by Cap Daniels
“Chase, when this is over . . . are you going to explain what’s really going on?”
I slid my hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to me. “I promise I’ll tell you everything as soon as those two assholes are off our boat.”
The sound of the engines quieted and the boat slowed.
“They’re coming back,” I said. “We have to change our plan.”
“I’m listening,” she said.
“Instead of taking the fight to them, we need to ambush them. I don’t know which one will come through that door first, but we’ll have to act quickly. Stand with your back against the workbench and have the speargun aimed at the door. As soon as it cracks open, I’m going to yank it the rest of the way. I’ll be staying low, so you’ll have plenty of room to shoot over me. If it’s Michael, shoot him in the middle of his chest the instant you see him. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, okay, but what if it’s her?”
“If it’s her, I’ll grab her and force her to the ground. You get her mouth taped as fast as you can, and we’ll tie her up, but we have to keep her from screaming. It’s crucial that you get her mouth taped as soon as possible.”
“Why not kill her?” she asked.
“I’ll explain that later, but for now, stick to the plan, okay?”
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
She took her position in front of the workbench and raised the speargun level at what would be Michael’s chest.
I heard footsteps outside the door, but they didn’t sound heavy enough to be Michael’s. I’d much rather have seen Skipper put a steel shaft through the man’s chest than wrestle with Sara, but we had to take advantage of every opportunity as it came. I knelt by the door, ready to pull it open as soon as it cleared the jamb. The footsteps came nearer, but I still couldn’t tell who they belonged to. The metallic click of the door latch released above my head, and I glanced at Skipper, who was laser-focused on the door.
The boat turned to the right, and a slapping sounded against the hull.
“Sara!” Michael yelled. “Get back up here. There’s something wrong with one of the engines.”
The door latch closed, and I heard Sara run back up the stairs.
“What’s happening?” Skipper whispered.
“I’m not sure, but I think we may have picked up a piece of rope or fishing net on the starboard propeller.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not for us,” I said. “In fact, it’s great. It’ll get their attention focused on the problem and away from us. We’ll have an opportunity to surprise them.”
The engines shut down, so I listened for movement on deck. Michael’s heavy footfalls echoed through the main salon and down into the opposite hull. He must’ve been going to check on the starboard engine. Our opportunity had come.
“We’re going up,” I said. “You’re going to stand in the galley and shoot him when he comes back up the stairs. I’m going onto the deck to subdue the woman. No matter what you hear outside, do not leave the galley. Put that shaft through his chest, then yell as loud as you can that you’ve done it. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it. Shoot him in the chest and yell for you.”
We opened the door and peeked into the companionway. We didn’t see a soul. Creeping from the workshop, we climbed the stairs to the main salon. I was in front with the emergency tiller and Skipper was on my heels with her speargun cocked and locked.
“Remember, no matter what you hear outside, your job is to shoot Michael in his chest.”
“I got it,” she whispered.
She broke off to my right, and I watched her take up a position in the galley. Moving carefully toward the door to the deck, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Skipper was in the correct spot. She was braced against the counter with the speargun pointed straight at the starboard side stairs.
When I reached the door, I quick-peeked to see if I could see Sara. She was leaning over the starboard aft rail looking down into the water. Perfect. I could be on her in less than four strides and either have her subdued or knocked into the water in seconds. I raised the emergency tiller in my left hand and sprang through the door.
The instant I reached her, Skipper screamed, “Chase! I missed!”
I swung the tiller at Sara’s head as if I were unloading on a hanging curveball, but she’d also heard Skipper’s scream and turned reflexively. She had just enough time to see the tiller racing through the air at her head. I felt the fiberglass tiller strike hard. I’d been swinging at her head, but she’d raised her arm to deflect the blow, and it redirected into her rib cage. I heard bone crack, and she dropped to the deck. I turned to see Michael swing the long speargun and connect with Skipper’s left jaw. She went down like a felled tree and Michael threw the empty speargun to the deck beside her.
