Luck In The Bahamas

This is a short story which is a prequel to the novels I'm going to be writing about the character. He will be a spy but this is about a holiday earlier on his life, when he was 13 years old. Enjoy!

Luck in The Bahamas

 

30^th July 1999

 

The sleek, black BMW weaved through the narrow streets of Nassau, leaving a small sand storm in its wake. Jamie Hunt wound down the window on the passenger's side letting a breeze swirl inside the car, cooling him down. Sitting next to him in the driver's seat was his father, Robert Hunt.

Many people had mentioned that he was the spitting image of his father, in appearance and behaviour. But there was one difference, Jamie had sandy blonde hair and his father's was greyish black, although Jamie had inherited his father's crystal blue eyes.

Robert tore his eyes, which were invisible at the moment behind dark tinted aviator sunglasses, from the road and smiled at his son. “Looking forward to toady,” he said, tousling Jamie's hair.

“Yeah I can't wait.” And it was true. Jamie had woken up at five o'clock that morning in anticipation. Jamie and Robert rarely had much time together because of his father's busy job. Jamie thought he was the only person in the world whose Dad worked weekends. He wasn't sure what he did for a living. But he would disappear for weeks on end and return with cuts and bruises. Once he returned with a broken arm.

He had asked his mother once, when Robert was away missing one of his school's football games for a record tenth time.

“He's a maritime lawyer,” she replied curtly. “Now go and play with your brother. Diner will be ready in a minute.” She always tightened up when Robert was always on a business trip.

It was another perfect day in The Bahamas. The sun had done a great job tanning both their pale white skins to a perfect shade of gold. The weather was the complete opposite to the dismal climate back home. Britain always felt like there was a dark cloud hanging over it, making the inhabitants feel miserable. But that was not a problem here. The sun was shining brightly in the vivid, blue sky. Only a couple wisps of fluffy, white clouds to accompany it. Jamie had been on holidays to Valencia in Spain and to the South of France, but nothing matched up to The Bahamas. It was just like the photos in the holiday brochures; sparkling, white-sand beaches and breathtakingly, turquoise blue waters. Everyone was dressed in brightly coloured clothes. Soft calypso music drifted out from the bars and cafes they past, giving it a festival feel. Jamie loved it. There was such a relaxed atmosphere. But if there was one downfall with The Bahamas, it would have to be the irritating bug bites. Again for the millionth time, he slapped his arm killing another bug. They never left you alone.

When they arrived at the Hurricane Hole Marina they were met by a rotund local. He was dressed in a grubby, white vest, a cigarette hanging limply off his bottom lip. He counted the bundle of Bahamian dollars that his father had handed him. When he was happy that it was the correct amount, he led them to the end of the harbour.

A boat was waiting, patiently bobbing up and down in the water. The boat was in pristine condition. They had chartered a Dell Quay Euro Sport, Powerboat. The white fiberglass body and metal trim glistened in the sun. The local had taken better care of his boat, than he had on his own appearance.

As Jamie climbed aboard, he caught sight of himself in the boat's mirror. His appearance had changed a lot since the start of the holiday. He looked like a stereotypical surfer from one of his surfing magazines, that was at this moment resting on his bedside table. He was wearing a black and neon green Ripcurl boardshorts. The bead necklace that was hanging around his neck was handmade by local artisans from the famous Straw Market.

He settled down into the white, leather seat by the steering console and Robert jumped into the seat behind the steering wheel. The seat enclosed around him, hugging his body tightly, making him feel safe.

Robert turned the key and the three cylinders, Evinrude 60 engine, spluttered to life.

“Bring it back in one piece,” the local yelled.

“Don't worry sir. You can trust me,” Robert said, smiling the cheeky smile of his. “We won't go over 15 knots.” He slid his sunglasses to the tip of his nose and winked at Jamie. “Won't we boy?”

“No of course not,” Jamie said, innocently.

