The Drowning Shark: A Sierra Rouge Adventure

By Stormy and Will Swanepoel

There’s nothing typical about fifteen-year-old Sierra Rouge. Nothing at all.

From the time she could walk, Sierra has traveled the world with her mother, a former CIA operative and chief instigator at (the fictional) Metik Ventures, an organization that invests in social innovation projects and individual change makers around the globe. As her mother’s sidekick, Sierra often helped to shut down the groups whose corruption and greed got in the way of Metik’s investments’ success.

Schooled in the cultures she’s lived in, savvy to the ways of slippery adults, and trained by her mother in skills such as jiu jitsu, surveillance, breaking and entering, and high-speed driving, Sierra is able to take on just about anything the world throws at her.

But, when her mother dies unexpectedly in a car accident, Sierra’s life is turned upside down. Mourning the loss of her mother, she travels to South Africa to live with the celebrity chef father she barely knows, accompanied by a cousin who’s never left the United States before, and facing a life that is totally different from the one she grew up in.

While trying to find a new sense of normal, Sierra suddenly finds herself the target of a tracksuit-wearing bad guy, falling smack-dab in the middle of efforts to stop a shark poaching operation, and trying to navigate the very-foreign-to-her social life of an average teen.

As challenging as her circumstances are, Sierra’s instincts and years of training kick in and she embarks on an adventure to find out who is after her, how to work with new friends to bring down the shark poachers, and what it means to be a normal teen when she is anything but. Sierra’s skills, beliefs, and relationships are put to the test in the process. And, she learns that there may be more to her mother’s death–and life–than she realized.

A fast-paced adventure, The Drowning Shark is the story of one girl’s quest to discover answers and the role she will play in saving the sharks, the people she cares for, and even herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stormy
• Release date: Oct 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996928311

Stormy

Stormy Sweitzer is a writer, everyday explorer and leadership development guide.As an exchange student, former Peace Corps volunteer, globe-trotting consultant, and avid traveler, Stormy has had the opportunity to explore, live and work in nearly 40 countries and brings these experiences to her writing as co-author of the Sierra Rouge Adventure novel series for young adults.Stormy has also written and spoken about food, travel, wonder, and leadership. You can find her in her creative exploratorium: StormySweitzer.com.

Book preview

TransRus Global Headquarters

St. Petersburg, Russia

November 10

Stop! Freeze the tape.

The young man rolls his eyes. It’s digital, boss. There is no tape.

You know what I mean, says Vadim Volkovich Morozov, head of TransRus Global. They are speaking in Russian, their native language. He eyes the seventeen-year-old computer hacker, Misha.

Misha wears his chin-length hair in a feeble attempt at a ponytail. A black T-shirt with a biohazard symbol printed on it in orange is tucked into a too-big pair of jeans with a bunched-up waistband. The belt is cinched to its last hole. He’s lost weight since Vadim first saw him on the news, that’s for sure, but he obviously hasn’t bothered to buy new pants.

Vadim shakes his head. He only puts up with sloppiness like this because the kid is brilliant.

When he was twelve, Misha hacked into the Russian space program and released top-secret documents to the press. At fourteen, he broke into the world’s leading software company so he could play the new video game they were developing before it was available to the public. Six months later, he was caught hacking into the Russian president’s email, attempting to steal official state communications. This offense alone would have put the kid away for decades if Vadim hadn’t used his connections to get him a much lighter sentence. The young hacker spent eight months in a juvenile prison for the crime. Vadim hired him on as soon as he was released.

Unlike his young employee, Vadim makes a point to dress well. A fitted cashmere suit and crisp white shirt emphasize his lean, strong frame. His olive-green silk tie and matching pocket square are selected for effect. They make his eyes stand out. Left eye dark brown, right eye light green—he has a genetic condition known as heterochromia iridum that kids made fun of at school, but that seems to intimidate adults. His shoes are polished to a mirror shine, and custom titanium cuff links finish his look. Just do it, he orders.

