Terry waited until Joe Kowalski had eased his wife into the passenger seat, then he waved to Rick, Boo, and Ernie and headed out. The August heat gave him a wet body slam as he stepped outside. He slid past the Kowalskis’ idling rental but couldn’t resist a glance through the windshield.
Martha was crying.
He averted his gaze and hurried to his pickup.
Life really sucked sometimes.
He jumped into the blisteringly hot cab.
That didn’t mean he had to get involved.
He turned the key and the old Ford shuddered to life.
Wasn’t his problem.
He threw it into reverse.
As he was backing out he saw Joe put an arm around his wife’s thin, quaking shoulders and try to comfort her.
He slammed on the brakes and yanked the gearshift back into neutral.
Shit.
Cursing himself for a jerk, Terry jumped out of the cab and stalked over to the Kowalskis’ car. He rapped on Joe’s window.
“Follow me,” he said as the glass slid down.
Joe’s eyes lit. “You mean—?”
“Just follow.”
As he was heading back to the pickup, he heard a voice call out behind him.
“Aw, Terry! Say it ain’t so!”
He turned and saw Rick standing in the doorway, dismay flattening his weathered features. Boo peered over his shoulder, grinning.
“You’re takin’ ’em, ain’t ya,” Boo said.
“None of your damn business.”
Boo nudged Rick none too gently and rubbed his palms together. “See. I toldja he would. I win. Gimme back my saw plus the one you owe me. Give it now, Rick.”
Rick handed the money to Boo and gave Terry a wounded look.
“Y’disappointed the shit outta me, Terr.”
“Yeah, well,” Terry muttered, slipping behind the wheel again, “there’s one born every minute.”
“You really think he’s going to risk this storm?” Cramer asked.
Pepe Henriques looked at his mate. Cramer’s round, usually relaxed boyish face was tight with tension.
He’s scared, he thought.
Which was okay. Showing it wasn’t.
Henriques looked past Cramer at the storm that filled the sky. Giant forks of lightning occasionally speared down to the Gulf but mostly jumped cloud to cloud, illuminating the guts of the storm with explosions of light. Thunder crashed incessantly, vibrating their fiberglass hull. He could see the rain curtain billowing toward them.
Almost here.
When it hit, visibility would be shot and they’d have to go on instruments. But so would the runner.
“He’ll be out here. Why else would that hospital ship be dawdling fourteen miles out? They’re waiting for a delivery. And our man’s going to make it. That is, he’s going to try. This’ll be his last run.”
He tossed Cramer a life jacket and watched him strap it on. Saw the black ATF across the yellow fabric and had to shake his head.
Me. An ATF agent.
He still couldn’t believe it. But he’d found he liked the regular paycheck, the benefit package, the retirement fund. Sure as hell beat taking tourists tarpon and bone fishing on the flats.
But he might be back to fishing those flats if he didn’t catch this runner.
Henriques had run up against him twice before, but both times he’d got away. Two things he knew for sure about the guy: He ran a Hutchison 686 and he was a Conch. Henriques had seen the Hutch from a distance. The registration numbers on the twenty-six-foot craft were bogus—no surprise there. What had been big surprises were the way the boat handled and its pilot’s knowledge of the waters around the Lower Keys. The Hutch 686 was popular as hell in these parts, but this one had done things a propeller-driven shouldn’t be able to do. It ran like a VMA impeller—like Henriques’s craft. The runner had customized it somehow.
And as for being a Conch, well . . . nobody could dodge among all these reefs and mangrove keylets like that runner unless he’d spent his life among them. A native of the Keys. A Conch. Took one to know one.
Take one to catch one.
And I’m the one, Henriques thought. Tonight’s his last run.
The rain hit just as they neared the inner rim of the reef. Terry pulled back on the throttle and idled the engine.
“Thank God!” Martha Kowalski said. She clung to the arms of her deck-fast seat with white knuckles. “That bouncing was making me sick!”
