Night Crossing Martin Kane The pick up was in the middle of the ocean; but the cargo...? Author's note: Should anyone out there wish to get in contact with me, I happily invite you to do so, via the messageboard for readers and writers. I welcome any comments. I only refrain from leaving my e-mail address here and now due to previous problems encountered with spam, worms and virus. Copyright is mine. If you do wish to use this tale elsewhere I ask you to please seek permission first. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters contained herewith are merely the products of an overwrought imagination, not to mention an unfortunate quantity of truly bad B-movies. As for the adult content warning... what else would you be expecting? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The boat ploughed though the black water, churning it into a rabid froth. Lucas scoured the empty horizon with his binoculars, peering into the pitch of night. This was night as most people never saw it, free from the blinkers of city lighting, of smog coloured cloudbanks. The only light was from the stars and the minimal glow of the instruments behind him. Stoe was at the wheel, he was the captain of this vessel, though such a title seemed inflated for a piece of shit tin-can such as this. He may have been the top man, but he commanded a crew of just one. And what does that make me? Lucas wondered to himself bitterly. 'You see anything yet?' Stoe called out to him, the glass of the cabin muffling his cry. Lucas chattered against the biting wind and swore to himself. But his voice didn't betray any of his antagonism. 'Nothing.' 'Where the fuck are they?' Stoe hissed. 'Bloody Frogs.' Lucas didn't answer; it was obvious his captain wasn't expecting one. He was half pleased by the tone of agitation in the other man's voice, and half disturbed by it. Stoe was in over his depth on this one, and he knew it too. That was why he'd persuaded Lucas to help him. Why else would he pay such a price for so simple a task? There was no cargo to load, no work to be done, just one passenger to be picked up. One passenger to be picked up from the middle of the channel, mid-way between England and France, in the dead of night. 'I think I see something,' Lucas announced suddenly, focusing on a dot in the far distance. They too had cut all light except for the bare necessary. 'It's them alright. Hand me the torch.' 'I've got it,' Stoe assured him joining his first mate by the rail. He aimed the mighty torch the way Lucas was facing, resting its weight on the rail. 'Which way?' Keeping the binoculars pressed against his face, Lucas pointed out into the blackness. Stoe hit the button and shone the powerful beam into the black curtain. He clicked it twice, paused then twice again. The two men waited in tense silence for ten seconds before Lucas suggested they try again. Same signal as before, twice, pause, twice. This time they were rewarded with a triple flash, pause, single, pause, triple. That concluded it. 'It's them,' Stoe announce redundantly. 'Guide me in with the torch but keep it low.' He handed the heavy tool to his first mate and returned to the cabin, bringing the bow towards the French boat. They pulled along side quickly enough, bringing the boat to a stop so their adjacent bows almost touched. Momentum carried them further along but it was close enough to exchange ropes. The French boat however had no one on deck. 'Hello?' Lucas called, trying to make out anything in the darkness. He played the powerful torch beam over the deck but found no one. Stoe left the engine idling and then joined the other man on deck. 'Is anyone there?' The boat was as small as their own. The waves lapped at the side, and the two vessels drifted further apart. The minimal motion of their boat was carrying them past the French one yet still there was no sign of life. 'Back us up a little,' Lucas suggested. 'Get as close as you can and I'll try to jump across.' 'Careful then, that water's icy cold.' A figure suddenly appeared in silhouette. 'Hello,' it called over to them. It wasn't the sudden appearance of this figure that surprised the two men, or the fact that the accent was thick Russian. It was the fact that it was the voice of a woman. She stepped forward but remained in darkness. 'Do you have a rope?' Lucas called to her. She didn't answer him, instead, extending her shadow by lifting a large bag up for him to see. 'I'm coming over. First you catch this.' He saw the motion and she swung the bag towards him. The next thing he knew, a large heavy rucksack was flung bodily towards him. It struck him squarely and with considerable force. Surprising force in fact, when taking into account the distance between them. Lucas staggered to retain his balance, nearly dropping the torch in the process. He regained his equilibrium and stowed the bag safely in the cabin. When he returned his attention to the woman, she was running. He didn't have time to call out a warning, couldn't she see how far the two boats were? It was an impossible jump. His panicked mind tried to react but it was all he could do to watch as she leapt into the air. She cleared the distance but it was a close thing. She came down heavily, too short, grabbing at the rail as she fell against the side. She dangled down the outside of the boat, her fingers curled precariously around the cold wet rail. Both men rushed to save her, reaching down to haul her onto the boat. She was too quick however, lithely jerking herself up and over the bar before they could get to her. 