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Solo leaps into the wooden boat.
“Cast off!” he yells to Aislin and me.
Aislin says, “What?” But I dive toward the stern rope. It’s looped over a cleat. Aislin sees, understands, and starts to tug at the bow rope.
I hear the sound of a starter.
“Get them, get them, get them!” someone shouts.
A man, no two, hit the pier, two big, football-player-size guys charging at us.
Solo’s hand flashes out and I am yanked bodily through the air, swung aboard. I hit my knees on the bench and trip. My hands plunge into the few inches of cold water in the bottom of the boat.
Aislin jumps and lands hard, but her impact pushes the boat a few inches from the pier.
The engine catches. There’s a hoarse roar and the smell of diesel fuel.
The first of our pursuers leaps.
The boat is two feet away from the pier and gathering speed. The man misses, smacking his face against the side of the boat as he falls.
The other three men skid to a stop.
Solo grabs an orange life jacket and tosses it toward the churning water where the man has gone under. “Hey! Get your man or he’s going to drown!” he yells.
The engine roars and we zoom away into the night.
“They’ll lose a couple of minutes getting him out of the water, but they’ll be after us soon,” Solo says.
“Which boat is faster?” I ask.
“Excellent question,” he allows. “I don’t know.”
Once again the fog—a regular feature of the bay—scuds across the moon. The milky light dies. We could run into a brick wall out here and not see it coming.
“What now?” Aislin asks, panting.
Solo’s at the wheel. It’s too low for him so he has to sort of squat. It’s not a noble or attractive stance. His hair flutters in the breeze, except where some of it is matted with blood.
We are a sad, motley-looking crew. Aislin still sports a black eye and Solo … well, now that I look, his battered face is already looking better. But the boy needs a shower.
I glance over my shoulder at the towering mass of the Spiker build
ing. Some offices are lit, some are dark. It’s by far the brightest thing in view, and I’m strangely drawn back to it. It’s dark everywhere else. Back there is dry and safe and well-stocked with food. Out here? Out here we don’t even know what direction to steer.
“We can pull into Angel Island,” Solo says loudly, trying to be heard over the noise of the motor. “There’s no one there but some campers and a small caretaker staff. But we don’t have sleeping bags or tents. Otherwise, we keep going to the city.”
There are numerous cities in the Bay Area. But “the” city can only mean San Francisco. My hometown. I look for it, but it’s completely hidden behind a wall of fog. Not a light showing.
I see flashlights all the way back on the pier.
“I have an idea,” I say. “Do we have a flashlight?”
“Look in that locker,” Solo says.
I rummage through fishing tackle, water bottles, and life vests until I find a flashlight. I test it within the concealment of the locker. It works. And it’s a good, waterproof light.
I grab one of the life vests and wind a strap around the light. I make it as secure as I can.
