Now what? If this was Luke's plan, then it didn't seem to be working very well. She needed to do something to help him.
Sprinting to the discarded weapon, she grabbed it up and turned to the melee in the sand, but it was impossible to get a clear shot with the two men rolling, punching, and cursing.
Micki faltered. What if she hit Luke? Or Fizz? That was never supposed to be part of the deal!
Luke took a ham-fisted punch to the jaw and was momentarily stunned.
She saw her chance. "Okay, hold it!"
Her shout had no effect. Calling Fizz was also useless. Captain Crude drove his boot into Luke's ribs with a viciousness that made her wince. Rocked by the blow, Luke recoiled with a groan but still managed to maintain possession of his gun. The chubby man took the opportunity to scramble to his feet and, much to Micki's surprise, warily backed away. Fizz retreated to defend her, barking furiously.
Luke groaned again and struggled to sit up as the little man turned toward his speedboat and fled. Micki stepped forward, knowing she couldn't just let the creep get away, not if it meant he'd leave them for his other, tougher cronies to collect at their leisure.
"I said hold it!" To emphasize her point, she gently squeezed the trigger and spat a dozen rounds into the air. Unfortunately, she was not prepared for the recoil. It startled her so much that she almost dropped the gun to the sand.
Freezing, Captain Crude turned uncertainly to face her, his hands lifting slightly in partial surrender.
Trying to keep the terror off her face, Micki flexed her fingers around the weapon and settled her feet into a braced stance. "I mean it, don't move."
"Okay, sweetheart." The little man made a gesture of compliance, which completely camouflaged the few steps he took toward her. "You're the boss."
Satisfied, she glimpsed Luke in her peripheral vision. "Luke, are you okay?" His answer was a moan so agonized she feared that kick had broken some ribs. Fizz nosed him with a sympathetic whine. Concern made her turn her full attention to him. "Luke?"
Taking advantage of her distraction, the pudgy man lunged at her. He was suddenly in her face, his pale blue eyes burning into hers as he ripped the gun out of her hands.
It all happened too fast. One moment she was the proprietor of the gun, the next she was flat on her backside after it was torn from her fingers.
Captain Crude leveled the gun at her. "Say goodnight, sweetheart," he said with a poisonous grin.
There was a swift movement from behind as Luke struck with a kick to the back of the knee that pitched Captain Crude forward. Micki again found herself in possession of the weapon as it popped out of his grasp and into her hands, spat like a seed from an orange. Stepping around his adversary before the man recovered, Luke flung a hard punch into the chubby belly. With the air knocked from him, the overweight man went down to his knees. Luke followed with a quick right, then a left jab to the jaw, and it was all over. Their attacker toppled forward and ate sand.
Micki drew a sharp breath and eased the muzzle of the assault rifle skyward with exaggerated care, somehow unable to tear her eyes from the body face down on the beach. When she finally did look at Luke, she found him bent over, holding his side, still struggling to recover from the kick in the ribs. She was about to ask him again if he were okay when he beat her to it.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Y-yes." Her voice betrayed her. "Are you?"
"Yeah, just bruised." Straightening painfully, Luke crossed to Captain Crude and began to search him. "We've got to hurry. Those shots you fired are bound to bring the other guy running."
Other guy? Fear and adrenaline had blocked her memory of there having been two men at the shanty. Micki cast a wary glance toward the tree line, expecting someone to appear any second, gun blazing.
Turning back to Luke, she noted the trailing ends of the bandages she had put around his blisters. They were unraveling from his palms, making him look like a boxer after a prizefight. As if attuned to her thoughts, Luke ripped the loose length of gauze from his hands. The rest of it and the sterile pad followed. As he flipped over the unconscious body, it occurred to her, with startling clarity, that without the bandages his wounds would be vulnerable to the sand.
"You shouldn't do that," she said shakily, and recognized the sound of shock in her voice. "If you get sand in your blisters they'll hurt like hell."
