By: Kim Howe

Kenya Alexikova slammed down the shot glass beside a half-empty bottle of Bounty Rum. Drunken oblivion couldn’t erase the day she had traded one life for another.  And traded badly.  But drunken oblivion was a start.

She poured a second shot, swallowing to keep down her breakfast of pickled herring, the cheapest meal she could buy in a can. Perched in a rickety chair on her boat’s deck, she stared at the paint flaking off the transom. Movement on shore drew her attention.  The early morning tourists, clad in pig-ugly designer sportswear, had gathered. A few pointed her way. Kenya slouched lower in her chair.

“To another day in paradise,” she said, raising her glass in a private toast.  Owning a dive boat in St. Lucia might be a dream job for some. Languishing in mind-numbing sunshine day after day lulled her into a comatose existence—a stark contrast to the adrenaline rush of her former life. But she didn’t have much choice. Money was tight, and diving was one of her few marketable skills.  So here she was, running a dive charter business out of a money-pit tub of fiberglass.

Although the sun just peeked over the horizon, droplets of sweat rolled down Kenya’s neck, dampening her white tank top. Her boat Sudba—Russian for fate—sat wide and squat like a sumo wrestler. Secured to the dock, the forty-foot charter wasn’t going anywhere today. Kenya planned a different kind of trip, one of liquid escape. Today was the third anniversary of that disastrous day.  The amber bottle beckoned.

She leaned over to refill her drink when a glint of reflected sunshine caught her eye. Her deckhand, Derek Flavius, opened the equipment shed on shore. Her fingers tightened around the shot glass.

Damn.

She’d forgotten to tell Derek to take the day off. She liked having the seventeen-year-old around—he had a way with words, like his namesake, Nobel Prize-winning author Derek Walcott. With his closely cropped hair and ebony skin accenting his thousand-kilowatt smile, he charmed the tourists while she focused on the technical details.

Carefree voices drifted from ashore and grated her nerves. Divers from the Anse Chastanet hotel ambled toward the docks, carrying their masks and fins in netted dive bags, anxious for a ride out to the turquoise depths. Great. Derek would arrive home and face his eight brothers and sisters with empty pockets.  All so she could drown her sorrows.  Guilt coiled inside her.

She opened her mouth to call out to Derek but an imposing figure blocked her view.  With a swagger in his step, the man headed straight for her boat. Blond hair highlighted craggy features and tanned skin. A strong chin stopped just short of being cleft. As he came closer, his eyes caught her full attention.  A brilliant sea green, they sparkled with intelligence and intent. Definitely trouble.

Her stomach did a little flip. She told herself it was the pickled herrings.

He boarded her boat without bothering to ask permission. Kenya rose and placed her free hand on the latch of the locker where she kept her automatic. At five-ten and one-hundred-and-fifty pounds she was no shrinking violet, but this guy had to be at least six-three and two-twenty. Regardless of his impressive size, he had no idea who he was dealing with.

One wrong move and he’d find out.

“Hey, that’s my kind of OJ,” the stranger said with a lopsided grin, his gaze taking stock of the bottle of rum sitting beside her chair and the shot glass still clenched in her hand.

“State your business or get off my boat.”

Instead of backing off, he scooped the bottle off the deck and took a long swig.  The man shrugged and laughed, a booming sound that echoed on the water.

“My daddy always said it wasn’t polite to let someone drink alone.”  His drawl was distinctly Texan.  Everything really was bigger in the Lone Star state. He downed another gulp. “You Kenya Alexikova?”

She snatched the bottle out of his hand. “Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Jack Travis. I hear you specialize in deep dives.”

Kenya drew in a deep breath to remain calm. “That’s right.”

“There’s an area a few miles south of here I want to explore. I’ve got a map.”  He reached into the pocket of his shirt and produced a nautical chart.

She didn’t even glance at his offering. “No, I’m not going out today—”

Derek appeared carrying two freshly filled tanks, his sinewy muscles glistening in the sun. A puzzled expression replaced his usual open-faced warmth.