The propellers, on the outboard motor, churned up the water producing a stream of water from the tell-tale. Robert maneuverer the boat out of the harbour, dodging other tethered boats. They left the bustling streets of people and palm trees behind them. The sun sparkling off the sea.  Jamie breathed in the cool sea air, filling up his lungs. It helped wake him up.

Once the boat was out in open water, Robert dismissed what he promised the local and opened up the throttle. Wind whipped and whistled past their ears. Robert's hair flapped furiously around his face.

“Ready for some fun,” he yelled over the wind. He might be an aging Dad but inside his imagination he was Britain's deadliest weapon, James Bond, behind the helm a powerful speed boat. Robert wrenched the steering wheel fully to the left and then to the right. The stern of the boat flicked from side to side, like a happy dog wagging its tail. Jamie was pulled from side to side like a ragdoll. He reached out, grabbing onto the side to stop himself falling. The muscles in his cheeks were aching because he was smiling so much.

“Jamie my boy,” Robert called over the noise. “How about a go?”

He slowed down and they swapped seats. Jamie took over the controls, brushing a lock of sandy blonde hair out of his eyes. The console was dotted with a dozen different types of switches, buttons and levers.

“It's fairly easy,” Robert said. “You have the steering wheel and that big lever to your right is the throttle. Give it a little push.”

Jamie placed a hand on the wheel and the other on the lever. He pressed forward sharply and the boat lurched forward.

“Start of nice and slow. Just be smooth.”

Jamie pressed forward on the throttle again and the boat roared forward.

“Aim for that speck on the horizon.” Robert said. Jamie span the wheel until the bow of the boat faced out to sea. The boat surged on towards the horizon. Robert guided him by correcting his steering when he was veering off. Soon Jamie got the hang of it and became more confident in control.

The boat was flying, reaching up to 21 knots. The hull of the boat skimmed across the top of the water, bouncing over the waves.

Jamie was temporary blinded, as something was forced onto his face. When his sight was restored everything was dimmer. He didn't know what happened until he spotted himself in the mirror. He was wearing his Dad's sunglasses. Jamie thought they suited him.

“Now you look the part,” Robert said, filming him using his new video camera. He had bought yesterday at Bay Street and hadn't put it down since.

The speck on the horizon started to grow as they neared. But it wasn't just a speck. It was a floating two storey yacht, all by itself, miles from the shore. Robert had turned his attention to it as well.

“Slow down,” he said tensely, as he used the zoom, capabilities on the video camera, to get a clearer look. The yacht seemed deserted. Where were the owners? Had they fallen overboard?

Two men suddenly popped out of the cabin door on the lower deck. Neither was smiling as they fingered the two, Heckler & Koch G36, assault rifles which were trained on Robert and Jamie.

“Put your hands up,” one of the gunmen ordered. Jamie hesitated and a bullet smashed into the floor, inches from his feet.

“Do what they say,” Robert hissed.

They were ordered to moor up beside their yacht. The gunmen were dressed in ripped, grimy clothes. One had a bandanna wrapped around his head. They were both severely sunburnt from spending days out in the sun. If you switched their ‘Heckler & Koch’s’ for swords, they could have walked straight out of a pirate movie. The Bahamas has always been associated with pirates, even the infamous 'Blackbeard.'

“Hello,” Robert said, trying to sound friendly. In reply, he received a rifle butt to the temple, knocking him unconscious.

“Dad!” screamed Jamie, moving towards his fallen father.

“No,” the gunman nearest to him hissed through gritted teeth. He grabbed Jamie by the throat, his fingers slowly curling around Jamie's windpipe. “Now do as I say and I’ll be nice and won't put a bullet between your eyes.”

“Sod off you creep,” Jamie spat back. Jamie kicked out at the other gunman, who was bundling his father into the cabin. The kick caught him in the shoulder blade, pushing him into the door frame. He dropped Robert. The gunman holding him tightened his grip and then threw him into the cabin. Jamie tripped over his father and landed on the thick carpet pile.