“What’re you doing now?” Joe shouted over the mad drumming of the big drops on the deck and the roof of the open cabin.
Terry didn’t answer. His passengers would see for themselves soon enough.
He unwrapped the molded black plastic panels and began scampering around the deck, snapping them onto the sides of the superstructure. Two of the strips for the hull sported a brand-new registration number, fresh off the decal sheets. Another went over the transom to cover the name, replacing his own admittedly corny Terryfied with Delta Sue.
Joe looked bewildered when Terry ducked back into the cabin enclosure.
“I don’t get it.”
“Just a little insurance.”
The less Joe knew, the better.
The panels changed the boat’s lines and color scheme. Nothing that would hold up against even casual inspection in good light, but from a distance, through lightning-strobed rain, his white, flat-bottomed VMA impeller craft looked an awful lot like a black-and-white V-hulled Hutchison 686. The black panels also broke up the boat’s outline, making it harder to spot.
“That’s what you said when you were playing around with the light on that channel marker,” Joe said.
“That’s right. Another kind of insurance.”
“But that could—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll undo it on my way back in. No questions—wasn’t that the deal?”
Joe nodded glumly. “But I still don’t get it.”
You’re not supposed to, Terry thought as he gunned the engine and headed into the wind.
The hull jumped, thudded, shimmied, and jittered with the staccato pounding of the waves, and all that rhythmic violence worked into every tissue of his body. Once he zipped through the cut in the barrier reef it got worse—two, three, maybe four times worse. Riding at this speed in this weather was a little like getting a total body massage. From King Kong. On speed. Add to that the tattoo of the rain, the howl of the wind, the booming thunder, and further talk was damn near impossible. Unless you shouted directly into someone’s ear. Which Martha was doing into Joe’s as she bounced around in her seat and hung on for dear life.
Joe sidled over. “Think you could slow down? Martha can’t take the pounding.”
Terry shook his head. “I ease up, we won’t make enough headway.”
Joe went back to Martha and they traded more shouts, none of which Terry could hear. Joe lurched back.
“Let’s go back. I’m calling the trip off. Martha’s afraid, and she can’t take this pounding.”
He’d been half expecting something like this. Damn. Should have left them back on Sugarloaf.
“Don’t wimp out on me, Joe.”
“It’s not me. Look, you can keep the money. Martha’s getting sick. Just turn around and take us back.”
“Can’t do that. No questions and no turning back—wasn’t that the deal?”
“Yes, but—”
“It’s still the deal. Tell Martha to hang on and she’ll have a new hip tomorrow.”
As Joe stumbled back to his wife, Terry concentrated on the infrared scanner. Clear and cold except for the faint blob of the Osler straight ahead. Good. Stay that way.
Terry liked rain. Besides lowering visibility, it played havoc with heat scanners. Radiant energy tended to get swallowed up in all that falling water. But that could be a two-edged sword: Terry couldn’t spot a pursuer until they were fairly close.
Didn’t worry him much at the moment. Weren’t too many craft that could out
run him in a sprint, and once he slipped past the twelve-mile limit, no one could touch him. Legally, anyway. Always the possibility that some frustrated ATF goon with a short fuse might blow a few holes in your hull—and you—and let the sharks clean up the mess.
He checked the compass, checked the Loran—right on course. Just a matter of time now. He looked up and froze when he saw Joe Kowalski pointing a pistol at him. The automatic—looked like a 9mm—wavered in the old guy’s hand but the muzzle never strayed far from the center of Terry’s chest.
“Turn around and take us back,” Joe shouted.
No way was Terry turning back. And no way was he telling Joe that at the moment. Guns made him nervous.
Terry eyed the gun. “Where’d that come from?”
“I brought it along . . . just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“In case you tried to rob us. Or worse.”
“Whatever happened to trust?”
“The Health Resources Allocation Agency’s got mine.” His eyes bored into Terry’s. “Now turn this thing around. I told you you could keep the money. Just take us back.”
