Ghost Ship

“No. To be honest, I don’t know why you were carrying one either. Although I have some guesses…”

Sam steepled his fingers. “You want to share them with me?”

“I have no idea what was stored inside, but I assume you want to know why the information was on a Betamax as opposed to any form of data storage used this century?”

“Yeah, it had crossed my mind.”

“I’m just the delivery man. You want to know my guess though?”

Sam shrugged. “Sure.”

“I assume whatever secret code is stored inside, you were afraid that if you put it on a more traditional storage device that it would be more vulnerable to hacking.”

Sam thought about that. “That makes sense. Don’t suppose you know what’s stored on it?”

“Not a clue. And I don’t want to know.” Andre’s voice was cold and unemotional. “Like I said, I’m just the delivery guy.”

Sam nodded. He understood exactly what the man meant. “So, we’re not going to Washington, D.C. are we?”

“No.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Russia.”

Sam made a heavy sigh. “So, I was involved with the Russian Mafia?”

Andre pulled out a pistol and pointed it at him. “Look, it will be best for all of us if you just sit there, keep your mouth shut, and wait until we arrive. We’ll be landing in about fifteen minutes.”

“Why? Where are we going? What is this about? Who are you?”

Andre dismissed his questions with the wave of his hand. “Hey. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“What? You’re just paid to deliver me… like a hitman?”

“Something like that.”

“So why keep me alive? Hell, you risked your life to save me from falling to my death during takeoff… why?”

Andre bit his lower lip. “Things have changed. Originally, a price has been on your head since you disappeared from the organization two days ago… that much I wasn’t lying about. From what I can tell, someone at the Pentagon sent you to infiltrate the Russian Mafia. Then, two days ago, you up and disappeared. The boss of the Russian Mafia, a guy called Igor Mihailovich — real mean son of a bitch — was pissed off. He put a hefty price on your head. Hell, if I didn’t kill you, I guarantee any number of head hunters from around the world would have got to you. But now, all that has changed.”

Sam asked, “How so?”

“My contract changed from termination to protection.”

Sam grinned. “Wait. You’re telling me you were hired to kill me and now you’re being paid to save me?”

Andre shrugged. “What can I say? My loyalties are to the highest bidder.”

“Who’s the new bidder?”

“I don’t know his name. But I know he was willing to pay big dollars to make sure you survived.”

“All right. So if we’re off to see my new benefactor, why all the cloak and daggers…” Sam’s eyes drifted down toward Andre’s pistol. “Or in this case pistols?”

Andre frowned. “Hey, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea here, you’re in serious trouble. Your… ah… what did you call him? — benefactor — didn’t just save your life to be kind.”

“No, I suppose he didn’t. So why did he save my life?”

“I don’t know. Something to do with the information on that tape. Whatever the hell that means. I hope you’ve still got the Betamax.”

Sam nodded.

There was no point trying to hide it. The tape was stuffed in his backpack. He was trapped in the cargo hold of a military aircraft. They were probably thirty thousand feet up. No way out.

Andre asked, “Where?”

“In the backpack.”

“Hand it over.”

Sam slipped his arms free of its shoulder straps and handed it to him. Andre opened the bag, confirmed a Betamax tape was inside, and zipped it up immediately. Relief plastered across his face.

“So why not take the tape and kill me now?” Sam suggested.

“Hey, I’m with you… better for you and better for me. But according to the man I work for it’s not that simple. He needs to be certain of what you know, and what you don’t know. My guess, someone from the Pentagon sent you to infiltrate the Russian Mafia, but what you found there turned out to implicate someone back stateside in some pretty lousy shit. Heads will roll. I mean, some high-ranking Pentagon official or something was about to get screwed. Whoever they are, they have deep pockets, and they’ve got their fingers in the wrong pie… so they need to know exactly what you recall.”

The C17 banked and its nose dipped to commence its descent.

Sam reached for the Makarov.

The mercenaries moved in quickly to disarm him.

His hand never gripped its handle. Instead, he received a blow to his jaw like a sledgehammer, immediately followed up by two sharp jabs into his solar plexus. Whatever muscle memory Sam had been relying on in hand to hand combat was clearly inadequate against previous members of an elite special forces’ unit.

He hit the floor and what ensued was a very one-sided brawl. Multiple punches and kicks landed on him, keeping him down low, in a position of submission.