Curbstoning Piracy

Smoke rose from the jagged crater. Strewn blood and tissue were the only sparse reminders of the person that once stood where the hollow ground now was. The gore and leftover violence mixed together. The exception was the eyeball that appeared undamaged, and even well enough to be considered in good shape—only removed from such standing because it was removed from a head.

“Holy shit!” Colt Winters exclaimed, staring down at the eye. “That’s a fucking eyeball lying on the ground.”

Another man, almost a foot taller and twice the build of Colt, stepped up to look at the eyeball. His reaction was very different, filled with something more akin to reverence than shocked amusement.

It took Colt a long moment, and a double-take, to realize the eyeball didn’t incite the same sort of excitement in his companion. “Do you recognize the eye?”

Dark brown eyes opened and looked at him. It was an absurd question to say the least.

“I know who stood there when the grenade exploded, yes,” he responded. “Ali.”

Colt didn’t remember their names. Except for the man in front of him, all Somali pirates looked alike.

“I see.” No pun intended, thought Colt.

Farrah looked back at the eyeball. Blood soaked into the ground from the trailing thread of nerves that was still attached to the back of the human eye. He ran a large hand over his closely shaved hair before turning back to Colt. “It appears Ali was the only casualty.”

“It appears our enemies had a few more, though.”

Farrah signalled with a muscular arm and a group of men sporting various firearms moved into close proximity.

Colt gestured toward the dead enemies. “Line their bodies up near a wall, and then pile their weapons nearby. Take nothing. Go.”

The pirates moved, but Farrah stayed behind to guard his employer. Colt was the only person within his team of killers that had white skin. His light blonde hair clashed with dark hair, and his bright blue eyes were at odds with the dark brown eyes that gazed around him. The other men were dressed in plain clothing that was once likely military garb, but it was hard to see the fabrics behind the bandoliers of shotgun shells, rifle rounds, and various knives. One charming fellow that often made Colt a bit nervous was a shorter man with a sort of perpetual wide-eyed and crazy look that carried, with his bullets, a grappling hook he liked to use to skewer people.

“No, no, closer together.” Colt stamped his fine leather, and somehow still polished, dress shoe on the debris-littered ground. “Right here, this spot. We want to make it look like we lined them up and shot them along this wall in cold blood. Understand?”

“Why we not take their weapon?” asked one of the pirates through the strain of dragging a dead body.

Colt sighed quietly. He appreciated the fact the pirate attempted the question in English, even if the question was stupid.

“Cold blooded. We want to look like we killed them for the fun of it. If we scavenge their weapons it looks like we killed out of necessity to reload, gain supplies, and the like. Understand?”

The pirate dropped the dead body with a thump and looked at Colt blankly.

"Farrah, could you translate my meaning, please? Make sure you get the cold blooded part across clearly.” Farrah translated Colt’s words into Somali. Colt didn’t wait to see if the man got the point.

After the bodies were convincingly placed, Colt hurried the men away from the shattered warzone. When they found themselves at a safe distance they turned back to look at the destruction from afar, Farrah produced a pair of binoculars and handed them to Colt.

“Who were they?” asked Farrah. He dismissed the other men and they sat down immediately to rest and hydrate.

“The men we killed?” asked Colt. “Well that’s an interesting little story. You’ve heard of Saracen International?”

Farrah nodded slowly. “A private security company.”

“Correct. A security company from the U.K. that is helping to fund new naval forces in Somalia.” Colt, satisfied, handed the binoculars back to Farrah. “Legitimate naval forces, that is.”

“Those men worked for this company?” asked Farrah.

“Correct again, my friend. You see, Saracen is a business liability. I profit from lawless pirates, not do-gooder military types. And frankly, so do you. Some would argue that so does Somalia. Piracy is illegal, and a large thorn in the side of the larger ruling countries like the United States, but you Somalis, you’re making your own way with rebel forces, taking what you need, fighting for survival. You’re doing things the way they used to be done,” Colt slapped Farrah jovially on the shoulder, “and that’s why I like you guys so much!”

Farrah’s face remained impassive, and didn’t show the slightest reaction when Colt slapped him on the shoulder.

“It’s called Percussive Maintenance. When something doesn’t work, you beat the shit out of it until it does. We’re making Saracen work for us again. We’re eating away at them. Every time they leave the house, someone shoots at them. Lines them up and executes them, no less. This is the world of terror I wish to create for them. Understand?”

Farrah nodded silently.

“Well, another day, another dollar. I say we head back to Mogadishu, get your men some rest, and we’ll see where that takes us.”