"If that's our only worry then we're home free." Luke pushed upright and drew a slow wincing breath that looked like it really hurt.
Micki's gaze slipped back to the body on the sand as Fizz cautiously nosed him. "Is he... dead?"
"No, but we will be if we hang around here much longer." Aware that she couldn't take her eyes off the prone form, he said, "Forget him, Micki, he's scum."
Luke gently took the gun from her, and left her there, staring, while he went to reclaim his camera bag. Returning to her side, his blistered hand moved reassuringly on her arm as he urged her toward the red-hulled boat that was their ride back to a sane, safe reality.
Without warning, gunfire burst from behind them. They both ducked instinctively, and wheeled to see a black man with a ponytail lower the muzzle of his weapon from the sky. He had fired a warning shot to get their attention, indicating that he, at least, was still following the orders to take them alive.
"Run!" Luke pushed her ahead of him, toward the boat, and let off a couple of covering rounds from the assault rifle he had claimed. That seemed to stay any return fire, giving them time to reach the boat.
After hoisting Fizz in, Micki began to push the beached bow into the water. Luke joined her. He let loose another burst of gunfire before slinging his camera bag and the AK-47 over the gunwale, and turning to help her push the boat off the sand.
"Get in," he ordered as the red hull floated free.
Her baggy gray sweat pants were wet from the hip down. Luke's stolen camo pants, she noted as he climbed in beside her and started the powerful motor, were also soaked up to his thighs. Her gaze zeroed in on the assault rifle laying discarded on the deck, and then flicked away to where they had left the body on the beach.
The black man was now kneeling by his fallen comrade, helping him to sit while calling in reinforcements on his radio.
"Which way to Marathon?" Luke asked, steering the boat out into the dazzling aquamarine water.
Micki slid into the cream vinyl seat next to him and looked around. She usually had a good sense of direction, but right now it was completely turned around. Instead, she pointed to the bubble compass on the dash. "Southeast."
A brisk punch to the throttle slammed her back in her seat and sent Fizz tumbling into the back of the boat. Normally she would have made a smart-mouthed comment about Luke's driving, but the shakiness that had not totally left her kept her silent. Coming about on course, Luke fed another notch of power to the motor and then they were leaping forward, laying a foaming wake between two tiny keys as they made for home, and safety.
Luke's wind-bitten gaze raked the sea before them, as if expecting resistance to materialize from the very waves. Reluctantly, Micki picked up the gun, and then shared a grim look with the man beside her. Part of her wished that he would start playing Mr. Macho again and take over the weapon, although she would never admit that aloud.
They were nearing the last point of the island on their right, and Micki had started to believe they might actually make it without opposition, when another boat nearly the twin of theirs rounded the mangrove-treed peninsula. It was running flat out to cut off their escape.
Luke hung hard on the wheel and their boat swung to port, sending a spray of saltwater high into the air. The alarming tilt to the deck had Micki clutching the dash with her free hand. She still felt as if her feet were about to leave the floor. Even Fizz whimpered worriedly.
"Cut back the throttle!" she shouted into the roar of water and the massive outboard motor at her back. "You're going to flip us!"
Luke's laugh and the glint of pure adrenaline ru
sh in his eyes made him look like he was actually enjoying pushing the boat—and himself—to the limit.
"What's the matter, beautiful?" he shouted, his voice just barely audible above the slam and thump of the boat cutting across their own wake. "'I thought a hotshot like you would be used to pulling a few negative g's.'" His chuckle was cut short by a rough expletive. "Oh shit!"
Micki swiped at the salt spray stinging her eyes. Another boat, this one larger and carrying at least six men, rounded the small island on their left. It was bearing down on them with a speed that matched or exceeded their own. This time she was braced for Luke's abrupt course change, but the way she was again suddenly looking 'down' on him did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach.