The kid reverses the video thirty seconds back and pauses it. Vadim scrutinizes the image on the monitor. In it, a middle-aged man, hunched over with his face turned away from the camera, stumbles across the screen. Vadim now knows that he is an undercover CIA agent. The agent bumps into an unknown woman with long, dark hair who is walking in the opposite direction.

Do you see that? That must be why they didn’t find the flash drive on him, says Misha. He is the only person other than Vadim who knows what’s on the drive. Vadim is paying him well to recapture the information on this drive and keep silent about everything he sees. The kid isn’t dumb. From what he’s seen in the files, he must have a pretty good idea of what would happen to him and his family if he ever told anyone what he does for Vadim.

Vadim remembers the day the files were stolen—by one of his own IT people, no less. The man had apparently looked though Vadim’s personal files while updating the company’s computer system and found something he didn’t expect. When he didn’t show up to work for two days, his supervisor discovered that the system had been breached. Word came up the chain of command to Vadim.

The kid used his hacking abilities to track the thief to Caracas, Venezuela. Vadim had friends there. It had been easy for them to find the thief at his hotel and follow his every move. To the U.S. Embassy. Back to the hotel. Then to a meeting in the hotel lobby the next day.

The call came in minutes ago—things had gotten messy at the hotel. Both the thief and the CIA agent he’d met with are now dead, one of the Venezuelans was shot, and the data is nowhere to be found. All Vadim and Misha have to go on is the security footage from the hotel, which one of Vadim’s Venezuelan contacts had uploaded to a private file-sharing site on the Internet.

Do you know if Ronaldo’s found her yet? Vadim asks the kid.

Should be soon. When he called, he said he’d spotted her driving away from the hotel and is now tailing her.

Vadim’s cell phone rings. He flips open the phone and sees a foreign number on the caller ID: Ronaldo. He puts the phone in speaker mode and places it next to the computer monitor. What’s happening? he asks in Russian-accented English.

A man with a Venezuelan accent replies, I found the woman. Her passport says her name is Jesse Aguilar. I have no idea who she is or what she has to do with the CIA agent, but she did have the drive.

Is it intact?

As far as I can tell.

Good. Overnight the flash drive to my office. Where is she now? Vadim asks.

Dead. I made it look like an accident. Wiped the memory on her laptop and threw it back into the car with her before I sent it off the side of the road into a concrete wall. There’s just one thing . . .

Yes?

After the woman left the hotel, she went to the airport. A girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, got out of the car and disappeared into the terminal by herself. I couldn’t follow the girl without losing track of the woman, but I thought you would want to know about her.

Vadim swears under his breath and ends the call. His flash drive is safe, but is it possible that this woman, Jesse, made a copy and gave it to the girl?

Check the flight records out of Caracas this afternoon for anyone matching her description, Vadim says to Misha. We need to find that girl.

CHAPTER 1

Cape Point nature reserve

Just south of Cape Town, South Africa

One month later

Sierra Rouge is trapped.

To her left, there’s a vertical rock face too steep to scale. To her right, the hill drops down several hundred feet into the ocean. Behind her, a dead end.

Up ahead, the sounds of grunting and gravel skittering on the trail get louder. The noise echoes off the rock wall, coming at her from all directions. Whatever is making the sound is closing in on her and she can’t see it.

Out of nowhere, fog so thick it feels like she's standing in a cloud has rolled in. It’s dense, mysterious, and wet enough that she feels the moisture collecting on her face. She holds her hand out in front of her. It fades to white.

Even if she could see through the misty wall, she knows she doesn’t have a lot of options. The fact that she’s at the end of the trail—the end of the world, really—seems fitting. Everything important in her life seems to be ending lately.

She lets that thought pass. She can’t afford to feel sorry for herself right now.

She considers taking her chances. If she jumps off the side of the trail, maybe, just maybe, she’ll land on an outcropping of dirt. Or her jacket will catch on a branch and keep her from crashing into the angry waves below. Isn’t that how it always happens in cartoons?

No. Sierra knows better. Besides, her legs are frozen in place. She doubts she could move them even if she tried.

There’s a whooping noise above her. She looks up through the fog to see shadows moving against the hazy sky. Squinting, she can just make out the outline of several dark, four-legged creatures racing along the ridgeline, kicking loose gravel that Sierra hears cascade down the rock face, but doesn’t see. It ricochets off the ground onto her pant legs. She flinches.

