Free The Tears of Dark Water by Corban Addison Page A

fort, shouting lustily and pointing their guns in every direction. They were dressed in Western-style T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops in various stages of wear. A large-boned Somali lashed a towline from the skiff to a cleat on the Renaissance . A second pirate—tall and clever-looking—trained his gun on the Parkers. The other Somalis took flashlights from their pockets and went below to ransack the saloon.
    In the melee, only one pirate seemed composed. He was young and handsome, with high cheekbones and eyes that burned with transparent intelligence. He was wearing a red Nike T-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and Velcro sandals. He slung his weapon over his shoulder and sat down on one of the benches, gesturing for Daniel and Quentin to join him. Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, moving slowly to avoid provoking the guard. Quentin sat beside him.
    “I am Afyareh,” the pirate said in English. “I am sorry for this.” He waved his hand toward the galley where his companions were raiding the refrigerator. “They are hungry. I will make sure they leave your belongings alone.” He looked at Daniel with understanding. “I know this is difficult for you. But you have nothing to fear from us. We are not killers. We are here for money, nothing more.”
    You’re bandits and thieves , Daniel thought angrily, the adrenaline still surging through his veins. But he kept his expression passive. “What are you going to do with us?”
    “We will take you to Somalia,” Afyareh replied. “And then we will talk to your family and see about a price. If they are reasonable, it will be over soon. If not . . .” He allowed the threat to hang in the air, then shrugged. “But America is the land of caano— milk. I’m sure they will comply.”
    How did he . . .? Daniel thought in confusion. Then he remembered the flag on the mast. The stars and stripes were a dead giveaway. He felt nausea swirling in his stomach.
    “The U.S. government will never let you get away with this,” he said, injecting steel into his voice. “They’ll treat you like terrorists. It would be much better if you let us go.”
    The pirate raised an eyebrow. “Your government is not omnipotent. If they were, they would have captured General Aideed in 1993 and ended the war that made all of us beggars.”
    Daniel was taken aback. Everything he had read about Somali pirates suggested they were illiterate peasants, trigger-happy and perpetually high on qat . Their masters were the educated ones, not the grunts in the boats. “Where are you from?” he asked, hoping to buy more time. Every second that passed took them further away from Somalia.
    The pirate tilted his head. “I am from many places. But enough talk. Now we go.”
    He stood and moved to the helm, studying the throttle and controls. He took a device out of his pocket and stared at the glowing screen. GPS , Daniel thought. He’s deciding on a heading. Seconds later, the pirate pushed a button and nodded as the rudder turned five degrees to starboard. He pushed the button repeatedly and the Renaissance came about, passing through the eye of the wind. When the boat was pointing just west of north, he shoved the throttle to the stops.
    “It handles well,” he said to Daniel. “And you have plenty of fuel. That makes everything easier. Now come. Let’s save your boat from my men.”
     
    They went below—Afyareh first, then Daniel and Quentin, and finally their guard. Daniel switched on the lights and was shocked by what he saw. The galley was a disaster. The cabinets and refrigerator had been tossed. Milk cartons were upended in the sink. Food was strewn across the countertops. A pirate was scooping peanut butter out of the container with his hand. Another was chugging water straight from the bottle.
    To his surprise, Afyareh seemed just as angry. He began to shout in Somali, waving his arm around and pointing at the mess. Most of the pirates looked ashamed, but one of