He started through the door and straight for me as his right hand went for his belt. He was reaching for a gun, but we’d only be a few feet apart by the time he drew his weapon. I closed the distance between us and swung the tiller as hard as I could, aiming for his gun hand. He turned to take the blow in his gut rather than on the bones of his right arm. It would still hurt, but not as bad as I’d hoped. When the contact came, it sent him stumbling backward, but I hadn’t made contact with any ribs. We were about to be in good old-fashioned fisticuffs.
He took a hard swing at me with a left hook, but I’d been expecting that, so I rolled to my left and let the punch fly harmlessly past my head. The momentum he’d built during the punch carried his body into the oversized cushion on the portside settee. He reached for his gun again, and I caught a glimpse of the black metal of the automatic as it came from his belt and started upward. At that range, if he’d gotten off a shot, it would’ve been impossible for him to miss me. I uncoiled, and in a desperate attempt to stay alive, I swung the tiller. Its fat end connected with the automatic. The collision sent the weapon sailing through the air and into the dinghy hanging on davits at the stern.
I’d begun to level the playing field, but there were still two of them and only one of me. Sara was injured, but not unconscious.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t made contact with Michael’s hand when I’d swung at the gun. I’d hit the gun cleanly and left him unhurt. He leaned forward from the cushion and lunged at me with his arms outstretched. He’d decided to turn our fight into a wrestling match. I wasn’t interested in going to the deck with him and preferred to stay on my feet, but so far, nothing was going the way I wanted.
When his shoulder hit my chest, it forced me against the steering wheel. The blow folded me backward across the wheel and left me temporarily shocked. I gathered my wits, and in rapid succession, threw three sharp elbow shots into the back of his neck. He keeled over as the blows took effect and sent him to his knees.
I turned to see Sara climbing back to her feet and reaching for her waistline. I didn’t want to deal with another gun, but what I wanted didn’t seem to matter. I’d dropped the emergency tiller when Michael forced me against the wheel. I hoped he’d stay down long enough for me to deal with Sara.
To my initial relief, I watched the shiny blade of a five-inch double-sided dagger leave the sheath on Sara’s hip. I could deal with a knife. She came at me swinging left and right in strong, short chops. She’d evidently been to the same knife-fighting school as Anya. I knew she’d soon plant her left foot and lunge for my abdomen. As soon as that happened, I spun to my left and stepped sharply forward and right. The thrust came, but I’d anticipated it. I grabbed her wrist as she sent the knife toward me, and I twisted it up and over her head. As she fell forward, I forced her arm in the opposite direction. She screamed as her arm inverted at the elbow and the knife fell to the deck.
I didn’t want to kill her. If I could keep Sara alive, she had potential to be a great source of intelligence and a nice bargaining chip for international relations, but she seemed determined that only one of us survive. She grabbed at her broken right arm and bellowed.
I wrapped my right arm beneath her chin and locked it in place with my left. I had her in a sleeper hold. She would fight, but without her right arm, she had no hope of getting me off her. Her face turned red, then finally pale, as the lack of oxygen to her brain turned her legs to mud. I let her fall, and I picked up her knife.
Michael was back on his feet and charging again. I didn’t have time to get the knife positioned to inflict any damage before he plowed into me. This time, there was no wheel behind me to stop our momentum, and I tumbled over the rail into the water. He tried to push me free of his grasp before I went over, but I’d held on and carried him overboard with me. We hit the water, tangled together, but I kicked free and put some distance between us. I’d believed I’d gained at least a slight advantage—I was comfortable in the water and still had the knife.
Like a fish, he faded away beneath the surface, eliminating my advantage, and I lost sight of him. I kicked for the stern of the boat—the only possible place to get back on board. The ladder at the stern was my only exit from the fight.
Just as I thought I’d made the ladder, he grabbed my right ankle. I kicked at his hand with my left foot, but he captured both of my legs. I took a breath and bent at the waist, thrusting the knife in front of me as I doubled over, hoping to get at least a glancing blow, but we were in his element. He moved like a barracuda and dodged my jabs. He threw my feet upward and sent his knee crashing into my gut, forcing the air from my lungs. Fighting in the water was definitely his strong suit.
