Page 19 of Murder Island

That’s when I saw it. A gray shadow, getting more defined with every second. Smooth. Bullet-shaped. Heading toward us.

Shark.

I fought the instinct to rush for the surface. By now, Ifelt like my insides were pounding through my skin. The boys banded around me. White bubbles streamed from their noses.

The shark moved its head from side to side in tight rhythmic sweeps.

It circled us—close enough that I could see the remora fish on its fin. We turned as a unit to track its path, our backs pressed together.

The shark’s head dipped. Then, with one huge thrust of its tail, it sped straight for us.

I knew we only had one chance.

I held up my own spear—all metal. I waved it an arc across the shark’s path. Ten yards away. Now five! The jaws gaped open and the pupils rolled back. Suddenly, the huge fish stopped like it had rammed into an invisible wall. Its whole body shook in a violent spasm. Then it made a flipping turn and swam off into the gloom. A few seconds later, it was gone.

I signaled for the kids to surface. I followed a few yards behind, keeping my eyes toward the bottom the whole way. I could feel my lungs burning and my head pounding. I knew I only had a few seconds of air left.

When my head popped up above water, the boys started jabbering and running their hands across my magic spear.

“Force field generator,” I told them, gulping for air. “Invented by my ancestor.”

As usual, they didn’t understand a single word I said.

CHAPTER 21

LIKE HIS GREAT-GRANDFATHER and namesake, Captain Cal Savage IV was slender and pale. In spite of his light complexion, he enjoyed taking the morning sun on the top deck. The crew knew not to disturb him during his quiet time.

Today, he was doing his best to put the Chicago failure out of his mind. A momentary setback, he kept telling himself, and the guilty had been punished. Far more important was the big picture—and how much he’d already accomplished.

It had been twenty-five years since he graduated from the secret school his ancestor cofounded. As a student, he’d been well trained in espionage, evasion, and assassination. Since then, he’d used his skills to accumulate a fortune from a variety of dark-side ventures—blood diamonds, smuggled fentanyl, bootlegged uranium. The bulk of his wealth was secured in masked accounts inBelize and Singapore. The onboard safe held a few million dollars in petty cash.

Over the years, he had assembled a tight crew, an elite band of young fellow graduates—expert navigators, skilled engineers, master chefs. And every one a trained killer.

The name of the ship was thePrizrak, Russian forghost. It was Savage’s home and his base of operations. He had no passport. His name was not registered with any government or authority. For all practical purposes, he did not even exist, and neither did his ship. Which was exactly how he liked it.

Savage took special pride in the fact that he had not touched land in more than ten years. Helicopters ferried fuel, equipment, and supplies to the ship as she moved from sea to sea, never docking.

From his bridge, Savage directed a worldwide network of clandestine operatives, most of them fellow alumni. On his orders, they fomented chaos across the globe. Ethnic cleansing, civil wars, regime changes. Over the past few years alone, Savage had fanned conflicts in Myanmar, Darfur, Syria, Afghanistan, and a dozen other trouble spots. Trouble was his trade, and he was good at it.

But of course, it was all a means to an end. Eventually, when the world order was irretrievably broken down, Savage would step ashore to take over, with his own style of command and justice.

Until then, he would move silently across the seas—like a ghost.

“Captain, he’s here.”

Savage blinked and opened his eyes. A crew member hovered above him, casting a shadow over his face.

The 10 a.m. meeting. A bother, but necessary.

A Somali warlord needed to be brought into line.

CHAPTER 22

TEN MINUTES LATER, Captain Savage was silently fuming. His guest would simply not budge.

The warlord was called Taifa. If he had a last name, it was long forgotten. He was in his sixties, with hard features and rheumy eyes. His throat was marked by a deep scar, evidence of one of the many attempts on his life.

The negotiations had reached an impasse over a critical point—Taifa’s insistence that his oldest son, Cumar, take over a powerful regional militia. Cumar, a thuggish thirtysomething, stood behind his father, flanked by two huge bodyguards with automatic rifles.