Terry shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t do that.”
Joe couldn’t seem to believe what he’d heard. “I’ve got a gun, dammit!”
Terry was well aware of that. He didn’t think Joe would pull that trigger, but you never knew. So maybe it was time to shake Joe up—more than physically.
“And I’ve got a cargo to deliver.”
“My wife is not cargo!”
“Take a look below,” Terry told him, jutting his chin toward the door to the belowdecks area.
Joe’s gaze darted from Terry to the door and back. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You wouldn’t try anything stupid, would you?”
Terry shrugged. “Take a look.”
Joe thought about that, then backed away and opened the door. More hesitation, then he slipped below. A moment later he appeared again, pale, his eyes wide. Terry could read his lips.
“Medical supplies! Martha, he’s a smuggler!”
Martha freed up a hand long enough to slap it over the O of her mouth, then returned it to the armrest.
“The way I see it, Joe, you’ve got two options. The first is you can shoot me and try to get the boat back home on your own. Not only will you have to guide it through the storm, but you’ll have to avoid the shore patrol. If they catch you you’ll go down for murder and smuggling. Or you can follow through with our original plan and—” A blip caught his eye on the infrared scanner, aport and astern, and closing. He forgot all about Joe Kowalski’s gun. “Shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got company.”
“Who?”
“ATF, most likely.”
“ATF? But they’re alcohol, tobacco and—”
“They added medical supplies to their list. Get over by Martha and hang on. This could get a little rough.”
“A little rough? It’s already—”
“Get out of my face, dammit!”
Henriques, Terry thought. Has to be him. No one else has such a bug up his ass that he’d brave this storm looking for a runner. Not just any runner. Looking for The One That Got Away.
Me.
He jammed the throttle all the way forward. Terryfied lifted farther out of the water and began bouncing along the tops of the waves. Like riding downhill in a boxcar derby on a cobblestone road. With steel wheels. Planing out was impossible, but this was as close as she’d get. The price was loss of control. The boat slewed wildly to port or starboard whenever she dipped into a trough.
How’d Henriques find him? Luck? Probably not. He was a Conch but even that wasn’t enough. Probably some new equipment he had. Price was no object for the ATF when taxes were paying for it.
Damn ATF. For years Terry had breezed in and out of the Keys on his supply runs until they’d got smart and started hiring locals for their shore patrols. Making a run these days had become downright dicey.
He concentrated on the Loran, the infrared scanner, and what little he could see of the water ahead. The blip had stopped gaining. And running on the diagonal as it had to, was actually losing ground. Terry didn’t let up. Unless he hit some floating debris or broached in a freak swell, he’d be first to cross the twelve-mile limit.
But he wouldn’t be celebrating.
“Oh, Lord!” Martha cried, staring up the sheer twenty feet of steel hull that loomed above her. “How am I going to get up there?”
“Don’t worry,” Terry said as he tried to hold his bobbing craft steady against the Osler. “We have a routine.”
Above them a winch supporting a pair of heavy-duty slings swung into view. The straps of the slings flapped and twisted in the gale-force winds as they were lowered over the side. Terry nosed his prow through the first when it hit water, then idled his engine and manually guided the second sling under the stern.
The winch began hauling them up.
Once they were on the deck the crew pulled a heavy canvas canopy over the boat and helped Martha into a wheelchair.
“Well, she made it,” Terry said.
Joe Kowalski stared at him. “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you in the nose.”
“Think on it awhile,” Terry said. “Wait till you’re both sitting in a bar sipping a G ’n’ T after a round of golf. Then decide.”
Joe’s face softened. He extended his hand. They shook, then Joe followed Martha inside.
As the Osler’s crew offloaded the medical supplies, Terry ducked out from under the billowing canopy and fought the wind and rain to the deck rail. He squinted out at the lightning-shot chaos. A lot of hell left in this monster. But that didn’t mean Henriques had run home. No, that bastard was laying out there somewhere, waiting.
