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Matt turned to Amanda, who was reclined on a long cushion beside him, reading a book titled Cruising Guide to the Bahamas.
“Almost there,” he said.
“Great!”
She put down the book and went to stand beside him.
He pointed to a long narrow outer island.
“That’s Big Munson. It’s about a hundred acres of little more than mangroves and mosquitoes.”
“The one where you and Chad reenacted Lord of the Flies?”
He looked at her. She was grinning mischievously.
“Maybe Chad. He’s never shied away from power grabs. For me it was more like Treasure Island mixed with Crusoe, thank you very much. Anyway, Little Munson, which is all beach and palm trees and dripping with creature comforts, is next to it.”
As he made a slight course correction to the north, putting the Viking on a compass heading of 310 degrees, another pack of the go-fasts appeared ahead. It was headed for the same channel, and after the first boat began slowing to idle speed for the approach, the others a moment later dropped their speed almost at the same time. Matt counted nine boats.
He then eased back on the Viking’s throttles. As the big boat slowed, her hull settling lower in the water, he thought he heard the faint sound of a police siren.
Immediately, he muted the music, looked back over his shoulder, and exclaimed, “What the hell?”
There was in fact a siren. And it clearly was coming from a Florida Marine Patrol boat, its emergency light bar flashing over the center console’s aluminum tube T-top roof.
About two hundred yards ahead of the police boat was a twin-engine, thirty-foot-long center console fishing boat. Matt grabbed the binoculars. He could make out a lone, shirtless, dark-skinned man aboard, his dreadlocks flying almost straight back as he stood with a death grip on the steering wheel.
“What’s that boat doing?” Amanda said.
“Not to sound like a smart-ass, but I’d say he’s running. He’s got to have that thing at wide-open throttle. There’s little more than the props in the water. But why? You can’t outrun the cops here.”
“Looks like he’s headed for those Poker Run boats.”
The go-fasts now were beginning to form a single-file line as they approached the channel’s first outer marker.
In no time, the fleeing boat caught up with the back of the pack of go-fasts, the police boat in hot pursuit. It began weaving in and out of the line, coming dangerously close to colliding with the first two that it passed. The captains of some of the other boats, realizing what was happening, quickly maneuvered to get out of the way. A few lay on their horns, shouted, and, fists pumping, made obscene gestures as the boat flew past.
The police boat broke off its high-speed chase but still followed.
The burly man with the dreadlocks, not slowing, then entered the channel.
Matt saw that a thirty-three-foot Coast Guard boat with triple outboards and its emergency lights flashing had appeared farther up the channel near the end of a small island. It turned sideways, effectively shutting down the channel.
“See? Nowhere to run,” Matt said, his tone incredulous. “He’s headed right into the hands of the Coast Guard.”
The boat then made a hard turn to the right, leaving the channel.
“I’ll be damned! He’s trying to cut across the shoal at Big Munson!”
The boat’s propellers began churning up sea grass and sand as it entered the shallow, maybe two-feet-deep, water. Another center console police boat—this one with a large golden badge and the words MONROE COUNTY SHERIFF on its white hull—then appeared ahead of it, at the far end of the thickly treed key.
The speeding boat started to make a zigzag course, the man with the dreadlocks clearly trying to come up with some evasive course.
Then he suddenly made a hard 90-degree turn to the left.
“He’s going to run ashore!” Amanda said.
The boat was headed directly for the sandy white beach and thick vegetation that edged Big Munson.
