A Late Shipment (564 Words)

[Note: This was just practice writing, I may or may not continue this story. It depends on any reviews]
Michal was recently hired as a dockhand in Milberry Port. Today, a very large shipment of specialty wines was being imported on a cargo ship, headed straight from Italy. Michal turned his head downwards, taking a glace at his simple and cheap watch. The shorter hand was placed slightly after four, and the longer three clicks after the twelve; 4:03. The ship was supposed to have arrived in port an hour and three minutes ago.
“God damn it..,” Michal complained, realizing that his shift ended in twelve minutes, and that he may not get to unload any shipments that day. No shipments means nothing to be unloaded, nothing to be unloaded means no work. Finally, no work means his paycheck will be substantially smaller.
He was ignorant of the real reason of the delivery’s absence. Somewhere in the Middle Atlantic, thousands of miles away from land, the cargo ship was under assault.
“The engines blown!” one of the crewmates yelled out from the mechanical bay, scared out of his mind. The pilot, watching the scene from the safety of the observation deck, was horrified. He watched mesmerized as the pirates boarded from the small speedboat. He counted five, and although his crew numerated more then twenty, every single member of his boat fled to the safety of the interior. Just then, the door burst open behind him. The strong metal brackets that help the door to the wall were ripped off, and the door fell loudly to the ground. Two pirates, unaccounted for but still present, strode in, handguns extended.
“Let me see all of your hands!” the taller of the two yelled, heavily accented. The man was obviously Russian.
“Let me see them!” he repeated.
The captain, his first mate, and a few of the captain’s navigators all help their hands up in the air.
“That’s better. Now wasn’t that easy?” he sneered.
“Now that we are on good terms, who is the captain of this fine vessel?” he interrogated. Not one voice spoke up. The other man pointed to one of the newer navigators.
“You. Yes you, my fine man, would you like to tell me who your leader is?”
“No. I would not like to tell you,” the navigator replied swiftly.
The pirate, in reply, looked at the navigator with hatred. He raised his left hand across his chest, the hand with the weapon contained in its fist. It ended up three inches above the pirate’s right shoulder. He brought it down with much force, landing squarely on the man’s cranium. The man was instantly was dubbed unconscious, a small trail of blood sliding down from the point of contact. The body slumped down from its standing position, landing with his back against the navigation panel. His feet were sprawled across the floor, and his head looked downward, toward the floor. A few splatters of maroon dotted the light flooring below him. The assailant’s gun also had a blood stain on the handle.
“How about you,” the Russian asked, putting his handgun at eye level. The first mate was now staring down the barrel of a gun. Death was unavoidable unless he confessed who the captain’s identity was. He was literally staring at his own demise. He had to chose his words carefully.
"I am the captain of this boat," he replied.