Not to arrest him. Couldn’t do that once the contraband was gone. And if Henriques did manage to catch him, Terry could thumb his nose and say he’d been out on a little jaunt to say hello to some old friends among the crew.
But even though Henriques had no case against him, Terry still couldn’t let him get near. It wasn’t fear of arrest that gnawed at the lining of his gut. It was being identified.
Once they knew his name, his runner career was over. He’d be watched day and night, followed everywhere, his phones tapped, his house bugged, and every time Terryfied left the slip he’d be stopped and inspected.
His whole way of life would be turned upside down.
One option was to stay on the Osler and make a break for the coast farther north. But the weather would be better then and officialdom would have copters hovering about, waiting to tag him and follow him home.
No, he had to use the heavy weather. But even that might not be enough. On the way out he’d had the advantage: Henriques didn’t know Terry’s starting point. Could have been anywhere along the lower twenty miles of the archipelago. But now Henriques had him pinpointed. All he had to do was wait for Terry to make his move. Didn’t even have to catch him. All he had to do was follow him home.
Yeah, getting back was going to be a real bitch.
“Maybe he’s not coming,” Cramer said. “Maybe he’s going to wait out the storm and hope that we drowned out here.”
Cramer’s whininess had increased steadily during the hour they’d been holding here. It was getting on Henriques’s nerves something bad now.
“He is coming out, and it’ll be during the storm, and we’re not going to drown.”
At least he hoped not. A couple of times during the past hour he hadn’t been so sure about that. He’d had Cramer keep the VMA low and slow in forward into the wind while he watched the lights of the Osler through his binocs. But every so often came a rogue wave or a gust of shear wind that damn near cap-sized them. Cramer had good reason to want to hightail for home.
But they weren’t turning around until the fuel gauge told them they had to.
Besides, according to the Doppler the rear end of the storm was only a few miles
west. The runner would have to make his break soon.
And then you’re mine.
“We got heat action, chief. Lots of it.”
Henriques snapped the glasses down and leapt to the infrared scanner. Fanning out from the big red blob of the hospital ship were three smaller, fainter blobs.
“What’s going on, chief?”
“Decoys.”
The son of a bitch had two of the Osler’s shuttles running interference for him. One heat source was headed north-northeast, one north-northwest, and one right at them.
Henriques ground his teeth. The bastard had raised his odds from zero to two out of three. God damn him.
“All right, Cramer,” he said. “One of them’s our man. Which one?’
“I—I dunno.”
“Come on. Put yourself out here alone. You’ve got to chase one. Choose.”
Cramer chewed his lip and stared at the scanner. Probably doing eeny-meeny-miney-moe in his head. Henriques had already decided to ignore whichever Cramer chose. Cramer was never right.
“Well, it sure as hell ain’t the guy coming right at us, so I’ll choose . . . the . . . one . . . to . . . the . . .” His finger stabbed at the screen. “East!”
Henriques hesitated. Not a bad choice, actually. The Lower Keys were more heavily populated toward their western end, especially near Key West; coast guard base and naval air station down that way—all sorts of folks runners don’t like to meet. And the storm was heading northeast, so that direction would give the most rain cover. He might just have to go with Cramer this—
Wait a second.
Well, it sure as hell ain’t the guy coming right at us . . .
Yeah. The obvious assumption. So obvious that Henriques had bought into it without really thinking. But what if the runner was counting on that? Send the shuttles right and left, draw the heat toward them, then breeze through the empty middle.
And remember: Cramer is never right.
He grabbed Cramer’s wrist as he reached for the throttle. “Let’s hang here for a bit.”
“Why? He’s got to—”
“Just call it a feeling.”
Henriques watched the screen, tracking the trio of diverging blobs. As the center one neared, he lifted the glasses again. Nothing. Whoever it was was traveling without running lights.
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