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The noise of the engine combined with the wind and slamming of the boat on waves mute any external sounds. As a precaution, I crouch.
Given the motion of the yacht, and the motion of my boat, the chances Killington’s aim will hit are slim.
He lowers the barrel of the gun and goes inside the boat, behind darkened glass.
The bow of the Siesta careens closer to the yacht. I could launch myself onto the back of the boat. How many armed men are onboard? Where are they? What’s their training? Too many unknowns.
Jordan’s tiny boat falls farther behind with every second. If I can stop the yacht, Jordan will catch up quickly.
Off in the distance, orange and blue stripes on iron siding crash through the waves.Hells yeah. Coast Guard. Never has it been so good to see our fifth defense branch.
Lights flash on the bow of the Coast Guard ship. She must have been in the area. Few ships can outrun the Coast Guard. And theEl Capitan, while a luxurious cruiser, is not one of those ships.
El Capitanslows. I pull up beside the boat. The dark glass blocks all view inside. I search the red Siesta for a buoy to tie up beside the streamlined white yacht, and the engines roar. The yacht takes off.
Fuck, no.
I get back to the wheel and gun the Siesta. Jumping on the boat isn’t smart. But there’s a Coast Guard ship headed our way. She’s backup.
I position the boat along the port side and leap. My body sails onto the stern. The dark glass door slides, and I pull up onto my side, gun pointing, finger on the trigger.
A Hispanic man steps outside with a pistol aimed at me.
I rise to my feet, gun aimed and ready.
Classic standoff.
“Coast Guard is behind us. You’ll never outrun them.”
“You attacked us. Jumped our boat.”
“You’ve got a woman on board. Where is she?”
He’s wearing sunglasses. I zero in on his trigger finger. Flex my index finger. On the ready.
The tip of his gun lowers. He places it in his holster.
“You not holstering yours?” he asks.
“No.” Too many unknowns. The sun’s position on the horizon casts the glass to near black. I don’t have handcuffs.
I flick the tip of my Glock at the corner of the back of the deck.
“Over there.” Off in the distance, the borrowed red Siesta bounces off waves, unguided. The man’s jaw clenches.
The dark glass slides. Another man pointing a handgun at me joins us.
“You’re not going to get away,” I repeat as the man glances slowly between me and the man with the holstered gun.
He gazes out over the ocean at the approaching Coast Guard ship. The man with the holstered gun steps forward.
“Give me your gun. We’re making it to international waters.”
“You think they won’t follow you into international waters? You abducted an American citizen. The only way this ends remotely well for you is if you surrender.”
The man pointing the gun at me tells his colleague, “Get his gun. Tie him up.”
“Where is she?” I can’t see his shaded eyes, but I’d bet they’re drilling holes in me.
