Piranha

19

Juan couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a day off. He wouldn’t have today, either, if Max hadn’t insisted, but now that he was on the fifty-two-foot custom Carolina deep-sea fishing boat called the Cast Away with a Red Stripe in his hand and four monster yellowfin tunas already in the cooler, he didn’t know why he’d ever resisted.

The boat was trolling ten miles off the coast, four poles stuck in the rotating pedestal fishing chair, the well-used leather fighting belt hanging from its armrest. Juan and Max were the sole passengers on the luxurious charter. Captain Craig Reed, a garrulous Boston firefighter who’d retired to Montego Bay to start his fishing business, manned the conn and served as the boat’s only crew member. Juan and Max had nothing to do but savor the fine weather and beer until the next bite.

“You know, Reed’s got the right idea,” Max said, and took another swig from his bottle.

“The right idea about what?”

“About how to retire in style.”

Juan tilted his head at Max. “Thinking about leaving the Corporation?”

Max shrugged. “Maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I’ve been on the water since I was assigned to that Swift Boat in Vietnam.”

“And you love it.”

“I do. That’s why buying my own fishing charter has its appeal.”

“The Corporation doesn’t provide enough excitement for you?”

“Too much, sometimes.”

“It keeps you young.”

“I just wish it did something for my weight,” Max said, patting his round belly. Julia was constantly on him to watch his diet, but Chef’s pasta was too tempting.

“I could install a treadmill at your workstation in the op center.”

“You do that and I’m definitely retiring.”

“Then we have a deal. No treadmill, no retirement.”

They tapped bottles and took another drink.

“Well, what do you know?” Reed called down from his chair on the deck above them. “Looks like we’ve got some competition for this prime spot.”

Another fishing charter cleaved the water as it raced toward them at full speed about a mile out. It looked to be a sixty-foot Landeweer, a high-end vessel that outclassed the Cast Away.

“She’s coming on pretty fast,” Juan said.

“That’s the Oceanaire,” Reed said, his brow knotted. “It’s Colin Porter’s boat. She’s a beauty, fully customized, the fastest charter in Montego Bay. Now, why is Colin out here? He told me this morning that he’d be trolling east of here.”

“Seems odd that he would be headed straight for us,” Max said.

“Let me ask him what’s going on.” Reed tried calling on the radio, but instead of a response, Juan could hear a sound like a high-pitched electric drill coming from the speaker.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” Reed said, banging on the console.

Juan looked at Max. “Does that sound like a jamming signal to you?”

“It sure does.” Max narrowed his eyes at the approaching boat when he realized the implication of what Juan was asking.

There was no use checking their personal cell phones. Even if they weren’t being jammed, they were far out of range of any tower.

“Someone’s jamming us?” Reed asked. He followed their gaze to the Oceanaire. “Colin? That’s crazy.”

Juan scanned the horizon. “There aren’t any other boats in sight.”

“It has to be a malfunction,” Reed said. “He’s probably just coming over to say hi or tell us where the best fishing is.”

“Has he done something like this before?”

“Well… no.”

“Seems like a strange coincidence, don’t you think? They’re coming at us full bore just after your radio went out?”

“But jamming our signal? Why would he do that?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” Max said.

Juan leaned into Max and said quietly, “This seems all wrong.”

“I’ve got the same feeling,” Max answered back.

“If they have a portable jammer on that boat, it required some planning to bring it along. They didn’t find one in their neighborhood hardware store.”

“Which means they didn’t want us calling for help.”

“As far as I know, nobody even knows we’re here.”

“Then I’d say better safe than sorry.”

Juan looked up at Reed. “You know, you’re probably right that there’s nothing to worry about, but it might be prudent to take some precautions. I noticed you have a speargun mounted on the wall with the rods and tackle.”

“That old thing? I don’t even know how to use it. I bought it because I thought some of my clients would want to spearfish, but nobody was ever interested. Now it’s just a conversation piece.”

“Do you mind if I keep it handy? Just in case?” Juan’s combat leg was back on the Oregon.

“Are you kidding?”

“I like to be prepared for the worst.”

“Have you fired one before?”

“A few times.”

Reed gave him a dubious look, then glanced at the radio and nodded reluctantly. “Just remember that you can’t sue me down here, so be careful with it. I only have one spear for it. To tell the truth, I’m not even sure it works.”

