I pulled on and buttoned up my cargo shorts, then threw on the same T-shirt I’d worn the day before.
“Just the utility,” she replied. “Chugged out of the lagoon less than a minute ago. It’s heading north.”
I slid my holstered Sig under my waistband, then strapped my dive knife to the back of my belt so it ran parallel to the ground. It was my usual place for it. Out of the way, yet easy access for my dominant hand.
I followed her topside. The dark landscape was calm, the only change being that the patches of clouds had abated, allowing the moon to illuminate unencumbered by the haze. The moment I stepped out of the saloon, I heard the distant sound of an outboard engine.
I grabbed my night vision monocular and we stepped up onto the bow. Focusing toward the sound of the engine, I saw the aluminum cabin cruiser. It was running at maybe fifteen knots, still heading north just as Ange had said. We were a mile off, but I could make out a figure’s silhouette through the cabin’s port window.
We raised the anchor, then started up the Baia’s engines. Keeping a steady eye on our quarry, we watched as the modified metal boat reached the northern tip of Totten Key, then turned east into Caesar Creek. I followed, cutting across the bay and maintaining distance while keeping the boat in our sights.
We entered the channel, weaving through a few smaller islands, and wondered where the boat was headed. Aside from Elliot Key Ranger Station, Boca Chita Campground, and a few private houses, there wasn’t much to the north of us.
“You think he’d motor all the way to Miami on that little thing?” Ange said.
I shrugged.
“If that’s his plan, he’s an idiot. With the low freeboard on that boat, he should stick to the bay.”
We watched as the boat neared the eastern mouth of Caesar Creek. There, the water was slightly rougher than it’d been in Biscayne. A few small whitecaps splashed water over the boat’s low gunwales. Though it was relatively calm, our quarry’s boat wasn’t designed for open water.
As it exited the channel, the pilot immediately eased it back to the north. Ange’s thought that this guy might chug all the way to Miami was a possibility. We were about twenty miles from the city and its many marinas and docks. If the boat continued that far, we’d motor up and reintroduce ourselves in open water long before he could sneak away.
But I had an eerie feeling about the whole thing. Just a soft, lapping wave of doubt and uneasiness. A hunch. Something wasn’t right.
The boat maintained its speed, motoring along roughly a hundred yards off Elliot Key. Though over seven miles long, Elliot was barely over half a mile at its widest. Like every other nearby island, the shoreline was covered with thick mangroves and untouched beaches.
After a few more minutes of following, my uneasiness swelled.
“Something seems wrong here,” Ange said, as if reading my thoughts.
Ange had spent nearly her entire life in dangerous situations and deadly conflicts. I valued her instincts as much as my own.
“Let’s close in and stop his escape,” I said. “Then convince him to do some talking. Find out where the others are.”
Ange agreed.
Though my dad was right about the importance of patience, we’d sat by long enough. It was time to act.
I eased the throttle forward, causing the engine to groan and the props to churn faster and the sleek boat to accelerate. I brought us to within a quarter mile of the boat. Then a hundred yards. Then fifty.
I peered through my night vision monocular, watching our quarry’s every move. Through the two small rear cockpit windows, I could see the pilot. He stood with both hands on the helm. And though he occasionally glanced over his shoulder at us, his speed remained constant. If he recognized our boat from earlier that day, he didn’t seem fazed.
“Could you take over, Ange?” I said. “I’m gonna get him to stop.”
She gripped the helm and I stepped down into the guest cabin. Opening a storage locker, I grabbed a high-powered spotlight. Once back on deck, I stepped up to the bow as Ange slowed us along the port side of the aluminum boat.
Holding the light with my left hand, I grabbed my Sig with my right. I aimed both at the small cockpit, then rested my finger on the power switch for the spotlight. Just as I was about to flick it and blast the guy with a beam of two-million-candlepower light, I heard the sound of a third boat’s engines in the distance. It came from behind us, and in the direction of Elliot Key.
I spun around and peered toward the source. The glow of moonlight allowed me to see the pontoon boat motoring out from its hiding place in the mangroves. Clearing from the tangle of branches, the engines roared and rocketed the craft straight toward us. It was two hundred yards off, but on the deck I could see two men. One was standing on the bow with a rifle butt pressed to his shoulder, the barrel aimed straight at us.
TWENTY-ONE
“Ange!” I called out as I sprang toward the stern.
There was no time to consider our options, and there sure as hell wasn’t any time to beat ourselves up for clearly playing right into their hands. One of them was aiming his rifle straight at us, and they were too far away to attempt going muzzle to muzzle with my handgun.
Before I’d said her name, Ange was already on it. She gripped the helm and shot me a look, giving me a second to brace before she tore us out of there like a bat out
