A bareboat charter meant that the newly-formed Praxus Enterprises (incorporated in Delaware) would have to supply a captain and crew on their own. They had thirty days to do so or forfeit their deposit. In the meantime, the Ocean Raj would be prepared and guaranteed seaworthy by the agreed upon departure date.
“All we need is a skipper,” Caroline said. She’d done the spadework and arranged everything from her suite via the laptop. Even incorporating as an S Corp as Helen Martin-Freeborn was done in cyberspace. She closed the lid of the Alien and reclined back on the chaise in the dark of the veranda off her suite. Dwayne was here with her, with a paperback on his chest, and lulled into a half-doze by the pulse of the surf, and the dying light as the sun sank into the water.
“Good luck with that,” he said without opening his eyes.
“You don’t know anyone?”
“I was Army. We stayed off of boats.”
“There are agencies for hiring onboard personnel. I can pull resumes and see who’s available, I guess.” She opened the laptop again.
“You need someone who can keep their mouth shut.
That’s not going to be in their Facebook profile.”
“A crooked sea captain. We pay him to keep quiet.”
“No. Money’s not enough to cover what you have in mind. You need someone who can keep their mouth shut and someone you can trust. That means someone you know.”
“You don’t know anyone then?” she said, closing the lid again and setting the Alien aside. The veranda went dark, with the glow of the monitor gone.
“Hammond probably does.” He sighed.
She moved to Dwayne’s chaise and sat down on the edge. He shuffled over to allow her room. The paperback slid to the deck.
“Call him,” she said.
“Can it wait till later?”
“You promise? You promise. Promise me.”
“Yeah,” he said and started to rise. “I’ll go to my room and get my cell. His burner number’s on it.”
She laid a hand on his chest and pressed him back down on the cushion.
“What’s your hurry?”
16
Boats
It was Jimbo who remembered a guy he knew only as Boats.
Boats was a Navy SEAL that Jimbo met when they were both at SERE. They crossed paths again in sniper school at Pendleton. Boats wound up on SEAL Team 3, the outfit that specialized in everything waterborne from Zodiacs to the big ships. Unlike most SEALs, Boats actually spent most of his time, in or on the water. He worked his way up to O-2, lieutenant JG, before retiring at thirty-nine. His military experience driving boats in the Gator Fleet let him breeze through the Maritime Institute for a commercial skipper’s license.
Jimbo kept in touch with him after mustering out and knew that Boats was between gigs after two years as captain on a Liberian-registered cargo ship.
“How’d he lose that gig?” Dwayne wanted to know.
“He was dodgy on that when we spoke. But he still has his paper,” Jimbo said.
Dwayne was driving them in a rental along an unpaved road to what they’d been told was a marina outside of Freeport, Texas.
“Guess it couldn’t have been that bad, then,” Dwayne said.
“Or it was too embarrassing for the company to make public.” Jimbo shrugged.
“He’s that kind of guy, huh?”
“Unless he’s changed.”
“Sounds about right for us. So, Chaz is pussying out on us?”
“Appears that way,” Jimbo said. “It makes sense for him. I’m not gonna judge. He’s seen enough.”
“And you haven’t?” Dwayne said. “I want to see it all.” Jimbo grinned.
Dwayne pulled the rental to a stop on a sandy lot where the road dead-ended at the bank of a broad inlet. A row of masts was visible over the tree line that ran along one side of the lot. There were a couple of salt-faded pickups baking in the sun. Boat trailers rusted in the weeds.
They followed a wood-decked pier lined with anchored boats, Sea Rays and Esprits, and a couple of catamarans. At the end of the pier, a forty-foot pontoon boat with an enclosed cabin bobbed in the gentle swell. WOTTA PEACH was painted in fading letters across the bow.
“This is him,” Jimbo said.
“He takes that on the ocean?” Dwayne said.
“Naw. He lives on it.”
A high feminine shriek coming from within the houseboat echoed over the water loud enough to startle a flock of terns from their roost on a sandbar.
“Yeah,” Jimbo said. “He hasn’t changed.”
The shriek turned to peals of laughter, then another shriek.
The two Rangers came to the end of the dock to find a very pretty Latina in a very small bikini being soaked by a laughing barrel-chested guy armed with a hose. He had a shock of red hair and a full beard. His chest and arms were covered in tattoos under a deep brown tan. Ropes of pale scar tissue encircled his forearms.
“Stop it, pendejo!” Her laughter was changing to anger. “I said to stop it!”
Redbeard kept laughing and training the hose on her with unerring accuracy. She stumbled around on the slick deck, sputtering in Spanglish. She reached a big plastic cooler at the stern, pulled a Dos Equis tallboy out of the ice, and flung it at her tormentor. It broke on the bulkhead behind him. He ducked a second bottle that missed his head by inches to plunk into the inlet.
“Not my beer, woman!” he bawled and threw down the hose to hold up his hands in surrender.
She stood with a bottle raised to throw. She glared at him, dripping.
“No more jokes?” she said warily.
“No mas, honey,” he cooed and stumbled toward her with arms out for an embrace. She lowered her weapon and smiled at him. When Redbeard got close enough, he gave her a shove that sent her tumbling overboard into the water with a fresh scream cut short by a plunking splash.
“She can swim, right?” Jimbo said, stepping onto the rear deck followed by Dwayne.
“That really you, Chief?” Boats said. His beard split into a