As their boat righted itself again, she hastily reached for the radio mike and tuned to the emergency marine frequency.
"Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Micki Jacinto." She paused to listen, but the speaker crackled ominously, making her wonder if she was transmitting or not. Adjusting the squelch control she continued, intent on relaying as much information as she could. "This is Micki Jacinto out of Marathon, Florida. Our Cessna was fired on and forced down around 0945 yesterday. Luke Hardigan and I made an emergency landing on an island approximately twelve miles northwest of Big Pine Key."
With the gun in her right hand and the mike in her left, Micki had no way to brace herself and took several hard slams from the violent pitch and drop of the boat as it was buffeted by waves and sharp turns.
She grunted with the impacts, and then continued her plea for help. "We're now in a speedboat, and we're—"
***
Dirk stared at the marine radio on top of his office file cabinet, horrified by what he was hearing.
"—we're being pursued by the same men who shot us down. Come in, someone! We need immediate assistance! Can anyone hear me?"
Instinctively, he took a step forward, reaching for the radio mike to answer her himself. Only the taut cord from the telephone he held silenced against his chest stopped him.
Dirk glanced down at it, having completely forgotten he'd been in the middle of a phone conversation with his boss when the radio crackled into life with Micki's distress call. Reluctant to abandon her when she so desperately needed him, Dirk raised the phone to his ear.
"Mr. Van Allen, sir—"
"What the devil are you playing at, Dirk?" The mounting displeasure in the British voice was very clear.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but..." He stopped himself. If his boss had even an inkling of the trouble Micki was causing to his schedule, then he would never allow her under his roof in Bermuda. And having a secure place to take her was something Dirk just didn't want to mess up.
"'But' is not a word I like to hear. It tends to always lead to some sort of trouble."
"Yes, sir. I mean, no sir."
"Now, tell me what's going on."
"What I meant was... I just lost my focus for a second because there was a fax coming through on the other line," he lied, his mind working overtime. "It's... an update on the weather."
"Good news, I trust."
"Yes, I think... I mean, we will be airborne within the hour, Mr. Van Allen."
"Good. Then I shall be waiting to welcome you and your charming fiancée into my home later this evening. From all you'd told me, she sounds quite the lady..."
***
Micki swore fluently, with the sort of unladylike blue language that caught the attention of even a seasoned Navy man like Luke. His reproachful look was the least of her worries. Considering no one answered her plea for help, they could be some of the last words she ever spoke.
Bringing the speedboat about in another carnival-ride turn, Luke set them on a course paralleling the Gulf side of the island they were passing. Micki had just realized they were now headed out to open sea rather than toward Marathon, when the first speedboat that cut them off reappeared. It had snuck through the channel between keys and now lay in wait ahead of them.
"Luke, look out!"
"I see them, but I'm running out of room to maneuver."
Seeing their prey was within range, the men onboard the other boat sent a warning spray of bullets across their bow.
Well ahead of their bow, Micki noted with a sense of dread. Whoever this 'Bulldog' person was, he wanted them taken alive.
There was still nothing but static on the radio. Switching to another frequency, she doggedly tried again. "This is Micki Jacinto. Come in. Anyone!"
This time someone did. "Say goodnight, sweetheart," said the gloating voice of Captain Crude.
Wide-eyed, Micki dropped the mike and looked behind. The larger boat was closing fast, forcing them into their cohort's hands. A stream of curses from Luke had her bracing herself for another lightning quick change of course, but instead the outboard's roar abated and their speed dropped away beneath them.
"Hey, come on!" she said, recklessly waving the AK-47. "Go!"
Luke snatched the gun from her as the boat settled on the wake. "Put that down! You want to give that bastard a reason to plug us right here where we stand?" He made a show of putting the gun down for the sake of the men chasing them. "It's over. We can't outrun them."
"What happened to chutzpah?" Micki made a move to reach the helm herself. "Damn it, I'm not waiting here like a sitting duck!"
