming of the wind and the waters. The sounds outside now were less boisterous. The sails flapped with less intensity. The slap of the waves against the hull less potent and less frequent. All seemed more languid and peaceful. Collin’s prospects for rest were increasing.
    The illusion was shattered when Stinky’s raucous voice breached the still in a virulent stream of high-pitched inquiries. It was obvious he was questioning the Captain; his voice climbed an octave at the end of each word string. Collin could not make out the words, but he could imagine what was being asked. Why are we slowing down? Did I say to slow down? What are you doing, trying to cause trouble?
    As he strained to listen, Collin could hear the Captain’s deep voice as it projected from his perch at the helm into the open hatch, calm and assuring, explaining the situation and attempting to educate the armed novice before him of the ways of the sea. It seemed to Collin the Captain’s efforts fell short of their desired effect. Stinky kept shouting, his tone brooding and suspicious.
    “I told you,” the Captain said, “I cannot control the wind. If there is no wind, we cannot go faster.”
    Stinky screamed some more and the Captain responded with, “Yes, we do, but if we run the engines we will run out of fuel and will be helpless in an emergency.”
    As expected, Stinky stomped his way down the steps and entered Collin’s immediate space. He yanked Collin by the collar into a sitting position and demanded his cooperation. “We go too slow now. Your friends making trouble. You want more trouble?” Stinky’s face was just inches from Collin’s. His breath was sour and his beady eyes shot daggers.
    It took Collin a moment to reply. He tried to lick his parched lips and form words. At last, with his eyes closed in concentration, he slowly muttered, “This happens sometimes when sailing. It’s called the doldrums. The wind just stops and the water gets calm.” Collin braced for the onslaught. It didn’t come.
    Stinky barked at Grunter and a short conversation ensued. Collin understood nothing.
    Before marching back up the steps, Stinky approached Collin and shook him by the shoulders. “You better hope no funny business,” he commanded. “Or you lose another friend.”
    Collin slumped back down and tried to sleep, knowing it was not an idle threat.

Chapter Eight
    London, England
    June 15, 12:20 a.m. London Time
     
    For Nic Lancaster, the Collin Cook case would go down in his personal file as either a brilliant rookie triumph or an embarrassing start to his investigative career. Either way, his pride was involved and his emotions poured into it. Yes, this case had become personal and he knew that was unprofessional, but he also knew it could define his trajectory.
    Because he felt his career track was in jeopardy, Nic was more nervous than he had been on his first date. Collin Cook, the crafty little bugger, had finally made the mistake that Nic had been waiting for. The cheap cell phones he bought for himself and his lady friend would prove his undoing. Now that he had the ability to track Cook’s location, it was time to coerce some cooperation from the higher-ups, starting with his section chief, Alastair Montgomery.
    The sometimes helpful Alastair didn’t often see things Nic’s way. Knowing this and having spotted a pattern of irregular behavior, Nic had done some sleuthing into his boss’s out-of-the-office activities.
    Nic