Serpent's Kiss

The ocean was clearer than she’d expected. With the disturbance caused by the tsunami she’d anticipated a lot of debris in the water. There was a lingering fog, however, that limited her visibility. She resisted the impulse to clean her face mask.

As always, the beauty of the sea overcame her. The brilliant colors of the fish in the tropical saltwater environment caught her eye again and again. Schools swam and darted in unison. Several coral growths stood proudly on the sea bottom. An eel whipsawed through less than a dozen feet away.

You’re not here on a sight-seeing tour, Annja reminded herself. She swam down to within reaching distance of the seabed.

She hadn’t swum far when she found the first gold coin. She dug it out of the loose sand and spotted three more.

In the excitement, she hadn’t paid particular attention to the tightness that strained her lungs.

When she flipped over to begin her ascent, she noticed the hull of a speedboat cutting through the water toward the shallows. She surfaced and spit out the snorkel mouthpiece, breathing deeply to replenish her depleted lungs.

The boat moved in too close and too quick. Several students had to flee the water. Four men sat in the speedboat. They laughed at the students and mimed the panicked reactions of some of them.

Annja treaded water on the other side of the speedboat. She scanned the craft and noticed the name and registration were missing or covered over.

Things didn’t look good.

One of the men brought up a bolt-action rifle and shouted something in his native tongue. Another man tapped him on the shoulder and spoke quickly.

The man with the rifle addressed the dig members again in English. “I want to talk to your boss now or I will start shooting.”

6

The Grimjoy rocked on the sea with a careless abandon that told Goraksh the craft hadn’t been properly anchored.

The yacht was a thing of beauty. At least forty feet long, the boat was a shipbuilder’s confection of polished teak and brass. It was also rigged and powered to be a motorsailer, capable of traveling with the wind or by the big engines.

Goraksh listened to his father’s bellowed commands and helped with the sails as the Black Swan closed on the yacht. The lookout in the crow’s nest relayed that no one else appeared to be about.

Grabbing his binoculars, Goraksh studied the yacht. He spotted a red-haired woman in a bikini waving frantically in the stern, but no one else appeared on deck.

“What do you think?”

His father’s unannounced presence at his side startled Goraksh. He took an involuntary step away before realizing it was his father.

“What do I think about what, Father?” Goraksh asked.

Rajiv nodded at the yacht. “It could be a trap.”

“A trap?”

“There could be armed men belowdecks waiting till we’re within range,” Rajiv said as calmly as though they were discussing the prevailing winds. “They could have rifles or machine guns. Perhaps even a rocket launcher. Those things are not as hard to get hold of as they once were.”

Goraksh knew that; his father sometimes dealt in munitions. But everyone who had a boat and needed money did. There were always rebel forces in India, Africa and the Middle East who needed them. Sometimes Rajiv only hired out to transport someone else’s weapons.

The woman continued waving and yelling.

“I don’t think it’s a trap,” Goraksh replied. “The woman appears too afraid.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” his father said. “It pays to be right.” He paused. “But it also pays to be careful.” He barked an order to one of the men.

Instantly the order was relayed to the other men. All of them armed themselves with assault rifles that were brought up from belowdecks. Possession of any one of the weapons was enough to get them in serious trouble. Having all of them—

Goraksh swallowed hard. He didn’t know what having all of them meant. But it couldn’t be good.

The woman didn’t think so, either. She shrank back, then turned and fled into the cabin.

“Here.”

Goraksh turned once more to his father. Rajiv held a semiautomatic pistol in his hand.

“Take this in case you need it,” his father commanded.

Reluctantly, but trying hard not to show it, Goraksh took the pistol. The weapon fit his hand instinctively, but it was a lot heavier than he’d expected. He prayed he wouldn’t need it.

Rajiv gave orders to close in.

T HE B LACK S WAN’ S CREW lashed their ship to Grimjoy. Then, after they pulled on disposable gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints, they followed their captain aboard.

Goraksh accompanied his father because Rajiv grabbed his shirt and propelled him forward. The pistol dangled at the end of Goraksh’s arm. He wasn’t even sure if the safety had been switched off.

The Grimjoy ’s deck rocked beneath their feet. Waves slapped flatly against the ship’s hull.

“Do you know why I brought you last night?” Rajiv whispered into Goraksh’s ear.

“No.”

“Because you are twenty,” his father whispered. “Because you are a man. And because the men who work for me wonder why my son—my only son—hasn’t taken his place with me.”

Goraksh went forward to the ship’s cabin afraid he was going to be shot at any moment. He thought he might be sick.

“You are a Sikh,” his father whispered vehemently. “The blood of warriors runs through your veins. I put it there.”

Goraksh stood at his father’s side in front of the cabin door. He heard the woman crying within. She was also talking rapidly.

“Help! Anyone! Help! This is the Grimjoy! ” The crying broke up her words, but Goraksh knew anyone who heard her could still understand her. “We’re being boarded by pirates! Help!”

The thought of the woman using the radio twisted Goraksh’s insides into water. “She’s calling for help.”

“What are you going to do about it?” his father demanded. He released his hold on Goraksh’s shirt.

“Help? Is anyone out there? There are pirates—”

Goraksh was unable to bear the thought of getting caught by the Indian navy or coastal patrols. No matter what, he had to stop the radio transmission.

T HE CABIN WAS SMALL . A miniature galley and wet bar occupied the area to the left. A bed and shower cubicle occupied the forward and right sections.

A man, glassy-eyed in death, lay on the bed and rolled loosely with the pitch of the tethered yacht. He was in his thirties and looked American or European. Artificially blond hair was short and spiky. He’d been tall and fit, his skin bronzed by the sun. He wore brightly colored swimming trunks and was bare chested.