Normally Kenya snapped up any business, no questions asked. Everyone did. Customers put food on the table. Tourists were the main source of income in St. Lucia since the banana business had been bruised by foreign competition.

“How much for a trimix dive?” Jack asked, referring to the mixture of helium, nitrogen, and oxygen used for deep diving.

“A thousand U.S.” A ridiculous price. He’d go away now for sure.

“If you get us out in the next half hour, I’ll toss in an extra hundred.”

Doubt budded inside her. Offers that sounded too good to be true usually were.  “The answer’s still no.”

“We’ll be back before lunch.” He grinned. “Easy money.”

Kenya started to shake her head, then caught sight of Derek, wide-eyed and mouth agape. Eleven hundred dollars must sound like a fortune to him. The mounting hospital bills for his little sister swayed her. Poor kid had bum kidneys and needed dialysis twice a week. “Where do you want to dive?”

“An area not far from the Pitons.”

“What kind of depths we talking?”

“Around a hundred and sixty feet.”

“Are you certified in trimix or nitrox?” Kenya asked.

“I’ve completed hundreds of dives,” he said.

“Tell me more about your experience. Where’ve you logged your dives?

“Cozumel, Bora Bora, the Red Sea, the Great Barrier Reef...don’t worry, I’m an experienced diver.”

“It’s not that simple.  My boat, my rules. If I say we surface, we surface immediately. Diving deep can make you feel drunk, make you act stupid.”  Damn, if she’d known she’d be diving, she never would have touched the alcohol.  Good thing her head was stronger than two shots of rum. “Divers start thinking they can breathe like the fishies—”

“Yeah, yeah, they ditch their regulators and end up sleeping with the fishies.  I got it.”

“Happens more often than you think,” she said.  “Given your experience, you might be disappointed in what our little island has to offer.” What was this guy really after?

“I doubt it.  I’ve heard great things about St. Lucia. Come on. Eleven hundred for half a day.”

 Maybe work would help take her mind off the memories. Anything would be better than sitting around ruminating about her mistakes. Or maybe not. In the five minutes she’d known Jack, he had already gotten on her nerves. Her patience would come in handy today. If she could lie in muddy swamps for four days stalking a target, she could certainly handle the big man’s bluster.

“Get your gear,” she said to Jack, “we’ll cast off in twenty minutes.”

Jack nodded and stepped off the boat. After he’d marched down the dock out of earshot, Kenya leaned over and whispered to Derek. “Good thing we carry extra tanks. He looks like a heavy breather.”

“Ki-sa ki wivé u?”  What is the matter with you? Derek asked, his Creole melodic compared with the Texan’s nasal drawl. He stared at the bottle, his nose crinkled as if he could smell the rum on her.

Derek had never seen her on a binge in the three years they’d worked together.  She’d made a point never to drink in front of him.

“Bad day,” she said.

A grin played on his face. He dug into his short’s pocket and produced a crumpled piece of paper. “Maybe this will help. I’ve been working on a limerick about you. I was going to wait until it was finished, but I’ll share what I have so far.”

The enthusiasm sparkled in his broad face like noonday sunshine.  Kenya couldn’t help but return his smile. Derek dreamed of being the next great St. Lucian poet. The ingenious limericks he shared always made her laugh.  How he could be so cheerful given his hard life amazed her. 

“If you can lift my mood, you’re a born poet,” she said.

“Things that bad?”

“Yep.  The past has a way of seeping into the present.”

“Hey, that’s good.  Maybe I could use that line in a limerick. So, what’s wrong?”

“I’m stuck in T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land.’”

“Very funny.  I’ll treat you to a preview of Derek Flavius’ latest work.  That should cheer you up.”

She relaxed in her deck chair, ready to be entertained. Her customer shouldn’t be back for a few minutes.

Derek cleared his throat and read from the paper.

“There was a woman from Brighton—”

Before he could continue, a large shadow loomed over them.

“Y’all ready?” Jack asked. He jumped on board, a rucksack slung over his shoulder.