Jamie rubbed his tender neck, his throat burning every time he took a breath. As the pain subsided, he looked around the large cabin that looked more like a living room. The interior décor was nicer than most houses. But in one corner were ten wooden crates stacked high. It was completely out-of-place amongst the mosaics on the walls and a velvet sofa in the corner, where Robert was dumped.

Jamie turned back to the crates. The black steel of a muzzle was poking out of the top of one of the crates. It was an AK-47. Jamie recognised it easily because he had seen it in News footage, during countless of conflicts around the world.

“I'll start interrogating the boy,” the gunman with the bandanna said. The gunman left the rifle on the counter and pulled a Colt 45 from his waistband. “Where do you want the first bullet?” He asked, standing over Jamie.

“Put it through your heart,” replied Jamie. “You'll be doing the world a favour.”

“You little s**t,” he said his eyes wide with anger. He pushed the tip of the barrel against Jamie’s forehead, his gnarled finger hovering over the trigger.

“Mikel, take your finger off the trigger.” A voice said from the bedrooms behind Jamie. “Take the boy upstairs and pick up the camera that’s been dropped. I’ll deal with the kid in a minute.”

Jamie was dragged to his feet by his hair and marched across the cabin. The camera was lying on the floor where Robert was standing earlier. Mikel swooped down and picked it up. As he left, Jamie caught a glimpse of the black silhouette where the voice had come from. Who was he?

Jamie was shown to the top deck where a U-shaped sofa stood, curving around a white, plastic table. Mikel pushed him roughly onto the sofa, dropped the camera and left. Jamie realised that there was a red pinprick of light on video camera, indicating that it was recording. Had it recorded the whole attack?

Jamie took stock of the situation. Who were these men? And what were they planning to do with ten crates full of Ak-47s? Were they pirates? Or maybe smugglers? And like a puzzle, all the pieces started to fit together. They were gun runners. Florida was only 170 miles to the North East of here. This must be the meeting place.

He stood up, not wanting to wait around to get shot. He was somehow going to get his father and get the hell out of here. He didn't want to be caught in the middle of this. He spotted the radio by the steering wheel. Maybe he could raise the alarm and wait to be saved by the coastguard or police. 

Jamie made it halfway towards the radio, when he heard a soft thud of footsteps on the stairs behind him. Jamie turned round. The man towered over him at nearly six foot seven, his hands were bigger than Jamie's skull and his leg was the same width of Jamie's whole body.

“Sit,” he said in strongly accented English. Russian, Jamie guessed. Lucky Six gestured to the sofa. Jamie didn't move. “That wasn't a request,” he said menacingly.

Jamie sat down. He didn't want to in any way antagonize this man mountain, if the man so choose to, he could crush him like a can.

“What do you want with us?” Jamie blurted out. “Where's my Dad”

“Your father is fine. I have given strict instructions that he not be harmed until I have spoken with him.”

“We don't know anything,” Jamie said. “Let us go. I promise we won't say anything.”

The man scoffed. “That would be more believable if your father wasn't a spy for the British Secret Service.”

“What?” Jamie said incredulously. “Spy? No he's a lawyer.”

“Lawyer,” The man laughed. “Then he's the most cold hearted lawyer I’ve met and that's saying something. He shot me in cold blood. He’s a spy.”

“No!” yelled Jamie, standing up. He couldn’t be telling the truth. Or could his father really be a spy? His father was a warm man. He wouldn't shoot anyone. But the more he thought about it, the more he believed it: the injuries that his father was reluctant to explain or fob him off with stories such as; the interview went bad or I got into an accident.

“Yes,” The man said, interrupting Jamie’s chain of thought.  “Not only once but six times at point blank range,” he said, getting angry himself. “He emptied the clip and left me to die on the cold streets of St Petersburg.”

“No he wouldn't.” Jamie replied, without much conviction. But quickly he was shown evidence. The man unbuttoned his shirt to show his bare torso. There were patches of different shades of skin grafted, dotting around his torso. Jamie counted six patches of skin.

“On that day,” The man carried on.” Yusuf Ivanov died and a better man was born. Lucky Six! I was shot six times and survived. I’m invincible.”

