37

The first stars pinpricked the sky as the horizon purpled with the coming of night. In the deepening twilight, the cluster of pirate skiffs powered over the waves, their outboards purring steadily. Spearhead crouched in the bow of the lead boat, his eyes adjusting to the growing darkness. His body had long since become accustomed to the constant to-and-fro of the ocean’s swell, and he simply conserved his energy for the forthcoming attack.

As promised, Mr. Wi-Fi had forwarded the updated coordinates—the Orchid was now en route to Praslin Island. Spearhead honestly believed that this would be the easiest hijacking in all his four short years as a pirate. If the bounty was as large as Oracle had hinted at, then he could retire for the rest of his life, bathed in riches and beautiful women. But, despite the lure of such a lifestyle, he knew in his heart of hearts that he could never give up the pirate life. The urgent thrill of the chase was like a drug to him, almost as addictive as the power he wielded over a hijacked ship and its pathetic crew.

“Hey!” called Big Mouth from an adjacent skiff.

Spearhead directed his gaze southeast to where Big Mouth was pointing. On the distant horizon, like a gleaming jewel, was the outline of a white luxury yacht. Spearhead considered the vessel for a few moments, then signaled to the other skiffs, moving his hand in a serpent-like fashion and pointing to the target. Then he signed to Big Mouth’s boat to circle around and approach from the opposite direction.

They were still over three miles away, so at this stage of the attack, stealth was the preferred strategy. With his boat leading the way, the skiffs zigzagged across the waves, gradually closing in on their target from the stern to avoid the yacht’s radar.

The darkness of night descended, and only the silvery gleam of a half-moon lit their approach. But the yacht’s owners were considerate enough to leave on their navigation lights. Like moths to a lamp, the pirates converged on the unsuspecting vessel.

As the skiffs came within ambush distance, the buzz of adrenaline rushed through Spearhead’s veins. The other pirates in his boat had fallen silent, equally edgy yet exhilarated at the imminent attack.

At less than a quarter of a mile out, someone on the yacht’s deck spotted Big Mouth’s boat. There was a cry of alarm, and a searchlight was pointed in its direction. The VHF radio in Spearhead’s skiff burst into life as the captain of the yacht demanded that the approaching boat identify itself. Big Mouth responded with a hail of gunfire across the yacht’s bow.

But that was all good. Big Mouth was the distraction.

As the yacht’s engines burst into life and tried to make an escape, Spearhead shouted to his pilot, “GO! GO! GO!”

The mighty outboards roared, and the skiff’s bow rose high in the air as it plowed through the waves. The other skiffs joined in the pursuit, swarming toward the defenseless yacht. In less than a minute, the target vessel was surrounded on all sides.

However, the yacht’s crew wasn’t going to surrender without a fight. A flare was shot across the bow of one of the skiffs, and the yacht began to fishtail erratically in an attempt to ram any approaching pirates and make boarding impossible.

Despite the danger, Spearhead’s pilot brought their skiff alongside the yacht’s stern, bumping hard against the hull. Spearhead flung a grappling hook over the rail. It held fast, but the yacht suddenly veered away and the gap between the boats became treacherously wide. This was how Spearhead had earned his nickname: fearless, ruthless and admittedly a little crazy, he spearheaded every assault. He was the one who took the major risk of boarding first. And the rewards were greater for it.

With his AK-47 slung across his back and his hands gripping the rope, Spearhead leaped for the yacht’s stern. He didn’t make it, and his bare feet trailed in the water as he was dragged along by the speeding yacht. He tried to gain purchase on the hull, but the fiberglass was slick and icy smooth. Sea spray blinded him, and his body was battered against the hull as the yacht suddenly changed direction. Gritting his teeth, Spearhead clung on to the rope. Then, with a Herculean effort, he hauled himself up, hand over hand, to the lower-deck level.

Vaulting the safety rail, he unslung his AK-47 and prepared to take the yacht by force. A man carrying a flare suddenly appeared from behind a bulkhead. Shocked by the pirate’s unexpected appearance on deck, he started to raise his hands. Spearhead slammed the butt of his rifle into the man’s jaw. The sailor dropped to the ground, no longer capable of being a threat.

With the single-mindedness of a leopard stalking its prey, Spearhead prowled the main deck, searching the unfamiliar ship for the way to the bridge.

Another sailor emerged, and Spearhead leveled his AK-47 at him.

“Bridge?” he demanded.

The man cowered back into his cabin, pointing to a set of steps. Spearhead swiftly bounded up them and kicked open a wooden door. On the other side, the captain was shouting into the radio. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is motor yacht Sunriser—”

“STOP!” snarled Spearhead, planting the barrel of his AK-47 against the captain’s temple.

His eyes wide with panic, the captain let the receiver drop to the floor. “Please . . . don’t kill me.”

Spearhead’s maniacal grin flashed in the darkness. “I won’t. As long as you do exactly as I say.”