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Cabrillo could have turned to open water and closed in again, but he was afraid if he lost sight of his quarry they would escape into the towering sea grass where their shallower draft was the ultimate advantage. And to go in to find them invited walking into an ambush. He knew the best way to end this was to keep on their tail.
They slashed past stands of trees, sending birds shrieking for the sky, and their wakes sloshing through the marsh caused the mats of grass to undulate as though the bay were breathing.
Ever mindful that the foils were vulnerable to underwater obstructions, Juan had to make easier turns than the ski boat, allowing them to continue to widen the gap. Something ahead caught Cabrillo’s eye. He had just a second to realize it was a partially submerged log. Hitting it would tear the wings right off the boat, so with a deft hand on the throttle and wheel, he snaked the hydrofoil around the log. The quick move avoided the log but forced them into a gap between two low mud-covered islands.
Juan glanced at the depth gauge and saw it was pegged at zero. There was perhaps six inches of water between the wings and the bottom. He leaned against the throttle to eke out a bit more power and hopefully raise the boat a few more inches. If they grounded at this speed he and Sloane would be tossed from the hydrofoil like rag dolls; the impact with the water would be like hitting pavement after a fifty-foot fall.
The channel between the islands grew narrower. Juan turned to look astern. The normally white wake kicked up by the foils and propeller was a deep chocolate brown as their passage roiled silt from the seafloor. The boat staggered for an instant as a wing brushed bottom. He couldn’t slow down because the hydrofoil would drop off plane and she’d auger into the mud and he had the engine keening at well above red line.
The channel seemed to grow narrower still.
“Brace yourself,” he shouted over the engine because he knew he’d gambled and lost.
They raced through the narrowest spot on the channel, losing a bit of speed when the forward wings kissed the bottom a second time before the channel widened and the depth began to increase.
Juan blew out a long breath.
“Was that as close as I think it was?” Sloane asked.
“Closer.”
But the maneuver had halved the distance to the bow runner because it had been forced to slalom through a stand of mangroves. The gunman braced himself at the ski boat’s stern. Juan eased off the throttle and cut across the marsh to once again place the hydrofoil directly in their wake, using his craft’s superior size as a shield just as a fresh fusillade poured from the nimble little boat. The rounds peppered the sea and blew out two panes of safety glass that ran along the lifeboat’s cabin.
A straight section of marsh allowed Cabrillo to firewall the engine again. In just seconds the big hydrofoil loomed over the bow runner. In the turbulence of her wake the hydrofoil began to ventilate, to draw air under the water wings and lose lift. Her bow sawed up and down, which is what Juan had anticipated. The ski boat’s driver tried to dance out from under the crushing bow, but Juan matched him turn for turn. The bow slammed down on the bow runner’s stern but the blow wasn’t hard enough to slow it, and Cabrillo had to back off slightly to regain lift.
He glanced at the dash to check the RPMs and as soon as he did Sloane screamed.
He looked up. When the hydrofoil’s bow hit the rear of the ski boat the gunman had jumped for the railing. He now stood at the hydrofoil’s prow, clutching the railing with one hand while the other held an AK-47, its barrel aimed directly between Juan’s eyes. There wasn’t time to draw his own weapon so Juan did the only thing h
e could.
His hand lashed out and chopped the throttle an instant before the AK blazed. He and Sloane were slammed into the dashboard as the hydrofoil slowed from forty miles per hour to almost nothing in an instant, a wild burst from the assault rifle stitching a ragged line across the top of the cabin. The boat came off plane hard, and while the gunman managed to keep his grip on the railing his chest was crushed against the aluminum struts by the massive wall of water that exploded over the bow with the force to douse Juan and Sloane all the way at the vessel’s stern. The hydrofoil’s forward momentum was enough that he slid under the hull and when Cabrillo pressed on the throttle again her wake frothed pink.
“Are you okay?” Juan asked quickly.
Sloane was massaging her upper chest were it had impacted with the dash. “I think so,” she replied and raked wet hair from her forehead. She pointed to his arm. “You’re bleeding.”
Cabrillo made sure the boat was gaining on the bow runner before looking at the wound. A shard of fiberglass torn off the boat by the spray of bullets was partially embedded in his upper arm.
“Ow,” he exclaimed when he felt the first flicker of pain.
“I thought tough guys could ignore a little thing like that.”
“Like hell. It hurts.” He gently worked the postcard-sized piece of fiberglass from his flesh. The shard had cut cleanly and there was little blood. Juan dug out the small medical kit from a bin next to the dash. He handed it to Sloane, who rummaged through it and found a roll of sterile gauze. He held still as she wrapped his arm with the bandage and tied it off tightly.
“That should hold you,” she pronounced. “When was your last tetanus?”
“February twentieth two years ago.”
“You remember the exact date?”
“There’s a fifteen-inch scar on my back. Days you get a gash that big tend to stick with you.”
In a minute they had regained all the ground they had lost to the ski boat. Juan noted that the marsh to their right was giving way to a boulder-strewn beach that would afford no protection to his quarry. It was time to end this. “Can you take the helm again?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Watch for my signal, then ease back on the throttle. Be prepared to turn. I’ll point which way.”