“Lucky more like,” muttered Jamie.

“Exactly, I was blessed. Now it’s my turn to have my revenge. Your father will rue the day he pulled the trigger. I will make him suffer.”

“You’re a nut job,” spluttered Jamie. “You weren't blessed or lucky. If you were you wouldn't have got shot in the first place.”

“Yes well it looks like you’re not lucky either,” he said, kneeling down. He pulled something out of his heavy combat boot which Jamie could make out, until the six inch blade glinted in the sun.

Jamie reacted quickly trying to kick the knife out of his hand. But Lucky Six was ready. He leapt back, the leg slicing the air beside him. His hand shot out catching Jamie’s leg.

“Big mistake,” he said, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. He lifted Jamie's leg higher, causing Jamie to hop on one leg. Jamie’s hamstring and groin screamed in pain, as it was lifted even higher. Then suddenly, he swept Jamie's other leg from underneath him. He heard Lucky Six laugh out loud as his shoulders crashed into the wooden deck, the impact knocking air from his lungs, winding him.

Lucky Six stood above him, sliding a finger across the razor sharp blade. A droplet of blood appeared on the tip of his finger. Jamie thought about asking for mercy, but there was none in those cold, unforgiving eyes. Lucky Six was smiling devilishly, relishing the pain he was going to inflict. Jamie saw that same look on predators in the wild, deciding how to devour its prey. There was nothing Jamie could do. He was helpless. His father was lying unconscious on the lower deck. Jamie had no one to help him. Jamie tried not to show any emotion so as not to give Lucky Six any pleasure.  

The air was quiet, like their eerie silence before a storm. A crack of a muffled gunshot tore through the great silence. It had come from the lower deck. Dad, thought Jamie. Lucky Six withdrew a handgun from a holster on his hip, like unsheathing a sword.

“They weren't supposed to shoot him.” Lucky Six muttered annoyed at the incompetence of his own men.

It all happened in a quick blur. Lucky Six moved off in the direction of the stairs, to investigate the gun shot. Jamie eyes scanned around the deck looking for a weapon. The only thing he could find was a camera. He closed his finger around it. In one swift motion, he lashed with the camera hitting Lucky Six in the back of the head. Lucky Six cried out, like a wounded animal. He pitched over the side and landed in the water with a splash. It was hard to say if he was dead or alive, but he was certainly unmoving. He was as still as a corpse.

“Man overboard,” Jamie muttered.

The cabin door burst open. Jamie span round. It was his father. The two looked at each other. He looked unhurt apart from a red swelling on the side of his head. 

“Dad,” Jamie said relived.

“Jamie, are you hurt?” Robert asked climbing the stairs. “Where's Yusuf or Lucky Six? Whatever he's calling himself these days.”

“He's swimming with the fishes.”

Robert smiled his eyes twinkling. Eager to play. “Good boy.” He hugged Jamie, tightly. After he walked past, aiming for the steering wheel.  

“Dad, is it true?” Jamie asked quietly.

“Is what true?” Robert asked over his shoulder, as he busied himself with the radio.

“Are you really a spy?”

Robert turned round a radio receiver in one hand. “Did he tell you everything?”

Jamie nodded and Robert turned away ashamed.

“Echo-Echo-Delta-Lima. All clear,” he heard his father say into the receiver and then mumbled the co-ordinates of their position.

“Dad is it true?” Jamie asked again, more forcefully this time.

“You must understand that I didn't tell you for your own protection,” Robert said. He made Jamie sit down and leaned over the table, so their electric blue eyes stared into each other’s.

“You lied,” Jamie said pain in his voice. “You don't lie to the people you love.”

“Come on boy. You’re Mum and I kept it secret for the good of the family. It wouldn't have done any good burdening the family like that. Every time I would’ve gone to work, you would worry not knowing if I would come back alive. I couldn't do that to you.”

“Of course I would worry.” Jamie said struggling to hold back tears that were welling up.  “You're my Dad.”