I kicked as hard as I could with both feet, hoping to make contact and give myself a chance to get another breath. It half worked. I didn’t make contact, but when he dodged my kicks, it gave me a few feet of separation and a chance to stick my head above water long enough to refill my lungs.
I was getting my ass kicked and running out of ideas and stamina at the same time. Not wanting to fight anymore, I chose flight and turned to swim for the starboard side of the boat. If I could outswim him around the bow and back to the stern, I could get back on the boat and get my hands on the pistol I’d knocked into the dinghy. I dug my hands into the water and kicked with all the energy left in my body. I was stroking for the stern, but ten feet before I reached the ladder, it felt like I’d been snared by a sea monster.
The harder I fought, the more bound I became. Then, it hit me. I was caught in the same net that had stopped the starboard engine. Fighting against the net would be in vain. I tried to remain calm and come up with a plan to get back to the surface, but my lungs were burning and I’d lost the ability to form a rational thought. My fate had been sealed when I went overboard, and I was going to drown. I was at peace. I relaxed and stared toward the surface. I would see Anya again.
In the tranquility and disorientation of the moment, I felt a splash in the water behind me and soon felt two strong arms around my waist. Michael had come to finish me off and watch me die, but he wasn’t pulling me deeper—he was pushing me up.
When we broke the surface, I filled my lungs with air and my heart with the will to continue the fight. I kicked at him like a mule. I had to get him away from me. Realizing I was never going to overpower him in the water, I reached for his eyes. If I couldn’t drown him, maybe I could blind him. Instead of the soft flesh of his face, my thumbs found something solid and slick. I shook the water from my eyes and saw the man I was fighting was wearing an orange hood, a diver’s mask, and a snorkel. Just past him was an orange and white U.S. Coast Guard patrol boat with a young, uniformed man training the deck-mounted fifty caliber automatic rifle on my boat. The man I was fighting wasn’t Michael Anderson, he was a Coast Guard rescue swimmer saving my life.
Standing on the ladder of my boat was Michael with his hands on top of his head and his fingers interlaced. In a show of surrender, I stuck my hands into the air. I didn’t need the Coast Guard thinking I was the bad guy.
I caught my breath and yelled, “My name is Chase Fulton. This is my boat. There’s a nineteen-year-old woman in the main salon with a head wound. She’s with me. That man and the woman with him are pirates.”
I coughed out a mouthful of salt water and tried to apologize to the rescue swimmer for fighting him.
He spit out his snorkel. “Ah, it’s all right, Mr. Fulton. You didn’t hurt me, and we already know who you are. You and Ms. Woodley are safe now. The Coast Guard’s got this.”
How does he know who we are?
Two armed, uniformed men stepped from the patrol boat and onto my catamaran. They handcuffed Michael. Seeing Sara’s damaged arm, they showed a little sympathy and chose not to cuff her. One man stood with his sidearm drawn, undoubtedly in case Sara decided to get frisky. The rescue swimmer hefted me toward the ladder of my boat, and I crawled out of the water and sprawled out on the deck.
Skipper was sitting in the doorway of the main salon with the flare gun in one hand and the EPIRB in the other, her thumb still pressed solidly on the red button. One of the Coast Guardsmen gently removed the flare gun from her hand and knelt to examine the wound on her face. He shined a small penlight into her eyes and took her pulse.
26
Small World
I climbed into the cockpit and reached for Skipper’s hand. Hiding the physical and emotional pain behind a forced smile, she let me help her to her feet and onto the settee.
She grimaced. “Oh, Chase. Your nose looks terrible. It must be killing you.”
I touched my face. It was painful, but I was more concerned about Skipper. I studied the wound on her face inflicted by the butt of the speargun. It wasn’t cut, but it was going to be a nasty bruise, and she’d need some X-rays. “You saved our lives with the EPIRB,” I said.
She blinked her eyes through the pain. “We weren’t on fire, but we’ve definitely been through a storm.”