Juan ducked into the cabin and went to where the spare rods were lined up on the wall. At the very top was the five-foot-long Riffe speargun with a pistol grip. In the water, its effective range was little over twenty feet. Even though the air provided less resistance, the range wouldn’t be much greater, but it was better than nothing.

Juan plucked the spear and its gun off the wall. The spear, which had a wicked notched steel tip, was propelled by three rubber tubes on either side of the teak shaft. Juan loaded the spear and cranked the tubes back until the clasp attached to the spear’s shaft. He didn’t bother with the spear’s retractable line. If he ended up using it, he didn’t plan on reeling anything in.

He headed back up and saw that the Oceanaire was closing on them. He leaned the speargun against the bulkhead, out of sight but within easy reach.

“Max, why don’t you join Craig up on the bridge?” If things got hairy, Juan wanted Max ready to take the wheel. Max climbed up and stood next to the controls.

The Oceanaire slowed and turned so that it could come alongside. Less than a boat length separated it from the Cast Away. Both boats idled on the calm sea. Juan stood on the balls of his feet, his arms loose and unencumbered.

Four men were visible, two on the bridge deck and two on the aft fishing deck. While the one at the controls was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, the three others were oddly out of place in pants and light jackets, not the attire Juan would expect tourists to wear. All of them stared intently at the Cast Away, not a smile to be seen.

“Porter, what are you doing out here?” Reed shouted to him.

Colin Porter, Oceanaire’s owner, had to be the one in the T-shirt. He looked at the man next to him as if he were contemplating how to answer. A muscular guy with close-cropped hair and a military bearing, the man stood with a posture that conveyed his status as the person in command. He had angular cheekbones, a jaw carved from marble, and a glare that could freeze molten lava.

Who was he? Juan wondered. A local policeman? Someone in the Jamaican armed forces? Juan immediately discarded both those possibilities. Neither would use a radio jammer.

Before he could speculate further, the Oceanaire’s engine died. Porter yelled at the top of his lungs, “Reed, they’re going to kill you!” He reared back and threw what looked like a set of keys overboard.

The man next to Porter turned and without so much as a flinch shot him in the head with a pistol. Porter’s body tumbled over the railing and splashed into the water.

While he was shooting the boat’s captain, his men snatched assault rifles from their hiding places in front of them and brought them to bear on the Cast Away.

At the same time, Juan grabbed the speargun and aimed it at the closest gunman. They all fired simultaneously.

The spear struck the aftmost gunman in the center of the chest, causing him to fall backward as his weapon spewed bullets into the air over Juan’s head.

The gunman next to him was aiming at the bridge. As Juan dived for cover, he could see Max shove the throttle forward. The sudden movement saved Reed’s life. A round hit him near the shoulder instead of in the chest. The remaining bullets stitched their way across the ceiling of the bridge.

They kept their heads down as more rounds raked the Cast Away’s hull. In less than a minute, they were out of range and the shooting ceased. The Oceanaire was dead in the water behind them.

Juan scrambled up to the bridge and found Max putting pressure on Reed’s shoulder with a rag that was already soaked with blood. Juan took over so that Max could pilot the boat.

Reed was awake and alert. His shoulder was a crimson mess. He didn’t seem to be in shock. Probably had been through more dire situations as a firefighter.

Juan inspected the damage. Reed winced but didn’t complain.

“No exit wound, and the bullet seems to have missed any arteries,” Juan said. “You got lucky.”

“Oh yeah,” Reed said through clenched teeth, “I feel like I just won the lottery.”

“If it wasn’t for your friend, none of us would be alive. He threw the ignition key overboard to save us.”

“I can’t believe Porter is dead. He was a good man, and that animal murdered him in cold blood. Who are those people? Why are they trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out. First, we need to get you to a hospital.”

“It’ll take us at least thirty minutes to get back to Montego Bay,” Max said. He glanced back at them, but his gaze settled on the ocean instead. The look on his face became grim. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ve got thirty minutes.”

Juan turned and saw that the Oceanaire was no longer stationary. Crests of water curled in front of its bow.

The assassins must have figured out how to hot-wire the boat and now had the engine cranked to full power. Not only was the Oceanaire on a pursuit course, she was gaining on them.