Impact

67

Burr tossed the cigarette into the wake and looked around once more with the binoculars. The sun had set and most of the fishing boats had disappeared, but here and there he could still see the odd boat, loaded with traps, churning along toward some home port or other. From time to time he'd spied a lone motor yacht or sailboat cruising along--but no Marea II. He hadn't realized just how big the coast was and how many damn islands there were. And it seemed likely that they had gone to ground anyway or were doing whatever the hell it was they were doing, far from prying eyes. For the first time, he began to worry that he might not complete the assignment.

He lit up another cigarette, his eighth. Usually he paced himself, smoking no more than seven a day, but this was a bad day.

He strolled into the open pilothouse and stared at the chartplotter.

"Where are we now?"

"We're just leaving the north end of Muscongus Bay."

"Where to?"

"Penobscot Bay opens up on the far end of the channel."

Burr grunted, inhaled. "It's almost dark. I think we should find a place to hove to for the night."

"We're not going to hove to. We're going to keep looking. We got radar, we got GPS. We can cruise these islands all night, looking for boats in out-of-the-way places."

Burr grunted. "How are you going to see it in the dark?"

"Full Moon tonight. On the water under a full Moon it's almost like day."

He glanced up. "What about this storm?"

"We'll deal with it when it comes. This is a fine, seaworthy boat."

"Good enough."

He went to the gunwale and finished up the cigarette. It was getting dark and there was no sign of the approaching storm. He tossed the butt overboard. In the distance he could see the dim outline of another lobster boat, crossing the far end of the channel--appearing from behind a large island and heading out instead of in. He quickly raised the binoculars. It was just light enough to make out the name painted on the stern.

Marea II.

Making an effort to control his excitement, he examined the boat more carefully. He could barely make out what looked like two figures in the pilothouse. Ford and the girl. This was an amazing stroke of luck. The boat was heading for a cluster of islands east of the channel.

Burr had already worked out in his head what he would do when he found his quarry. He reached into his holster and pulled out the Desert Eagle. No need for the noise suppressor, which was damned awkward, they were at least a mile offshore. He walked up behind Straw, who had just lifted the binoculars to look at the boat. A quick intake of breath.

"See that boat?" he cried. "It's the Marea II! They're heading for the Muscle Ridge Islands." He swung around. "All right. We did it. Your plan worked. Now we call in the cavalry and get that son of a bitch." He reached up for the VHF.

Burr gently placed the muzzle of the gun against the back of his head. "Do exactly what I say, Straw, or I'll kill you."