0103 Journey to the Pirate Kingdom (Part Two)

Hou Rui wasted no words. He immediately stripped off the robe prepared for him by the Brotherhood leader, along with the clothes he had worn while accompanying Jin Shanshan on their initial outing, and tossed them all into the sea. After donning the robe handed to him by Baburu, Hou Rui was left carrying only his phone, bracelet, and a self-defense pistol marked ‘9’.

Baburu quietly replaced the tin boat’s flag from Egypt to Sudan, and with that, the burly black man led Hou Rui across the border.

Meanwhile, within the Egyptian embassy in Cairo—

“What do you mean by ‘negotiating’? My boyfriend, my fiancé, has already been kidnapped for 24 hours!” Jin Shanshan, her eyes bloodshot, face exhausted and furious, was yelling at the embassy staff.

“We understand how you feel, but this is an international kidnapping case. It’s a complex matter. You have to trust us and believe that the government will not give up on rescuing any citizen,” the embassy official calmly tried to soothe her.

“I believe you, but then go find the Cairo police, find the kidnappers! Sitting here and watching won’t do any good,” Jin Shanshan’s voice rose several decibels. After over ten hours of recounting and questioning, her throat was hoarse and sore, but her urgency left no room for self-care. All she wanted was to bring Hou Rui back safely.

“We’ve contacted the Cairo police, but the kidnappers haven’t reached out to them yet. We have no leads at the moment. As far as we know, the Brotherhood has kidnapped Western tourists near tourist sites before. They usually demand ransom, so the hostages’ safety is relatively assured in the short term. Please eat something and rest; only then can we plan carefully on how to rescue your fiancé,” the official reasoned. Though sensible, he was not the one watching helplessly as Hou Rui was abducted before his eyes.

“So you’re saying the only thing I can do now is wait foolishly?”

“It’s a bit passive, yes, but that’s the reality. Rest assured, we’ll stay with you the whole time.”

Hearing this, Jin Shanshan seemed to lose all strength, sinking weakly onto the sofa, praying silently, “Hou Rui, you must hold on. Even if I have to spend all my inheritance, even if I have to sell my house back home, I will get you back!”

“Ah-choo!” Despite basking in the warm African sun, Hou Rui couldn’t help but sneeze. After wiping his runny nose in the sea, Baburu, who had been steering the boat, remarked, “The wounds on your arm are many and deep. You have to be careful—if they get infected, it could be fatal. The area you’re heading to doesn’t even have a hospital.”

“I know. Can you get antibiotics?” Hou Rui glanced at the rows of bite marks on his arm—courtesy of a Nile crocodile. If not for a large stone between him and the crocodile’s teeth back then, his arm might have been mostly digested by now.

“Nothing on the boat. I’ll get some for you once we land,” Baburu replied coolly.

“How much longer until we reach?”

“About 45 hours before we enter the Gulf of Aden. See those anchored cargo ships ahead? They’re waiting for our ship to escort them.”

“I almost forgot—up ahead is the infamous pirate kingdom.” Hou Rui eyed the cargo ships flying American flags some miles away.

“Help me out here,” Baburu said, handing over the rudder. Then he replaced the Sudanese flag with the two-colored, lone-star flag of Djibouti. By doing so, they crossed another national boundary, drawing closer to Hou Rui’s mission objective.

As the sun set, the small tin boat finally reached the Somali waters of the Gulf of Aden. Baburu quickly took down the Djibouti flag, but this time left the mast bare without raising another flag.

“Not raising the Somali flag?” Hou Rui asked curiously.

“This place is chaotic. Flags don’t mean anything. Keep your eyes wide open—trouble can come at any moment,” Baburu said, then pulled a Kalashnikov from a hidden compartment and casually slung it over his neck.

“Isn’t that a bit too conspicuous?” Hou Rui pointed to the rifle.

“Too conspicuous? You’ll see soon enough,” Baburu said, unwilling to elaborate.

After sailing a while longer, night had fallen. As they neared the shore, local fishing boats began to appear more frequently.

When a small wooden two-person fishing boat passed by, a brief glance at Hou Rui made Baburu’s meaning clear.

From Hou Rui’s perspective, two dark-skinned locals sat leisurely rowing on the plank of the boat’s cabin. Under their feet were piles of fishing nets, filled with a fresh haul of fish. Yet, upon closer inspection, Hou Rui was shocked to see that one fisherman carried a Kalashnikov on his back, the other an RPG launcher—dressed exactly like maritime guerrillas.

“What is this?” Hou Rui asked incredulously.

“Here, people make a living fishing, but the moment they spot an opportunity, they put down their oars and nets and become elite pirates. Hijacking a cargo ship can net them $200,000 to $1 million—far quicker money than fishing,” Baburu explained.

Hou Rui scanned the other fishing boats around and soon spotted all manner of firearms. Now he understood why Baburu openly wore his rifle—here in this lawless land, a gun was a necessary passport.

Another hour passed before the tin boat finally reached shore under darkness. It was a secluded beach, with only about 34 dilapidated wooden huts nearby—likely a desolate fishing village.

Baburu tied the boat to a rock, then scooped the remaining fresh fish from the hold into several plastic boxes. Together, they carried the catch toward the village’s edge, where a single light burned in one of the huts—someone was waiting.

When Baburu opened the door and stepped inside, Hou Rui, still on guard outside, saw that waiting inside was a woman and two young children.

“I’m home,” Baburu greeted in Somali. The two children, appearing about six or seven years old, immediately ran out and each clung to one of Baburu’s legs, peering curiously at Hou Rui from behind.

The woman soon approached, taking the plastic containers from their hands and speaking with Baburu—though Hou Rui understood none of it.

After a while, the woman served a simple dinner: stewed fish and cornmeal porridge, accompanied by a large plate of fresh fruit.

After eating some fruit, Hou Rui excused himself and climbed a crooked coconut tree by the shore facing the Gulf of Aden, intending to spend his first night in the pirate kingdom aloft.

Not long after, Baburu left the hut with a bottle of liquor and sat beneath the same crooked coconut tree where Hou Rui was hidden.

“Here, antibiotics,” Baburu tossed him a small white bottle. Hou Rui shook it—about 340 pills inside.

“Thanks,” Hou Rui said politely.

“No need to thank me—$500,” Baburu said bluntly.

Having long been accustomed to all dealings within the organization being monetary, Hou Rui said nothing more. He popped three pills into his mouth.

“Mission briefing, Lone Wolf: The target is General Garcia, hiding in southern Somalia. Mission duration: six months. Anything else you want to know?” Baburu said this, staring out at the sea but speaking to Hou Rui in the tree.

“Do you have a photo of the target? How do I confirm his identity?”

“General Garcia comes from the mountain tribes in the south. He was previously a militia and guerrilla commander and has never been publicly exposed in the media. Before becoming a general in the alliance, no one paid attention to him. So the organization has no photo—not even an approximate sketch. As for confirming his identity, that’s up to you. But there’s a rumor that Garcia is a cripple; one of his legs was blown off by a government mine.”

“Where exactly is he located?”

“About 100 kilometers south from here. Most of the area is controlled by the Somali Liberation Front, which Garcia leads. He could be anywhere.”

Two crucial questions, both without clear answers. This only deepened Hou Rui’s understanding of the mission’s difficulty. When he left Egypt and Jin Shanshan, he had already prepared for a one-way trip. But now, after this briefing, he suddenly felt the chances of returning home were slim indeed.