The men were roused and Colt looked over each one of them as they stood and began to march at Farrah’s orders. They appeared a ragtag militia with mismatched weaponry, but fought with the ferocity and skill of trained warriors. The fight in these men was learned during the Somali Civil War, and it became the only set of skills that was left useful to them afterward. Piracy became their only source of income and prosperity. They could be compared to any men fighting for a way of life. But Colt noticed something else within them—it was their eyes, when a man makes a living from killing and stealing, even the darkest eyes get a shade or two darker. No light remains.

The walk back to the city centre of Mogadishu was a short affair, and as soon as Colt gave the word his men scattered in all directions. Even mindless, ship-hijacking, murderers had somewhere to be at the end of a hard day’s work.

“Your time is your own for now, Farrah,” Colt said. “I’m going to a bit of a shindig tonight, though. Your company would be appreciated.”

“Another poker game?”

“I know. Those prudish private military types don’t like your kind of person joining in their games, but have you ever heard of a little reindeer called Rudolf?” asked Colt.

Farrah looked at him blankly. “No.”

“Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer? They never let poor Rudolf join in any reindeer games?”

Farrah was silent.

“Oh, the things Christmas can teach the heathens,” Colt quipped with a sigh and a grin.

Farrah was silent still, but registered a slight look of annoyance.

Colt waved him off. “I’m just kidding. There’s nothing wrong with Muslims.” After a pause. “Just don’t blow yourself up around me.”

Farrah remained unimpressed, and the annoyed stare also stuck on.

“Oh, lighten up. A little religious humour. Would it kill you to make a joke every now and again?”

Farrah turned without a word and walked away.

“Alright, buddy, see ya at seven o’ clock sharp, okay?”

***

Colt changed into a new black suit and purple silk tie before meeting Farrah on the outskirts of Mogadishu. He adjusted his tie and nodded to Farrah as he came into sight. The pirate wore the same plain clothing, but was devoid of any bandoliers of ammunition or conspicuous weaponry. The holstered pistol on his right hip was subtle. Not that a holstered pistol was an incredibly uncommon sight in the city. Colt, in his fancy three-piece and shiny black shoes, was the odd one out.

“Shall we?” Colt asked.

Farrah nodded.

Just on the outskirts of Mogadishu, there was a small zone that was occupied by military forces—both private and government—which stood directly between the city itself and the Indian Ocean. Despite being a symbolic sign of mercenaries and military men coming together to block pirates in Mogadishu from getting to the water, it also served as a cesspool of corruption in which Colt Winters thrived. He had made friends there quickly with mercenaries and private security companies, and joined them for amiable games of Texas Hold ‘Em when the occasion arose. None of them had any idea Colt funded and supported Somali piracy. He had a feeling they wouldn’t care if they knew, anyway. They were there for profit as much as he was.

Colt located the Coca Cola bottling plant that was his landmark. From that point, it was a straight shot to the compound where the games were usually held. The compound itself was small and nondescript, but it was built in the middle of an open space and hard to miss once come across. The towering grey walls gave way only in one spot for a gate, which was guarded by a single man. The guard sported the standard urban camouflage, grey and blue, and leaned against the wall of the compound casually. He straightened up a bit when Colt and Farrah approached.

“Mr. Winters,” the guard greeted once he could make out Colt’s face. “You’re right on time. Boys are just gonna start. Got some newcomers tonight.”

That stopped Colt short. “Newcomers?”

“Four, only one of them is playing, though.”

“Do we know his name? Affiliation?”

“It’s a she, actually. Not bad looking either. Not sure on the details, but she looks civilian.”

Colt’s tone was conversational and betrayed no uneasiness, but his mind was reeling with scenarios. “They all sort of blend together, don’t they?”

The guard chuckled his agreement and opened the gate for Colt and Farrah, wishing them well as they entered.

“Are we expecting trouble?” Farrah asked.

“I always expect trouble, Farrah, don’t you?”

With a click, Farrah disarmed the safety on his pistol.

They entered a small square building on their immediate right without being harassed by the door guard. The building was used mostly for storage. The only remarkable item in the room was the poker table. It wasn’t an official set up, just a wooden oblong table with chairs around it. The rest of the grey building contained metal odds and ends mixed with scattered piles of rifles and ammunition here and there. There was one open chair at the poker table.

“Gentlemen,” Colt greeted, taking his seat. He pretended not to be aware of the casually dressed brunette, and then added a moment later, with tinge of feigned surprise, “and lady.”

The four other men at the table were all white with varying shades of brown hair and wore similar camouflage patterns with barely discernible differences. Even the private security companies and mercenaries, like any company with employees, conformed to a type of clothing. The woman, also Caucasian, wore a white button-up blouse and appeared to be wearing a bit of makeup around the eyes. Government military infantry in these situations always tried the hardest to cover up that they were in the military, and in doing so always stood out the most.

“Mr. Winters,” the woman said to him immediately.