'Holy shit,' Lucas blurted. 'How the fuck?' 'Is not so far,' she told him and smiled. He saw her in light for the first time and then he truly was speechless. She was beautiful, a sculptured face and cool eyes. Jet black hair was neatly tied behind her head, giving her a stern expression, aided by the severity of high, hard cheek bones. She had a supermodel's pout and also their arrogant and haughty poise of icy beauty. But the smile nullified the unfortunate cruelty of her striking and chiselled looks, amplifying her innate prettiness and sweetness. Lucas was in love. So too was Stoe, who elbowed past his first mate to bow his head politely. 'I'm captain of this vessel.' He smiled winningly. 'Of course, Mr Stoe. A pleasure.' She held a formal hand for him to shake but did so in the elegant and refined way of the rich and sophisticated. What was such a woman doing here and in such circumstances? 'Where's the crew?' Lucas asked, gesturing to the French boat. 'Oh, you'll forgive them if they're a little shy. You understand that the nature of this arrangement is a little unconventional. They wish to remain unseen.' 'Of course,' Stoe assured her. He offered her his arm, for all the world like a gentleman escorting a lady to the opera. Lucas bit back a jealous snort of laughter and followed them into the cramped cabin. 'It should take a little less than an hour,' Stoe told her and he started the boat, turning it back towards England. 'Thank you,' she smiled coyly, 'you are most kind.' They began to trudge back towards the British shore, leaving the French boat empty and idle in the water. Lucas theorised they must be waiting until their boat was out of sight until starting off. He kept looking back however, checking through the binoculars. He never once saw any signs of life from the little French boat. It made him uneasy, but then, everything about this situation made him uneasy. In the cabin, Stoe took a careful look behind him, checking that his first mate wasn't looking. He leant to the girl and spoke in a whisper. 'I believe you have something for me.' The woman smiled and nodded ever so slightly. 'Of course.' She took an envelope and discreetly handed it to him. Stoe peeked inside, barely able to contain his excitement. Inside was more money than he'd ever seen, and a bare fraction of it was for Lucas. The fool had no idea what was really going on and there was no reason for him to. It was Stoe's boat, he had done all the work. The man was being paid, and being paid well, to do nothing more than come along for the ride. He slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket, relishing the heavy bulge against his chest. The woman resisted all his attempts at small-talk, preferring instead to stare out at the horizon. She had already demonstrated that she could speak the language well enough. Well, let her be a snotty bitch if it pleased her. He had his money now, he was happy. Lucas came into the cabin, also trying his hand at chatting the Russian bird up. He was just as unsuccessful as Stoe. Good. The black night had begun to turn silver when the British coastline came into view. It was a beautiful sight and it always amazed Stoe that it was one that most people rarely bore witness to. Didn't they realise what they were missing? 'Stop the boat here,' the Russian woman commanded. She stepped back into the tiny cabin, having returned from the position she'd spent most of the trip, leaning over the side. 'What?' Lucas came into the cabin from the other side, wanting to know what was going on. 'I swim from here. You let me off and make your port further down.' 'No love. Look, you can't swim in that water, it's freezing.' 'I swim in Russia, in lakes. That is cold - this is nothing.' Stoe exchanged a look with Lucas and sighed. What could he say? 'You'll never make it,' Lucas told her blankly. 'It may not look far...' This was a lie, it looked so far you couldn't imagine walking the distance, let alone swimming it. 'But it's miles. You die of exhaustion even if you don't freeze or drown.' The woman smiled at them as if reassuring children. 'I will be OK. You have your money. You are happy. I will swim.' Stoe shrugged again. 'Fine. Good luck.' The woman collected her rucksack. She undid her coat. And that was when both men got their biggest shock of the night. She'd prepared already for the adventure. Beneath her coat she wore only a tight black one-piece bathing suit. It wasn't lust that caught the men speechless, it was sheer amazement. If she'd given the men time to think before whipping the coat away to stand, skimpily suited in the icy winds, they both would probably have had similar fantasies about the body to go with that stunning face. Neither would have come close to the startling truth however. Neither man would have dreamed her body the way it actually looked. She was muscled to a degree that men rarely achieve, let alone women. Thick and powerful legs bulged with heavy muscles. Her waist was slim but not waspishly so, but her shapeliness was well accentuated by the high cut of her bathing suit. Even through the material stretched across her belly they could make out the shimmering muscles of her abdomen, like a box of neatly arranged tennis balls, hard and round and perfectly even. That bodybuilder's taper that put her chest measurements out of this world, even without having breasts. Then her shoulders, so huge and far apart. 