Kenya couldn’t wait to get him underwater where she wouldn’t be irritated by that loud drawl.  She turned to Derek. “I look forward to hearing it later, okay?  The helm is yours.”  She smiled as Derek eagerly climbed up the stairs to the captain’s deck and cranked the engine. The powerful stench of diesel fuel clouded the air. Ignoring her passenger, Kenya untied the mooring lines and signaled to Derek. After her deckhand reversed out of the slip, she removed the bumpers.

As Subda puttered out of the bay, the lush greenery that covered St. Lucia’s west coast slid by in a haze. Giant ferns and palm trees dotted the horizon as far as the eye could see. The rich shades of emerald and jade were enjoyable when they weren’t viewed through a rifle scope.

Jack parked himself in Kenya’s deck chair.  The wooden legs creaked with the burden.

“Let me see your map,” she said. 

He passed it to her. His hand casually brushed hers, the warmth of his touch an unwanted distraction.

Studying the detailed chart, she focused on the spot he’d circled in red. “The visibility isn’t very good in that area, especially if you go deep. You looking for sunken treasure or what?”

“A buddy of mine told me about a wreck down deep. Thought I’d check it out.”

“Look, I’ve been diving St. Lucia for three years. I know all the interesting locations. There’s nothing there. How about Turtle Reef or the Piton Wall?”

“Let’s check out this one first.” He pointed to the red circle on the chart.

“Fine.” A niggling feeling in her gut told her she should be suspicious of his motives, but she couldn’t muster enough energy to care. If the Texan wanted to waste his time, let him. It was his money. Her neck muscles twisted into deep-rooted knots. She rubbed the base of her skull, trying to knead out the tension. Escape was what she craved, but the past kept invading her thoughts.

“Looks like a perfect day for diving,” Jack said.

The sea was a sparkling blue, the swells bobbing up and down in a soft, gentle rhythm.  Salty air tickled her nostrils and left a tang on her tongue. The salt reminded her of the jungle in Sierra Leone. After lying in wait for two days, the only taste in her mouth had been a mix of salty sweat and camouflage grease. Then all hell broke loose.  Even in the heat, the memory of that face in her crosshairs sent ice ricocheting down her spine.

Kenya refocused her thoughts. Tame little St. Lucia was her home now, a big change from jetting around the world on missions for the U.S. Army. Adrenaline had been her drug of choice, but that rush had trickled to a stop three years ago.

“Ten minutes and we’ll be there,” Kenya told him, staring at the deck, wishing away the day, wanting this anniversary over.

“Looks like we have company.” The muscles around Jack’s mouth tightened.

Kenya scanned the sea.

A red and white Cigarette sports boat powered through the waves heading straight for their port side. Designed for speed, the sleek four-seater was a favorite among drug runners and smugglers. That it barreled toward them struck her as odd.  Boats usually gave each other a wide berth.

“Take us farther out,” Kenya yelled to Derek.

He gave her the okay signal and turned the large captain’s wheel. The speed boat followed suit.  Something didn’t feel right and her intuition rarely let her down.  She rushed down the stairs to the wood-paneled cabin and grabbed her binoculars. Back on deck, she focused on the approaching boat.

Damn. The cruiser held four men; all but the driver had submachine guns cradled in their arms.  One of the men in the rear of the boat was bald with a snake-like scar etched down the side of his face.  His shiny head glimmered in the sunlight.  The other three had dark hair and wore sunglasses. Their faces were too pale for locals.

“What’s up?” Jack asked. A vein in his neck pulsed rapidly. 

“Maybe you should tell me. They’re definitely not the welcome wagon.”  Kenya’s eyes narrowed.  What the hell had Jack gotten her into?

The Cigarette jetted straight for them. 

“Full throttle, Derek,” she commanded, hoping to buy time. Puffs of black smoke billowed out from the engine exhaust.  The speed boat closed on the heavy dive vessel.  Only a matter of time before the gunmen would intercept them.  Kenya sprinted down to the secure locker in the aft cabin. 