Colt was taken aback for a moment, but responded smoothly. “That would be me. You are?”

“Jen, I’m with the private security company Saracen, I’m sure you’ve heard of us.”

Sure you are, thought Colt. “I have, in fact, Jen. How do you know of me, exactly?”

The other men at the table appeared oblivious to the conversation, and were preparing the deck of cards and the poker chips.

While Jen responded to his question, Colt surveyed the situation behind the woman: three men in equally overbearing attempts to look casual. They all carried small automatics, they looked like Uzis but Colt couldn’t be sure from his angle, and he was certain these men were here to guard the woman calling herself Jen. “You’re the only man in Somalia wearing a suit and tie. Everyone in the private security business knows who you are,” she replied.

“You don’t look like the standard Saracen guard, my dear. I sense you’re not here for actual security purposes.”

“Something like that. We were sent down the Gulf of Aden to find an ivory trader who was supposed to be waiting for us here in Mogadishu. We didn’t find him, needless to say.”

As he responded, Colt noted that the woman claimed to be part of Saracen, which was a U.K. based company, but did not have anything resembling a European accent. Not a dead giveaway, but immediately suspicious. He tucked that away for now. “Ivory? Didn’t realize that was a lucrative business still.”

“Hardly, and it’s incredibly illegal. The man himself is who we’re looking for.”

“Must be a very talented individual.” Colt signalled behind his chair toward Farrah.

“We deal in questionable businessmen, is all,” she replied.

“Then it’s no surprise you know about me,” Colt said, pushing his chair back slightly, “and my questionable business dealings.”

Jen caught the chair movement and signalled to the men behind her. They stepped forward.

Colt looked at the men, and then at Jen. He sighed. “And today was such a good day.”

Colt and Jen both dropped out of their chairs at around the same time. The other poker players, suddenly aware of a commotion, didn’t have time to move before being torn apart in the crossfire that ensued between Farrah and the three men with Uzis. Farrah’s Colt .45 was outgunned by the automatics. He drew his weapon and fired while dropping down beneath the table for cover. His more accurate shot took one of the gunmen square in the forehead and kicked his head back. The blood from the exit wound stippled the wall behind. The Uzis sprayed and pockmarked the wall, but got nowhere near Farrah.

“One coming around the table on the right, Farrah!” Colt warned. Farrah rolled onto his back. The approaching enemy fired off a burst which drove into the ground just beside his head. The pirate didn’t flinch and squeezed off two shots from the pistol with a sort of lifeless tranquility. He looked like he might’ve been watching a football match from his couch, and the gun was nothing more than his TV remote, clicking to change channels.

The third and final gunman rounded the table from the other side and aimed his Uzi down at Farrah. It would’ve been an easy shot, but two finely crafted dress shoes smashed into his gun hand and sent the Uzi skittering across the floor.

“One more!” called Colt.

As if tracking the sound of Colt’s voice, Farrah’s pistol snapped up and exploded three times, connecting with the last gunman’s chest. He was spun around and fell on his face, long dead before he hit the ground.

With a show of strength that registered shock on Jen’s face, Colt jumped to his feet and hauled the wooden table over on its side, removing her hiding place. She tried to scramble to her feet, but Colt kicked them out from under her. “Stick around,” Colt growled.

He held out his hand to Farrah who immediately passed his sidearm over to Colt. The pistol was now trained on the woman. “Who are you with? CTF 151? U.S. Coast Guard? Which anti-piracy group? Tell me!” He shoved the gun closer to her face.

“Fuck you,” was her spat reply.

“Obviously you’re government funded, because only they would send you in with a thin cover like this. You’re here looking for an ivory trader?” Colt scoffed. “Sweetheart, that’s not a cover story! That’s Heart of Darkness!” He put the gun right up to her forehead. “Now tell me who sent you here to die.”

She didn’t say it out loud, but her stare resonated with the same response as before.

“Maybe you’re betting on my being merciful because you’re unarmed, or maybe because you’re a woman. Maybe that’s what’s keeping you silent right now,” Colt pulled back the slide on the pistol to make sure a round was chambered, “well, obviously you didn’t do your homework.” He fired the last round out of the gun into her skull.

Colt took a last look at the dead woman before handing the weapon back to Farrah.

“You alright?” asked Farrah.

“Dandy,” Colt replied. “You did very well, excellent shooting, my friend.”

Farrah holstered the pistol. “You don’t know who they were?”

“U.S. military would be my guess. This is an interesting development.”

“The United States trying to kill you?”

Colt nodded. “Military hardware can find a nice price on the Black Market these days. Seeing as they’re throwing all this military hardware at me trying to kill me, guess I may as well put it to some use.” Colt patted Farrah on the shoulder again. “Another day, another dollar. Let’s go.”