A deep grunt brings the noises, the movement, and time to a halt.

Sierra tries not to gasp. The air sticks in her throat like a bite of dry toast and she has to fight the urge to hiccup. She holds her breath until the feeling fades.

Through the eerie silence comes the sound of breathing. A creature is sitting close by. Her skin crawls with the feeling that it’s watching her; that it’s able to see her through the fog, even though she knows that can’t be possible. She imagines it enjoying her fear. The idea sends a shiver down her spine.

Not wanting to provoke it, whatever it is, she stands as still as possible. Statue-like, her neck stiffens. After a while, she can no longer tell if her shivering is from fear or the cold.

A strong sea breeze disturbs the morning air. As the gusts of wind force the fog up the cliff, the dark blue waters of False Bay seem to appear out of nowhere. So do the creatures.

Sierra takes a cautious look around. She is surrounded by dozens of Chacma baboons.

A few of the baboons are perched along the cliff face, but most of them are scattered along the trail in front of her and in the brush behind her. They must have stopped in place when the alarm grunt was sounded, leaving her smack-dab in the middle of the troop.

Great.

Careful not to make eye contact, she sneaks a glance at the baboon that she knows is sitting on the wall next to her. At least ninety pounds of solid muscle and fur, he peels his lips back at her in a ferocious yawn that shows off his long, sharp fangs.

Sierra oh-so-slowly edges away from the alpha male, moving as close to the side of the narrow trail as she can. This isn’t like some tourist spot in the U.S., with ropes and safety precautions. No. Here, the only thing preventing her from falling off the trail and rolling down the cliff is her own good sense. She hopes that’s good enough.

She remembers the warning signs in the parking lot. When she’d read that baboons are dangerous and attracted to food, she’d emptied the snacks out of her pack and left them in the car. It’s good that she did. The last thing she wants is to attract unwanted attention because she smells like a mushy banana.

She’s grateful that the baboons don’t seem to notice her and are going about their business. One is foraging for leaves on the trail. Another is breaking branches off bushes and gnawing on them. Others are hunting insects to add to their morning meal. Even the alpha male looks like he’s lost interest in her. Some younger upstarts chase each other around in what looks like a frenzied game of tag. Sierra feels herself relax. She can’t help smiling at what she sees.

A female baboon plonks down on the ground a few feet away from her. A much smaller baboon follows. The mama begins grooming her baby tenderly, searching through its hair for mites and dirt.

Watching the two of them, Sierra feels a memory tug at her. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed in pajamas. Her mom is next to her, brushing Sierra’s hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear, talking with her about the day’s events.

The background changes—different cities, different rooms—but the ritual is always the same. Every night, for years. That was their thing, until last month anyway. It’s funny the things you miss when they’re gone.

Sierra tucks a strand of her own hair back and wraps her arms around herself. To keep the breeze out, she tells herself. But the truth is that she wishes her mom was here with her now.

The mama baboon looks up at her. Sierra knows she should look away, but she can’t. She holds the baboon’s gaze. As if sensing that Sierra means them no harm, the baboon turns back to her little one.

Sierra shakes her head in astonishment. A sense of wonder washes over her and her skin begins to tingle. She has never been so close to wild animals or felt so at their mercy. Even though there is a chill in the air, she feels warm with the excitement of it all.

Since she can’t go anywhere until the baboons leave, she enjoys the moment.

Then, in one swift motion, all the baboons rotate their heads toward the trail, like a flash mob that choreographed their moves ahead of time. Ears alert. Nostrils flaring as they sniff the air. Sierra follows their lead, but sees nothing. She wonders what they sense that she doesn’t.

Moments later, a man lumbers around the curve up ahead. Not wanting the baboons to freak out, she waves her arms in the air, warning him to slow down.

As he gets closer, she notices that he’s wearing an Adidas tracksuit, a low-cut, white T-shirt, and Puma sneakers. A look shared by many rappers, gym rats, and mobsters. He even has the gold around his neck, on his fingers, and on his teeth to match. The sun glints off all of it with every step he takes.

