Passenger 13

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Nightfall brought a rise in the wind, and the sea was choppy as Ben piloted the Santa Clara at a steady pace back towards Grand Cayman, lost in thought, only vaguely aware of the boat’s motion under his feet.

Reckoning by the motor yacht’s GPS, he’d crossed just over fifteen miles of sea from when he saw the lights reflected on the window next to him, and turned to see that there was another vessel tracking along the same course, about half a mile away across the black water. He stepped away from the wheel and walked out on deck, but it was too dark to see what kind of vessel it was. What was certain was that she was coming up fast in his wake, her navigation lights and spotlamps growing larger and brighter with every passing minute.

Returning to the wheelhouse, Ben steered a couple of points to starboard and opened up the throttle by a few revs. He glanced back at the Santa Clara’s foaming, curving wake, white against the dark waves as she peeled gently off her course. The spotlamps of the vessel behind were dazzling now as they drew closer. Behind their strong glare he could just about make out the boat’s silhouette: a large motor launch, taller and wider than the Santa Clara. Maybe a seventy-footer, maybe bigger. And whoever was on board, it was clear from the way the launch was following his course that they were definitely interested in catching up with him.

Being followed at night by an unidentified pursuer wasn’t something that made Ben feel easy. In some parts of the world, commercial and private shipping was still widely preyed upon by pirates — but he was pretty damned sure that the Cayman Islands weren’t one of them. Who, then? Coastguard? Police? He didn’t think so.

Ben gunned the throttle harder; the Santa Clara’s engine note climbed a notch in pitch as her propellers dug her stern deeper into the water, lifted her bows and sent her skipping across the waves.

The big launch kept cleaving through the water after him — Ben could see the bow wave breaking white against the dark hull as the vessel came relentlessly closer and closer. He accelerated to near full throttle and felt the Santa Clara respond, bouncing over the sea at a bracing twenty-five knots. Any other time, the sensation of speed would have been exhilarating, but the knowledge that he was being chased by a much larger, more powerful and certainly more numerously-manned craft blunted his excitement somewhat. He considered his options: they were few. In open waters, there was nowhere to run to except straight ahead, in the hope that he could outrun his pursuers.

And that hope was already fading fast. The launch was in his wake now, just fifty yards behind and still overhauling him. The blaze of the spotlamps was casting deep shadows across the yacht’s deck, so close he almost thought he could feel the white-hot halogen bulbs searing his back. He felt naked and hopelessly exposed in their glare.

Full throttle. The rev counter needle touched the red and kept climbing. The engine note was becoming a shrill howl and he knew he couldn’t keep this up for long without risking damage.

He glanced back again. The launch was getting dangerously close, so close he could hear the heavy diesel rumble over the tortured note of the Santa Clara’s own engine and the crash of the waves on her sides.

Closer still — and for a couple of horrified moments Ben thought the launch’s pilot meant to ram his stern, crushing the yacht’s hull like an eggshell, running her down and sinking her — but then the launch veered hard to port and started cutting up alongside him, just a few feet of white water between the two vessels.

Ben was completely off course by now, but the only thing on his mind was evasion. He steered hard away from the launch, bracing himself against the wheelhouse bulkhead as the motor yacht tilted sharply into the turn and the starboard rail was engulfed in foaming water.

But it was going to take more than the Santa Clara’s agility to shake the launch off. It veered right after him, quickly drawing level again. Though the white spray Ben thought he could make out the figures of men on deck.

A dull report, and something flew across the water. Ben instantly knew what it was — a grappling iron, fired from a hand-held projectile launcher. The black four-clawed hook smashed into the side of the Santa Clara’s wheelhouse, sending splinters of glass flying. It bounced back and its curved claws raked the deck. Ben twisted the wheel as far as it would go to starboard, trying to widen the gap between himself and the launch in the hope that the grappling iron would fall back into the sea. The Santa Clara began to peel off at a sheer angle — then gave a violent judder as her course was checked.

Ben threw a glance out of the shattered wheelhouse window and saw that one of the hook’s claws had gained a grip around his port rail, the steel cable anchoring it to the launch’s deck shrieking taut.

Ripping down the fire axe that was fixed to the wheelhouse bulkhead, Ben left the boat to steer itself and raced out across the slippery, heaving deck. The wind tore at his hair and salt spray soaked him instantly. He swung the axe down hard on the end of the steel cable as it sawed against the Santa Clara’s side. And again. In two blows he’d severed half the strands of the cable.

But just as he was about to deliver a third, another grappling hook was fired from the deck of the launch. Ben didn’t register until a fraction of a second too late that it was flying right at him. Before he could get out of the way, the heavy impact caught him on the arm and shoulder and sent him sprawling on his back, knocking the axe from his hand. The grappling hook burst through the remaining wheelhouse windows and entangled itself around the smashed framework.

By the time Ben had staggered back to his feet, the launch was reeling the Santa Clara in with its powerful winches. He ignored the pain in his side and the blood he could taste on his lips from the fall.

He was about to be boarded.