Read In Cold Blood for Free Online

other men, but it was not lost on Joe that it encompassed the bridge and the rest of the ship, too. “What is your name?”
    “Name’s Joe Thomas.”
    “You are American, Joe?”
    “That’s right. Boston.”
    “That is good. And how many men do you have on board, Joe?”
    “Just ten of us,” he said.
    Farax smiled. “I know you lie. A ship like this has twenty men. Perhaps thirty. But it does not matter. Ten is enough. You will tell them to come here.”
    Joe still did not understand, although a dim, recessed part of his brain had started to stitch things together. He refused to acknowledge it, though. It was too horrible to consider.
    “I can’t do that.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The men are around the ship. They have important jobs to do. They cannot leave their stations.”
    “You must call them, captain. I do not ask you again.”
    Joe shrugged that he couldn’t help.
    Farax raised the muzzle of the AK and pointed it Ray Vasquez’s chest. “I do not ask three times,” he said as he pulled the trigger.
    The machine-gun was horribly loud in the confined space of the bridge. The rounds studded Vasquez in the chest and he staggered back against the console, a look of incomprehension on his face as he slowly slid down until he was resting on his backside.
    “I am not a pirate, Joe. I do not want money. I am al Shabaab. Do you understand what I mean?”
    Joe didn’t have the ability to speak. He nodded.
    “Now. Please gather your crew. If you do not, we kill you all now.”
    Joe looked at him and knew, immediately, that this was not a bluff. What he had done to Vasquez was evidence enough but, more than that, was the way he looked at him. There was no compassion in the dark orbs of his eyes, no empathy. If he said he would do something, then he would do it.
    Joe picked up the radio and keyed it open. “This is the captain,” he said. “I’m going to need the officers to report to the bridge. All officers, to the bridge.”
    They lined the men up against the wall. Joe stood between them and Farax. He didn’t know what he would be able to do. Perhaps he might be able to talk him down, reduce the temperature. The thing was, the thing that worried him more than anything else, was that Farax did not appear flustered or perturbed. He smiled at the other pirates, conversing with them in easy Arabic, and his posture was loose and relaxed. It was as if what he had just done was of no consequence to him whatsoever.
    The other officers arrived. They were all scared. Joe was scared, too.
    The soldiers were the last to arrive. Joyce wore a black expression but, like Farax, he moved with an easy step. Joe guessed that this was not the first time he had looked down the barrel of an AK-47. The other men—McGuinnes, Bloom and Anderton—had a similar demeanour.
    “That’s all of us,” Joe said.
    Farax looked them over. He walked over to Joyce. The difference in physique was striking: Joyce was tall and powerful and the Somali was slender.
    “My name is Farax,” he said. “What is yours?”
    “Joyce.”
    “And what do you do on the ship, Joyce?”
    “I’m the chef.”
    “You do not look like a chef.”
    Joyce shrugged. For a moment Joe wondered whether he was going to say something they might all regret, but he held his tongue. Farax had to look up a little to look into his eyes, but he did, and held his gaze. It was Joyce who looked away. The Somalis evidently found this amusing.
    “You go to our ladder now,” Farax said. “We go for journey together.”

CHAPTER SIX
    CAPTAIN MICHAEL POPE was standing at the raised wall, looking out over the city. He was a tall man, well built, and it wasn’t difficult to tell that he had a history in the armed forces. He was dressed conservatively, in beige chinos and a blue poplin shirt. Beatrix cleared her throat and he turned around to face her, removing the sunglasses and hooking them into his shirt pocket.
    “Number One,” he said.
    “No,” she said.