Page 69 of Untamed Coast

He grabbed the pilothouse fire extinguisher and headed down to the salon.

Need to be fast. Can’t afford to leave the helm for more than a minute or two.

It looked like every glass he owned was shattered on the salon floor. Working his way from handhold to handhold, he reached the engine-room hatch. A chair from the dinette had slid into his way. He kicked it aside. Dropping onto all fours, he held his palms on the hatch.

Cool to the touch, good.

Marco pulled the handle, and gas struts lifted the heavy door open. A sharp pain cut through his hand—a shard of glass embedded in his palm. He pulled it out and wiped the blood on his pants. Holding the fire extinguisher in one hand, he used the other to grip the rail as he lowered himself into the engine room.

The portable VHF marine radio in the pocket of his vest caught on the hatch strut. He pulled the radio out and tossed it aside on the salon floor.

No visible flames. Smoke smell definitely much stronger.

Smoke was concentrated near the rear. Temperature felt warm, but not too hot. He crawled back along the side of the engine, looking for the source. No oil or fluids in the bilge below the engine, no sign of fuel leakage. No diesel smell.

Nothing seemed out of…

There.

A mass of something was smoking just between the turbo heat shield and the exhaust plenum. Marco leaned over the engine. Burning pain seared his inner forearm. He reached again, higher, and retrieved the object.

Shop towel, jammed between the turbo and the heat shield, smoldering.

He threw it into the bilge below the drive shaft where there were always a few inches of water from the seal. A puff of steam and—

The boat rolled hard. Marco reached for a handhold.

Missed.

Sliding, falling backward, reaching for…

Sharp pain racked the back of his head.

Everything blurred.

Chapter 53

... - .- -.- . --- ..- -

Sitka, AK

1938—Sam Worlson

Sam checked himself in the motel room mirror. Oilskins, flannel shirt, galoshes—fisherman. He’d blend right in on the docks. His Colt revolver pressed against his side underneath his waterproof jacket.

Sam could handle Fellows. It was other people he was worried about. He needed to confront Fellows where he had some time—some private time where he could force him to tell where the money was. Fellows had probably gotten the drop on Joe—the element of surprise and all. But now the element of surprise was on Sam’s side. And he had experience.

If Fellows’s boat didn’t have a cabin that was private enough, Sam could follow him home. Or, if he could hide on the boat somehow, he could just wait for Fellows to take it out and get him at sea.

But…then what? He didn’t want to kill Fellows. He didn’t even want to steal from him.

Sam resolved to take only half the money—and give Fellows the other half. Half would be more than he’d need to set things right back home with his wife. Then Sam and Fellows could part on equal terms. That didn’t make up for Joe, but Joe was gone. Nothing anybody could do about that now. Sam didn’t see how taking a fair half made him an accomplice in Joe’s death. That was on Fellows. And Joe. Sam had no idea what had gone wrong, but that was between the two of them.

Part of the risk you take when becoming a criminal.

Sam took one last look in the mirror, double-checked that the Colt wasn’t putting too much of a bulge in his coat, and pulled on a black stocking cap.

There. Fisherman. No question.