'I was gymnast,' she explained. Both men just continued to gape, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. 'I've seen gymnasts,' Lucas protested, finally. 'They've got muscles all right, but nothing like that. The only time I've seen anything even close to that is some cheap Sci Fi Gladiator movie on late night cable.' 'In Russia we don't believe in only going half way. If you want to be strong then make yourself strong. Otherwise why bother?' 'Babe, there is nothing half-hearted about you,' Stoe murmured, still unable to prise his eyes away from the sight. 'Now I'm sorry,' she told them. 'Why?' Stoe asked. He was actually touched by the genuine regret in her voice. Unlike Lucas, he failed to pick up on the undercurrent of violent threat, or the way she tensed her muscles, as if in preparation. He was too mesmerised but the shocking sight of her physique. Of course, that was why she displayed it so, knowing what a distraction it would be. Lucas however, had already begun to back away, having a horrible suspicion that something bad was about to happen. 'Sorry it has to end like this,' she lied. And she reached across and killed him. At least, it would have been that simple. She reached one arm out to him, as thick and powerful as a steel cable and slid the arm around his neck. Stoe was still too distracted, even now, to react. She had simply to squeeze - to flex that mighty arm - and his fragile neck would snap as easy as a wooden pencil. Lucas had grabbed the closest thing to hand, the detachable winch handle and swung it at her. It smacked against her naked shoulders with the sound of a dull slap. She didn't give an inch, her huge torso absorbing the blow as if it were nothing. Lucas on the other hand felt the shock-wave shoot up his arm. It was so intense that he almost dropped the iron handle. That would be a mistake, especially since he now had her full attention. The Russian woman tossed Stoe backwards as though he were a rag doll and she turned to Lucas. He held the bar up, hopelessly. He knew there and then that he was going to die. It was written in the expression of sheer malice on her face. Whatever language you spoke, there could be no mistranslation here. She meant to murder them both and there was precious little either one could do to stop her. She lunged for Lucas and he swung the iron handle again. She caught the bar, literally grabbing it mid swing and taking the full force of the blow, again as if it were nothing. She grasped it and then plucked it out of his hands, as if he were just a child. Her strength was phenomenal. And as if there was any doubt as to that fact, she chose then to demonstrate it by taking the bar in her hands and bending it in half. The metal folded like taffy and she twisted the ends around each other before tossing the mangled lump aside. Lucas' jaw dropped at this little trick. Then he fainted. Whether it was terror or just a neural overload she couldn't tell, but the woman just shrugged and walked up to the fallen man. She grasped and lifted him up into the air, at arm's length above her head. She was about to bring him cracking down onto her shoulders, a spine shattering method of execution that doesn't lack for a certain degree of showwomanship. The voice of the other fool sounded from behind her. 'Keep your hands up,' he commanded. Slowly, she turned around, keeping the unconscious man suspended above her head. It was the Captain - Stoe - apparently having recovered from his shock enough to play hero. He was holding a gun levelled on her but she saw right away it wasn't a normal handgun - it was a flare-gun. What good little captain would set sail without a flare-gun to signal should he get into trouble? 'OK you freaky bitch. Now drop him. Slowly.' She threw the man she held at the captain, hurling him with all her considerable strength. The moment his bulk was flying she dove to the side, rolling under cover. A crack of thunder as the gun exploded into life, the bright flash of the flare. Then a scream. Lucas awoke to find himself with a firework lodged raggedly in his chest. Stoe threw himself backwards, dropping the empty gun in horror as soon as he realised what he had done. Lucas was clawing wildly at the tube spitting molten fire from out of his ribcage. His lungs were on fire. Not in the metaphorical sense but literally on fire, liquid flames erupting, eating the oxygen soaked organs. In his final adrenaline crazed moments of life, Lucas managed to scramble over the rail and into the sea. It was too late however, he was dead even before the icy iron waves had killed the flames. 'Fuck,' Stoe hissed and then noticed that the Russian was closing on him. 