“One hell of a storm,” I agreed.
“I’m so sorry for missing him with the speargun. I don’t know what I did wrong. It was like the spear went crazy when I pulled the trigger.”
I stroked her hair. “It’s not your fault. Everything worked out fine in the end.”
“I was so scared, Chase. I’m ashamed of how scared I was.”
“Shh, there’s no reason to be ashamed. Anyone would’ve been scared, but you had the sense to keep fighting and finding a way. If you hadn’t activated the EPIRB, we’d probably both be dead.”
“Please tell me it’s really over and it won’t ever happen again.”
“I wish I could,” I said, “but I can’t make that promise. It’s the nature of the work I do. I never could’ve predicted this, so I can’t say for sure it won’t happen again.”
Another uniformed, older man stepped from the patrol boat onto my deck. “Mr. Fulton, I’m Lieutenant Rutherford, the commander of the patrol boat.”
I started to stand, but Skipper held on to me with a death grip.
Lieutenant Rutherford noticed Skipper’s hold on me. “Keep your seat, Mr. Fulton.”
“Is he with you?” I asked, pointing toward a black boat racing toward us with blue flashing lights.
Rutherford glanced toward the oncoming boat. “That’d be the FBI. They’re not really with me or anybody else. They tend to do their own thing. They’ll be taking these two into custody, and my men and I will get you and your boat back into St. Augustine safely.”
The FBI pulled up and tied off to our port side. Two men in black-soled boots stepped aboard and produced a pair of credentials.
“You know, guys,” I said, “it’s polite to ask permission from the skipper of a boat before you jump aboard—especially with black soles.”
One of the FBI agents said, “We don’t need permission to come aboard.”
Lieutenant Rutherford cleared his throat. “Actually, without a warrant, you do need the captain’s permission. The Coast Guard is the only entity who’s exempt from that pesky little rule.”
The man ignored Rutherford. “I’ll be taking my prisoners now.”
Rutherford cleared his throat again. �
�They’re my prisoners until I release them to you, Agent. Neither has been Mirandized or questioned. The woman has a broken right arm that needs medical attention, and the gentleman isn’t hurt, but he’s a little feisty. They’re all yours now. Try not to wreck your pretty little boat on the way back to dry land. Oh, and one more thing. Dry land is that way.”
Handcuffed and dripping wet, Michael glared at me as if he were making plans to rip my heart out. “Where is Anya?”
Skipper leapt from the settee with remarkable speed and slapped him violently. “Anya is dead, asshole, and you should be, too!”
The two agents grabbed Michael’s arm and dragged him aboard the sleek FBI boat where they shackled him to a D-ring on the deck. They were a little more careful with Sara, but not much. She got the same shackling treatment, but they were again kind enough not to cuff her broken arm.
Michael, shackled to the FBI boat, never took his eyes from mine. He said, “You know, Chase, you’re harder to kill than you father was.”
I exploded from my seat, evading Rutherford as he tried to grab me, and I leapt over the gunwale of the FBI boat, landing at Michael’s feet. He ducked his head and instinctively raised his shoulders in a vain attempt to protect himself from my attack. My first punch landed with a crack just in front of his left ear, whipping his head to his right as my left uppercut landed beneath his chin. Blood and spittle flew from his mouth as the force of my punch rendered him unconscious. As I repositioned my feet and prepared to deliver the next blow that would shatter his neck, an agent and Lieutenant Rutherford plowed into me simultaneously, sending me to the deck beneath their weight. I fought against them, determined to finish the man who said he killed my father ten years before. I thrashed like a fish on the deck and did everything in my power to break free, but it was no use. The two men had me pinned.
“Calm down, Mr. Fulton,” said Rutherford.
“I’ll calm down when I rip his heart out for killing my family. Now, get off me,” I said, still twisting and writhing in their grasp.
“You know we can’t do that,” said the agent. “We’ll find out everything he’s ever done and he’ll pay for everything, but you have to leave that to us. Now, let’s get you back on your boat.”
