His plan was to pull in on the southeast edge and pick ‘em up straightaway—quiet and clean. He had no intention of spending any more time breathing the same air as some of those nutcase Demo winners he saw on television. Buncha baby eaters is what they were and he didn’t need no trouble like that on his boat. He wasn’t concerned about the girl, Mevia, but he hoped James was a decent lad like his brother. Kilt had promised that James wouldn’t give him any racket. Much obliged to hear. He had told Kilt. It’s the rest of them convicts I’m concerned about.
Oh he had taken his share of side jobs for extra pocket padding, no doubt about it, but this? This job was riskier than his good judgment would normally allow. To keep himself from backing out he had to keep thinking of the blood-lusting black market creditors walking around with his name and number. Buncha vampires they were. The coin from this job alone would wipe him from their books once and for all.
Money is money, and debt is debt so here I come.
He reached under the dash and felt of his Sig Sauer nine mil, an antique his grandfather passed down, hidden from the Feds during the days of the Great Confiscation. He had shot the thing exactly two times in his life. Couldn’t exactly get good target practice with all the gun fearing these days. Someone would hear, report him and before you could say bring-back-my-Bonnie, it would be off to prison for ‘ol salty Captain Bora. But practice or no, these open waters were his home turf and if it came down to it, he was sure he’d hold his own.
Bora took another generous slug from the bottle but nearly spit out the whole mouthful when he broke through the fog.
“I’ll be damned.” Using his sleeve, he wiped a sight hole in the foggy, cracked windshield.
Yonder, no more than four-hundred meters due south east was someone bobbing up and down in the waves. A flailing arm confirmed the sharks hadn’t gotten to him yet.
Gotta be James. Who else would dare to leave the island?
Bora finished off the last of his ale and tossed the bottle over his shoulder, stumbling slightly in the process. Water’s choppier than it looks.
He swung his steering arm, spinning the silver rudder wheel like a carnival prize wheel. “I’m a comin’ boy!” He pumped a fist. “Can’t let you drown or I won’t get paid!” He laughed. It looked like he wouldn’t have to go stomping around the island anymore. “The ‘ol Cap-in will have you dry before you can say ‘fish food.’” He laughed again.
He reached back into a small closet, removing two blankets and a box of clothes. Who knew how long those two had been floating around out there? He just hoped they didn’t have hypothermia. The only thing he could offer for that was some hot tea and honey.
Bora pulled in as close as he could, then went outside and dropped anchor.
“Ahoy!” he called, leaning over the side.
“Help!” one of them sputtered. “We need help!”
“No shit!” Bora rushed to grab a rope. Whatever it was the two of them were sailing in had been ravaged by the storm. They were clinging on to nothing but a couple of planks. He threw the rope. “Here y’are James. You ain’t gonna last long floating on that stump.” Then he frowned. “Hey who’s that? I thought…” His voice trailed. A third man appeared from underwater. As he broke the surface, the fishhook in his ear caught a glance of sunlight. “Three of you’s? And hey, where’s the girl?” he asked, with a sinking in his gut told him it was too late for questions. They had ahold of the rope and were pulling themselves in.
“Uh, you’re James, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said the first one, lifting himself into the boat, his large size in full view now that he was out of the water.
Bora looked up at the man standing over him, dripping wet and suddenly he was sea sick for the first time in his life.
“Dammit, help me up, Grunt,” said the other guy still in the water.
Bora’s voice came out dry and scratchy. “Grunt, but I thought you said your name was James.”
Grunt pulled in his mate, almost as big as he. Then he moved toward the captain.
Bora thought of the Sig. He ran into the cabin but before he could say S-O-S was struck and sent flying into the windshield, ramming his forehead, leaving a crown shaped smear of blood.
Bora lay on the ground looking up at the Sig through his already swelling eye. He groaned, peering up at his assailants standing over him dripping salty sea water all over the oozing gash across his brow.
“Find something to tie him up with, Roach,” said the big one with the scarred face.
Roach grabbed the rope and knelt down. “Well looky what we have here.”
Grandpa’s gun. Bora deflated. Now that they found the gun, it was hopeless.
“Wowee! Must be an antique! Check it out, Grunt!” Roach held it up.
“Nice.” Grunt snatched it.
Roach frowned and then looked around for another one. “You find anything, Lin?” He asked, tossing the boxful of clothes aside.
“Mm,” the one named Lin muttered as he removed his soaked shirt.
“Hey Grunt, you know anything about boat driving?” asked Roach.
Grunt lustfully wrapped his gnarled hands around the shiny rudder. He might as well have been touching Bora’s wife, if he still had one.
“Nothing to it. Go pull in that anchor.” He grinned down at Bora. Then, just before landing a swift kick to his temple, added, “Next stop: the mainland.”
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1) Page 40