Luke grabbed her wrist and met her eyes. "Survival is a lot like poker. Part of winning is knowing when to fight and when to fold. Nothing beats a full boat, Micki." He offered a small grin to soften the defeat. "Not even a pair of aces like us."
From the corner of her eye, Micki saw the lead speedboat nose cautiously toward their craft, the men aiming their guns directly at them. She swallowed hard. "So we just give up?"
"For now." Looking into his brown eyes, she realized Luke was doing this—surrendering—for her. Had he been alone, it was a sure bet he would have taken his chances on the run. "I don't want you to get hurt," he confessed quietly.
Turning as the two boats closed in on them, Luke lifted his hands above his head in the final gesture of grim compliance. Slowly, silently, Micki followed his lead, and turned with him to face the coming threat.
CHAPTER NINE
Jaw clenched so tight it hurt, Micki watched the pair of red-hulled speedboats close in like circling sharks. Now that she and Luke had ceased trying to escape, they didn't seem in much of a hurry to finish the job, just easing in slowly and carefully as if they were waiting for something. Looking up at the sound of another high speed engine, she realized that the 'something' was a third speedboat skimming toward them from its position at the back of the pack.
It slowed to idle as it reached the circle, jostling all with its wake, its crew under the command of the same fat little man whom Luke and Fizz had taken out on the beach. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he drew attention to this by wiping it with the back of his hand.
At the boat's helm was the black man with the ponytail who had almost thwarted their escape in Captain Crude's boat. Slumped in one of the rear seats, ludicrously bare-chested and clad in Luke's discarded jeans, was the man they had left unconscious in the underbrush. Cradling his head in his hands, he shot a sour glance up at Micki. None of the men, she noted with a sharp trill of fear, looked particularly happy to see them.
One of the circling boats moved to block their bow while the larger one with its crew of six edged to starboard. There was a shout not to move, and then more guns than Micki cared to count were trained on her and Luke as they stood in the rocking midship. Keeping her hands on the back of her head, she swallowed hard against the fear that threatened to choke her.
Fizz gave a low growl and pressed against her legs. Luke shifted slightly at her side, brushing against her in what may have been no more than an accident brought about by the pitch of the boat, but which felt more like wordless reassurance. When she looked at him, however, he did not spare her a glance. His gaze was riveted to Captain Crude as the final boat glided closer. Escape was now
impossible.
Stepping down from the stern, the squat little man traded his gun for the radio mike and, as he began to talk into it, turned a vindictive expression on them. He listened then nodded sullenly, taking orders he didn't like from an unseen superior.
Bulldog.
Snarling something incomprehensible into the mike, Captain Crude ended the call by slamming it back onto the radio mount. Abruptly, Micki wondered who Bulldog really was; who held the leash of these hired killers and brought them to heel? And did he hold it tight enough to keep them alive?
She struggled to emulate Luke's expressionless demeanor as Captain Crude, who was obviously in charge of these pirates, put one foot on the gunwale of his boat as it slipped along the port side. He was preparing to board them.
Micki was concentrating so hard on not showing the quaking fear she felt that Fizz's attack took her totally by surprise. As the intruder took his first step into their vessel, the border collie launched himself, teeth bared, at his throat.
"Fizz, no!" Micki shouted as her dog's teeth clamped about the arm the privateer had lifted to protect himself.
Swearing, Captain Crude fought to shake off the dog. When Fizz righted himself and, snarling, came back for more, the man picked him up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him overboard.
It all happened too fast. It was only when he snatched up the AK-47, that Luke had made a point of placing in the open, and brought it to bear on the dog—now frantically paddling in the water and still barking—that Micki found she could react.
Despite the four other armed men who had boarded them, she launched herself like Fizz had done, grasping Captain Crude's bleeding forearm and forcing the muzzle of his gun off-target, just as he squeezed the trigger.
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