'Fuck,' he repeated, then turned and ran. There were only a limited number of places he could run to but even so, she'd had enough of this. She took off after him, snatching at his coat and then yanking him back hard. Stoe skidded backwards like a dog on a leash. She threw him to the ground with a careless shove and the kneeled besides him. He threw his arms up to protect his face but she changed her aim and punched him in the chest instead. If Stoe had thought the flare did damage to his shipmate's torso, he realised he'd just got it even worse. His ribs shattered with the force of the blow, his heart and lungs collapsed and his spine cracked. He couldn't have been hurt worse if someone had slammed a sledgehammer into his chest. In his last, agonised moments of life, he felt her reach around inside his jacket. She took back the heavy wad of cash. Not like he'd get a chance to spend it now. Despite the inevitability of his death at this point, she was a professional and never left a thing to chance. He certainly looked hopelessly and mortally wounded but the was no harm it taking precautions. The Russian raised her foot, casting a shadow from the rising sun across his face. He had time to read the lettering on the sole of her shoe, not recognising the foreign characters, before she stomped down and he knew no more. She removed her boots and wiped the worst of the gore off onto his coat. She then packed the boots along with the money and sealed the waterproofing rigged inside the bag. She stowed the body downstairs so it wouldn't float to the surface. Too late to do that with the other one but that couldn't be helped. She spilt a thermos full of acid and watched as it pooled and bubbled. She would be well off the boat by the time it began to sink. Then she went back on deck, got her bearings and jumped into the cold morning water. The sailor had been right, it was icily cold. That didn't matter though, she would soon warm up once she got going. With her bag on its floatation cushion, towed behind her, she began to plough through the waves, powering her way to the British coastline. An old man was out walking the beach, his dog running through the shallow surf. In the distance he saw the woman emerge from the sea, pulling on the rope to drag her rucksack up to her. He saw her only in silhouette at first, noticing the extensively curvaceous form of her body. As he got closer, the sight became all the more clear and all the more shocking. She was running her hands through her tightly tied hair, to squeegee out the seawater. The muscles in her arms were rolling and bulging as she did this, like an animal dance. Needless to say, the old man had never seen muscles like that. To witness such a thing was shocking to the extreme. He felt his heart shudder but it stayed regular. He was pretty sure she hadn't given him a heart attack but it had been a close thing. The Russian turned and saw him approach. She offered him her best smile, friendly and open. But she knew charm would only take her so far. He'd seen her body and was clearly shocked by it. Right about now he wouldn't be able to focus on anything else. She scanned the beach, quickly but thoroughly. Just the old man. Bad luck Sir - you should have had a lie-in this morning. 'Hello?' he proffered. She waited until he was in striking distance. Then kicked out. Her assault was fast and completely unexpected. One minute he was greeting her and the next, her foot and neatly cracked into his kneecap. His leg snapped, the knee join folding back the wrong way. He went down like a sack of bricks. His cry had the dog running to his protection. It was an average sized dog, hardly bred from its savagery or hunting prowess, but it was a dog nonetheless and fiercely loyal. It ran up to her but at the last minute hesitated, picking up something dangerous emanating from this woman. It paused though its growl continued. Unsure of itself the dog faltered. Then the old man cried out again, desperate fear and pain. Loyalty won out over self-preservation and the dog leapt at her. The Russian kicked out again. She heard the crunch as her foot made contact but always one to be sure, she stepped up to the fallen beast and dropped her bare foot, knifed, down upon its throat. The man heard his dog's demise and cried out again, this time in anguish. He said something she hadn't learnt in her Russian-English phrasebook. She grabbed the old man by the collar and half lifted him. She dragged him a little way up the beach. Just as far at the wall where a collection of heavy boulders sat, still slimy from the last high tide. She reached her hand beneath one of the largest and flexed her biceps. The rock was huge, certainly nothing you would dream of attempting to lift. During the day, kids would climb on top and call to each other across the beach. But still, she heaved one side of it up to the height of her waist. Beneath it was cold and wet, the sand much darker and dirtier. She rolled the crippled man over, his head lolling onto the darker patch. He lay helplessly, shoulders on dry sand, head in the shadow of the boulder. He opened his eyes then, in time to see her lower the rock once more. It was the last thing he ever saw. Then she bent down and began rummaging in her backpack. She removed pair of sandals and a wrap around cotton skirt in bright summer patterns. A loose blouse to slide over her suit, though she was still damp right now; she'd put it on soon, once the sun had dried her a little more. Shades and a phrasebook. 'Hello. One fish and chips please,' she said out loud, practising. 'Where is the telephone?' As she walked along the still dead promenade a paperboy passed her by, his satchel heavy with the morning news. She had the blouse on now, disguising her formidable physique as best she could, but the classic proportions of her curves were still the archetype of femininity. She saw his eyes absorb her image as they past. Boys will be boys the world over. Seagulls cawed. The world was waking.