“And that's the best thing that’s ever happened to me, becoming a Dad. I’m so proud of both of you. You're becoming such a great athlete and Liam's top in his class. I couldn't be any prouder.”

Suddenly there was an explosion of a gunshot. Warm blood splattered onto Jamie. Robert's face contorted and his body slumped forward onto the table, a gaping hole in his back. Jamie was covered in blood that was a split second ago, running through the veins of his father, keeping him alive.

Lucky six was ascending the stairs, smiling viciously. He was soaking wet, his clothes clinging to his tall, muscular frame. He was holding a pistol, a small puff of smoke trailing from the end of the barrel.

Jamie was paralysed in shock, all his muscles stiffening up. No matter how hard he tried to move, he couldn't. His Dad was dead.

Lucky six moved forward slowly. Feeling came back into Jamie’s right hand. He tried to prise the pistol from his father's dead but still warm hand. Robert was holding onto it so tightly that there was no chance of freeing it. He pulled franticly at it again. The finger didn’t give an inch. With no other option, he lifted his father's hand. Jamie had never held a handgun before. It was much heavier than he expected. He had no time to hesitate. Jamie aimed and squeezed down Robert’s finger that was curled around the trigger. The gun jerked in his hands, the recoil hurting his wrist. In the last remaining tenths of a second, Lucky Six’s eyes widened in shock, disbelief flickered in his eyes. The bullet exploded out of the barrel, drilling through Lucky Six’s skull, killing him instantly. For a second time today, he was sent flying overboard. There would be no coming back from that one. Lucky Six was dead. Jamie dropped his Dad’s lifeless hand. It was all over.

   He felt like he had been ripped from reality. This isn't happening, he thought. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His father, the man he loves, idolised even, was spread eagled on the table. He closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them he would be back at the villa in bed. But the scene didn’t disappear. It was a real nightmare. His father was dead. Jamie would never again hear his father’s voice or laugh at his jokes. He was gone forever.

A pool of crimson red blood grew, doubling in size. It was moving across the table towards him. Jamie tried to move away, but his brain had disconnected from the rest of his body, his limps not receiving the signal. He tried to move again, almost screaming at his legs to move. The blood was only a few inches away now. Then he legs moved and he lurched off the sofa, falling onto the floor, as the blood spilled of the table and onto the sofa, where he was sitting a second ago. He scrambled across the floor, to the furthest corner, trying to distance himself from the scene. But he could still see him. He screwed up his eyes, pulling his knees tightly into his stomach.

He stayed in the fetal position, letting the darkness envelop him. His whole body shook violently, as he sobbed into his knees.

“Come on,” a soft voice said, a while later. Jamie lifted his face hoping that it would be his father smiling face looking at him. But it wasn't. It was a policeman, with a young, intelligent face. A bushy moustache lined his top lip. Jamie noticed that most policemen sported the moustache as part of the uniform. “Let’s get of this boat.”

 Jamie rubbed his puffy, bloodshot eyes. Two boats had arrived and were on moored either side of the yacht. Men were surrounding the table where his father was.

“Is my Dad alive?” Jamie asked weakly, his throat hoarse. The policeman slowly shook his head, apologetically.

“No,” Jamie sobbed, getting unsteadily to his feet, his legs shaking violently. He pushed past the policeman to get to his father. But he was stopped.

“No don't look.” The policeman said. “You don't need to see that or you'll have nightmares.”

Jamie gave in and let himself be led off the boat. But the policeman was too late. The scene was already burned into his memory. He would never forget it. It would haunt him in his dreams for the rest of his life.

The last time Jamie would see his father, he would be lying in a simple oak coffin with silver handles and a Union Jack draped over the coffin, the sun disappearing behind the horizon, as he was laid to rest.

 

 

The End

 

Author's Note

Please critique my work, so I can improve on it. I look forward to you reviews.

Reviews

[CC]

Wow... that was very powerful. I think its an excellent set up for a spy novel series. The traumatic backstory for Jamie is very moving. I look forward to seeing how his character develops as an adult. very good story