Whack A Mole

be wrapped with a kerosene-soaked fabric of some sort….”

Great. Cap'n Pete has decorated his ship with holy tiki torches. Next he's going to turn his boat into a luau pit.

“Can you see anything else?” asks Gus. “Do you see Pete? Rita?”

“Negative. No. Wait. Yes. I am reading thermal images of two bodies in the stern cockpit. One stationary and seated. The other mobile.” He lowers the glasses. “Danny? Cut back on the engines.”

I do.

Ceepak goes back to the night-vision goggles.

“The stationary body is moving. Slightly. Wriggling against apparent restraints.”

Good. Rita is still alive.

“Body appears to be tied down in a fighting chair aft of the main cabin,” Ceepak continues.

Most fishing boats have these padded chairs you strap yourself into. Makes it easier to tangle with a tuna if your seat belt is securely fastened and you're bolted down to the deck.

“The other body is moving back and forth to the cabin,” he continues. “Keeps bringing out heavy objects. Stacking them. Judging from the thermal silhouette, the cold object being carried appears to be round. Doughnut shaped.”

I take a wild guess. “Tires?”

“Roger that. S.O.P. Standard Operating Procedure for insurgents. Tires and diesel fuel. Stack 'em up, soak 'em down. Creates an excellent improvised incendiary device. Generates intense heat.”

“Freaking psycho,” says Gus. “Burning up his own damn boat. Rig for silent running, Danny.”

“You want me to kill the motors?”

“Make 'em as quiet as you can. Line up our bow with his foredeck, aim for a spot just off his port. We'll sneak up on him from his blind spot, use his bulkhead for cover.”

I turn the wheel, pull down on the throttles.

Ceepak, I notice, is checking his pistol.

“Danny? Lock and load.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You boys bring along a spare pop-gun?” asks Gus.

“Negative,” says Ceepak. “Perhaps you should man the helm from this point on.”

“Sure. Make me the freaking chauffeur.”

I step aside. Gus takes the wheel, concentrates on maneuvering us into position for our sneak attack. He makes a final twist of the wheel and pulls back on the throttles.

The engines stop whining. Move into a purr. Down into a chug.

“Danny?” Ceepak whispers.

“Sir?”

“I suggest you assume a prone position here on the bridge. It will help steady your aim.”

“Yes, sir.” I lie down on the deck. Brace my gun against the front-most railing. Line up a shot across our bow.

I hear Ceepak move aft, slide down the ladder, make his way to the bow, and climb out on the harpooning pulpit. He becomes, as always, our forward gunner.

We're drifting.

I can see the Reel Fun now.

On it are silhouetted two fiery crosses jutting out on the chrome-fitted outriggers at the stern. They frame both sides of the boat with flame.

Of course, I can't see Rita. She's tied up in the back. We're coming at them from the front.

“One hundred yards and closing,” Gus whispers. “Adding speed.”

I slide an inch or two forward on my belly, holding my pistol in front of me with both hands. I steady it in a corner where the horizontal railing meets its vertical post.

“Eighty yards.”

I peek up and over my gun. Ceepak is crouched in the pulpit that juts forward off the bow. His pistol is pointed straight ahead, too. I wish he had his rifle. Some sort of sniper weapon system. Ceepak can pierce Roosevelt's ear on a dime with a sniper weapon.

“Sixty yards.”

Hang on, Rita. The cavalry's coming.

Suddenly, a light goes on at the front of the Reel Fun.

A blindingly bright halogen.

It spotlights Ceepak.

“Hello, Lady Fran.” Pete's voice crackles over our radio. “You shouldn't be here, Johnny. Not yet, anyway.”

I crawl backward. Crab sideways. Move behind the control console. Hug the floor behind Gus's feet.

“You shouldn't be here!”

Ceepak doesn't answer.

“Gus!” Cap'n Pete hollers. “Hello, old friend. Welcome!”

I look up. Above me, I see Gus frozen in a dusty circle of bright light. He reaches down and grabs the radio mike.

“Give it up, Pete,” he says. “Over.”

I hear Pete's wet, jolly laugh rumble out of the radio speaker. Only it doesn't sound so jolly tonight.

“Johnny,” Pete's voice spikes. “I have Rita tied up down below.”

I'm guessing Pete is upstairs in his flybridge like Gus-seated at the helm, manning the halogen spotlight, working the radio.

“If you want your whore to live a single moment longer, kindly lower that cannon you're aiming at me. That's the good boy. Now, toss it overboard.”

The radio goes quiet. All I hear are the waves slapping the sides of our boat. I stay low, curled up behind the three-foot-wide control console. I'm practically kissing the no-skid strips pasted on the deck.

“Now, Johnny!” Pete screams. “Throw your weapon overboard or Rita dies, do you understand?”

Up front, I hear Ceepak's pistol splash into the water.

Great.

I think I just became the forward gunner.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

I'm curled up in a ball, lying undetected on the deck of the fly-bridge, hidden behind the control console.

However, if Cap'n Pete asks John Ceepak to tell him where I am, I'm totally busted, because Ceepak will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do-maybe not even when multiple lives are at stake.

The radio crackles with static. “Where's Danny?” asks Pete.

Great. Here we go.

“I'm not certain,” says Ceepak.

Okay. Technically, he's telling the truth. He doesn't know if I'm up here, down in the cabin, or hiding with the live bait in the cooler.

“Is he there with you?”

“No.”

Again, technically true. I am not standing on the harpooning pulpit with Ceepak.

“Probably best that you left the boy at home,” says Pete.

Ceepak doesn't answer. Pete forgot to phrase his remark in the form of a question. Blew his chance at becoming a five-time champion on Jeopardy! — or at finding my hiding spot.