Blood Sun

witness.

Then he hesitated and spoke in English with a heavy Latino accent.

“You saved my stupid brother. I owe you. Get in!”

The SUV swung away into the night. Within minutes they had crossed a causeway, leaving the city’s glistening tower blocks behind. The driver killed the headlights and drove fast through the semidarkness. Canyons of shipping containers loomed next to iron skeletons of cranes guarding the docksides.

Max hung on as the SUV swerved, evading anyone who might be giving chase. The two men in the back had a first-aid pack open. One spilled a clear liquid that stank of antiseptic onto the boy’s wound. The boy winced, gritted his teeth and seemed a lot tougher now he was in the men’s company. The other quickly mopped the wound dry with a wad of gauze, then sprinkled a white powder over the gunshot. Using butterfly clips, they pulled the gash together. Finally they taped a clean dressing across it.

Max could see they had done this before; gunshot wounds were evidently not uncommon in their business.

The boy grinned. He was OK now. He reached out his hand toward Max. The boy’s grip was strong enough. His blood was already smeared across Max’s clothes. They both looked as though they had been in a war zone. The boy spoke in broken English.

“You save me. We friends now, yes? I am Xavier Morera Escobodo Garcia. What is your name?”

“Max, just Max will do fine.”

11

The boat thundered across the flat, calm water with a roar like a jet engine. Max was strapped in, Xavier by his side. The breathtaking power kept Max from screaming with exhilaration. These men were not going to kill him; they were taking him on a heart-stopping journey into the unknown. There was no doubt they were on the wrong side of the law, but Xavier had promised Max that no harm would come to him. They were going home-somewhere in Central America-and Max was going with them. Their common destination offered some comfort, at least.

Dawn’s needles of cold light splintered the sea. They were in warm waters, but the air still chilled him. Especially at this speed. Max looked behind him. The land was out of sight; the surging power wave crested and fell.

“It’s called a go-fast boat,” Xavier had told him when they reached the tucked-away boatyard in the Miami dockland. “Is very fast.”

Max had recognized what he’d always thought of as a racing boat: deep V hull, narrow beam, huge thousand-horsepower engines and nearly twenty meters long.

This was not just fast; this was breathtaking. Xavier’s brother eased the power controls forward, the boat’s nose lifted slightly and the engines bit deeper into the water-doing a wheelie would never be the same again.

Max could see the GPS-based speed readout in front of Xavier’s brother. They were doing 180 kilometers per hour. Max had been in planes flying slower than this.

Xavier shouted above the engines’ roar and the wind. “We go fast now. The Americans”-he pulled a face-“they don’ like us. They try and catch us all the time.” He grinned. “But they have to get very lucky, yes? They don’ have boats like this.”

“Was it the Americans who shot you?” Max shouted, pushing his face next to Xavier’s ear.

The boy shook his head. “Another gang. We are taking business away from them. My brother, Alejandro, he is ambitious.”

Max did not want to ask the obvious question, but he needed to know for sure.

“Drugs?”

“Si. Plenty. Big business. From Central America to Miami. Very nice money.”

They could not talk for long-the buffeting slipstream was too powerful. The far horizon, the open sea and the speeding bullet of a boat created an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Max was alone and defenseless in this vast ocean, ricocheting across the marble-hard water. Always be careful what you wish for, a voice said in his head. You might not want it when you get it. He had wished hard and long to get to Central America, but he had not figured on becoming embroiled in a gunfight, saving a drug runner’s brother and being at his mercy. Not only had he stolen a passport and entered America illegally, but he was also now part of a vicious gang-and had no proof of identity or a plane ticket. He did not know which would be the worst fate: being taken to the drug runner’s home base or being intercepted and arrested by the authorities. He was no better off than a refugee or a fugitive. But at least he was heading the right way.

Max concentrated on the trouble he was in. He was in no immediate danger. What would his dad have done? He allowed his father’s image to settle in his mind, pushing away the stab of anger he felt. Rule one-don’t panic. Rule two-be patient: watch and listen. Rule three-be ready, and when the time comes, pick your moment.

And then?

Escape.

Like the plowed water behind the boat, Max was leaving his own turbulent wake.

Charlie Morgan sat in Miami airport’s security room with two FBI agents. Security cameras scanned the passengers coming and going, but there was no sign of Max Gordon masquerading as Josh Lewis on any of the screens. Nothing was flagged showing he had checked in at the departure gates. The Belize flight had already left without Max on board. The airline staff had been briefed and would press a control button to alert the agents, but no such alarm had been raised.

Did Max have yet another false identity?

“Where is he?” she asked no one in particular.

The FBI were doing Bob Ridgeway a favor by stopping Max from leaving America, but they could not extend their time beyond this act of professional courtesy.

“We can check every reservation and every young man who’s checked in already,” one of them said, “but if this kid is as smart as you say he is, then maybe the Belize thing is a red herring.”

“Maybe,” Charlie said, “but he doesn’t have unlimited resources. He moved fast. He needed to smoke screen us long enough to get out of the UK-that was all. We know he’s here in Miami, and he has to get to Central America somehow.”

The men ran through the options Max could have taken. He might have caught a bus and traveled to another state airport and taken the Belize flight from there. He could have gone way across Florida and Texas and slipped through Mexico.

“Let’s check all the airline bookings and the bus station. Can we do that?” Morgan asked.

The men shook their heads. “That’s a lot of legwork,” one of them said.

“And the kid’s got at least twelve hours’ start on us. I dunno, Charlie. That’s a big ask,” the other added.

It was time to charm the two young men, using the smile that made her look vulnerable enough to ask for the guys’ help-like she used to do when she was a schoolgirl. “Just the main bus terminal, then. Maybe if there’s time, we run the computer checks. What do you say?”

They nodded. They’d do as she asked.

Men always did.

An hour later, Charlie Morgan watched the television monitor at the bus station. “A suspected drug shooting last night involved a British boy. Police found the body of a known drug dealer in a Dumpster beneath the room rented by the boy. Two passports and personal effects were discovered. It is thought the British boy was using false identities and is involved in a drug-smuggling gang.”

Charlie and the FBI had found Max Gordon thanks to a ravenous-for-news TV station on a quiet day. A visit to the Miami police headquarters, barely five miles from the airport where they had waited so patiently, confirmed the facts.

The questions Charlie Morgan could find no answers to were: where had Max been taken, who had taken