Whirling the combination numbers into place, she inhaled a deep breath.  Focus, she told herself. She kept an AR-15 and a Glock on her boat in case of run-ins with pirates or drug runners. She grabbed the semi-automatic rifle and a magazine.  The steel barrel and composite stock felt familiar in her hands as she slapped in the magazine.

She returned to the deck. “Get down,” she screamed at Derek. He was a sitting duck on the captain’s deck.  Bullets ripped into the side of Sudba. The thumping sound resounded throughout the boat as bullets pounded the hull. Her heart hammered in her chest and her palms dampened.

Jack had already flung his bulk onto the floor, a SIG-Sauer P228 in his hands.  He must have had it stashed in his rucksack. He’d expected trouble. She should have heeded her instincts.

She dove to the floor and low-crawled to the rear of the boat where she’d have the best line of sight. Kenya’s throat constricted as she aimed the rifle.

Damn.

No way could she afford the “lump,” the tightness in a shooter’s throat when the pressure mounted. The tension could throw off her aim. Jack’s automatic didn’t have the necessary accuracy to eliminate the Cigarette’s operators. The only way out was her AR-15.  Kenya blocked out all distractions, letting the rifle become an extension of her.

Her master eye hovered near the sight while she factored in the wind.  She leaned her weight onto her left elbow and worked the rifle butt into her right shoulder. It had to be tightly wedged. No room for error. 

Pulling her body back a few inches with her toes, she stared down the rifle’s sight and targeted the driver. The Cigarette closed the distance. A blustery wind whistled in her ears like an incoming freight train. Bullets pummeled the deck where Derek crouched. The diesel engines strained at full throttle.  

She ignored everything, encapsulated herself in the sniper’s bubble, and zeroed in on her target.

Up, down. Up, down. She timed the rate of the waves, knowing she had to choose the perfect moment to shoot—the fraction of a second when the boat remained at the crest of a wave. The rifle rose and fell as her heart pumped blood throughout her body.

Don’t rush the shot.  Hit the mark.

The boat reached the next crest. Her trigger squeeze was smooth as the recoil bit into her shoulder. A pink mist clouded the air.

The target fell.

The Cigarette careened to the right, then left. Kenya grabbed the binoculars.  One of the men pulled the driver out of the way to regain control of the boat.  The Cigarette swerved. Straightened. Accelerated toward them.

Derek hunched under the helm. Eyes wide, he peered over the windscreen to maintain full speed. Jack had fired off a few rounds peppering the water, but his handgun didn’t have enough range.  Holding her breath for a few seconds, Kenya lined up the sight on the new driver.  She squeezed the trigger.  The replacement driver’s head snapped back and he disappeared from view.

For once, she was grateful for her compulsive nature. If she hadn’t maintained her skills at her rainforest hideaway, she could never have made such tough shots.

The speed boat turned starboard and headed out to sea, the remaining two men hidden under the deck. The Cigarette faded to a dot on the horizon.  Kenya exhaled.  They weren’t coming back for more.

Heart thundering, she pushed herself to a sitting position.  She gripped the rifle in her hands to keep them from trembling. Great. Two more kills to add to her list.  Bile rose in her throat, acidic and bitter. 

“We’ve been hit,” Kenya yelled. “Gotta see how serious it is.” Adrenaline suffused her body as she surveyed her boat. The radio and expensive GPS system had been annihilated by the bullets. “Head for shore,” she commanded.

Derek gave a shaky nod and wheeled the boat toward Anse Chastanet. The poor kid’s eyes bulged, his ebony skin had lightened several shades, and his knees wobbled.

The damage to the hull better not be substantial. Every cent she’d made had been dumped into this heap of fiberglass. Jack was going to pay.

Her customer climbed to his feet. Leaning against the side of the boat, his arms were crossed and his face held no expression, as if what had happened was an everyday occurrence.

Anger crested on the wave of adrenaline scorching her veins.  She stood up and hovered inches from Jack’s face. “You owe me a lot more than eleven hundred, and you better start with an explanation.”



Kim Howe is a Whitchurch-Stouffville writer.

© Copyright 2008