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Lying on his belly, binoculars raised, Sam kept his eyes focused on the headland a quarter mile away. The grumble of the engine grew in intensity until finally the Rinker’s bow appeared. As expected, it was occupied by a driver and a spotter; also as expected, the boat turned southeast, following the coastline.
A spotlight glowed to life.
“We’re okay,” he said, half to himself, half to Remi. “They won’t see us unless they’re on top of us.”
“Odds?”
“Ninety-five percent. Maybe ninety.”
“Sam . . .”
“We’re okay. Keep your head down and cross your fingers.”
The Rinker kept coming. It was now a hundred yards from the inlet and heading straight for them, the spotlight skimming along the bank and over the trees.
“Anytime, boys,” Sam muttered. “Nothing to see here . . . Move along . . .”
The Rinker closed the gap to fifty yards.
Forty yards.
Thirty yards.
Sam took one hand off the binoculars, slowly reached backward, and grabbed the H&K from the thigh pocket of his cargo shorts. He brought the gun up and laid it on the deck beneath his shoulder. He flicked off the safety.
The Rinker was twenty yards away.
Sam whispered, “Remi, you better get below.”
“Sam—”
“Please, Remi.”
He felt the dhow rock slightly as she crept down the ladder.
Sam lowered the binoculars. He wiped his right palm on his pant leg, then grabbed the H&K, extended it through the branches, and took aim on the shadowed form behind the Rinker’s wheel. Sam let the scenario play in his head: driver first, then the spotlight, then the second man before he had a chance to take cover or return fire. Two shots for each, then pause and wait for signs of life.
The Rinker kept coming.
Sam took a deep breath.
Suddenly the Rinker’s engine revved up. The bow rose up and pivoted to port, and within five seconds the boat disappeared from view.
Sam exhaled. He knocked twice on the cabin’s roof. A few seconds later Remi whispered, “Clear?”
“Clear. Check the map. How long until they clear the northern tip of Little Sukuti?”
There came the crinkle of paper in the darkness, followed by the scratching of a pencil. Remi said, “It’s a little over a mile. Twenty-five minutes and we should be okay.”
FOR SAFE MEASURE, they let thirty minutes pass before shoving off and motoring out of the inlet. For the next forty minutes they glided along the northern shoreline, never straying more than fifty feet from the beach and never exceeding a quiet but frustrating three miles per hour.
Leaning over the map on the deck, penlight clamped between her teeth, Remi was walking the dividers. She looked up, took the penlight out of her mouth. “The
Rinker should be reaching the southern tip of Little Sukuti. We’ve got at least twenty minutes on them.”
They reached Big Sukuti’s northern tip, paused there for a binocular scan of the coastline ahead, then set out again.
“The docks are less than a mile away,” Remi told Sam.