The thing is, he doesn’t quite pull off the look. The pink tracksuit is a little too snug and shines like the skin of a sausage that’s been out in the sun too long. His bald head and pockmarked cheeks are oily in a way that soap would struggle to get clean. Sierra raises an eyebrow in amusement. This guy. She laughs and shakes her head.

As he closes in on her, she realizes he either doesn’t see the baboons on the path or doesn’t care that they’re there. She stops waving.

With twenty yards between them and closing, she makes eye contact with him. His focus on her is intense. Something’s not right about this. She drops her arms.

Fifteen yards and closing.

Stay there, leetle gurl, he yells in strongly accented English. Then, gasping for breath between each word, I. Want. Talk. To. You.

She doesn’t recognize him; she's never seen him before in her life. She looks closer. Tracksuit Man has large, moon-shaped sweat marks under his armpits, and his raspy breath is loud enough that she can hear him. He’s either been running for a while or that tracksuit of his is just for show. Probably for show. His feet pound the ground in a way that tells her he isn’t used to running.

Ten yards and closing.

Sierra narrows her eyes, trying to figure out how the situation could play out. The man is at least a foot taller than her and weighs three times as much. But he’s also losing steam.

With the instincts of someone who has faced similar opponents before, she clenches her fists and steps one leg forward into a fighting stance.

The man looks surprised to see her do this and shouts, You can make easy or make difficult. You choose. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a syringe filled with a milky liquid. When he flicks the needle with his thumb, she watches its plastic cap fall to the ground.

As he continues toward her, closing the space between them, a familiar rush of adrenaline pulses through Sierra. Her heart beats faster. Her energy surges. Her focus becomes laser-sharp.

She stands her ground, ready.

Tracksuit Man raises his free hand up and reaches out to grab her.

A bone-chilling shriek pierces the air.

CHAPTER 2

Tracksuit Man jumps. His eyes had been on Sierra instead of on the trail, and he hadn’t seen the young baboon sitting in front of him. He had stepped on its tail.

After voicing its pain, the baboon scampers away. But now the other members of the troop are grunting and pacing anxiously. The alpha male jumps off the rock face onto the dirt trail, his back to Sierra. It grunts at the heavy-footed intruder.

There’s a second shriek, higher-pitched than the first. This time, it bursts from the surprised Tracksuit Man. He backs up to avoid being attacked.

The baboon leaps again, this time back onto the rock. Face-to-face with his shiny pink adversary, he bares his fangs.

Stepping farther away from the beast, Tracksuit Man finds himself teetering dangerously on the trail’s edge. His right foot slips and he leans forward to steady himself. He wavers from side to side, trying to keep from sliding farther down the hill. Panting, he turns to look at the water far below him.

Sierra suddenly shifts from observer to participant in the wild scene. She leaps at her distracted opponent. In midair, she catches a whiff of him.

Ack! He smells like stale smoke, nervous armpit stink, salty breath, and cheap body spray. It’s so strong she can almost taste it. The smell overpowers her senses, but her body is already in motion.

Her foot makes solid contact with Tracksuit Man’s left thigh. She feels his leg wobble under the impact, but his footing holds firm.

He sneers at her in triumph. Then, before she can react, he reaches out and grabs her. His fingers wrap so tightly around her arm that he pinches her skin.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his other hand moving toward her. She throws up her free arm to deflect the syringe and tries to struggle loose. His grip tightens and he pulls her closer. She has to escape now or he’ll take her down with him.

With lightning speed, she grabs his nose and twists it hard. He yells in shock and releases her arm. His eyes well up from the pain.

Free from his grip, she stomps on his foot. His leg gives out beneath him and he topples down the steep hill, grunting and yelling as he goes. The familiar sounds of Russian curse words float up to her. She’d learned them from a diplomat’s kid she’d met. A thud and the cough of someone having the wind knocked out of them tell her that Tracksuit Man has landed.

Shaking, Sierra looks over the edge. The man is lying flat on his back on a level patch of dirt about thirty feet below her. He tries to sit upright, grasping at the bushes next