DEAD CALM

DARK WATERS - BOOK 2

BRUNO MILLER

ABOUT THE BOOK

Life’s roughest storms prove the strength of our anchors.

Spencer and his loyal dog Finn are determined to survive the aftermath of an unthinkable EMP disaster, while outfitting their thirty-one foot sailboat, Restless, in a desperate attempt to reach Stuart, Florida where Spencer hopes to reunite with his girlfriend Kate.

As Marathon, Florida spirals into chaos, escaping the fire ravaged town proves more difficult than anticipated, thanks to swiftly diminishing resources and marauding looters. The recent recruitment of a couple and their young daughter to help Spencer and Finn crew their boat for the journey north, results in an unexpected friendship and a sense of overwhelming responsibility to get the family home safe.

As Spencer witnesses’ humanities descent into a lawless free for all, where theft and murder are the new norm, his Coast Guard training is put to the test. Will his decision to take on passengers prove to be a wise move, or will the added burden cost him everything?

Dead Calm: Book 2

Copyright © 2023 Bruno Miller

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by MiblArt.

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NEWSLETTER

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

With Marathon in flames from the surge of electricity caused by the EMPs and a beach full of tourists desperate for help, Spencer had some decisions to make. Reaching Kate and her parents in Stuart was his priority, but the logistics of pulling that off were daunting.

In addition to the normal challenges involved in sailing up the coast, Spencer would have to navigate without the aid of the boat’s electronics. No GPS chartplotter, depth sounder, radio, or any of the other devices he normally relied on. As far as he knew, none of them worked, and whether they could be repaired remained to be seen. He planned on fully investigating the damage caused by the EMPs when he had time, and he’d have plenty of it once he got underway.

Spencer was planning for the worst when it came to the boat’s electronic equipment, but he still clung loosely to the hope that he could somehow get it all working again. Damon’s house had survived because of an inline surge protector. Thanks to the installation he’d done on his boat, Spencer had recently learned that most solar power systems were prepared to deal with surges flowing backward from the grid or a lightning-strike situation.

Plus, from Damon’s house near the harbor, Spencer had seen boats with lights on in their cabins. So there was a good reason to be optimistic. And he already had a few ideas about how to repair the damage done by the surge; he’d start by replacing some of the fuses. But he was getting ahead of himself. Committing to any further thoughts or concerns over the matter felt like a waste of time right now.

Spencer wasn’t quite ready to offer Rob and his family a ride out of Marathon just yet, but he was strongly considering asking the trio to join him. He was perfectly capable of handling the boat on his own, but there was more to it than that. The thought of having other people with him for the journey ahead gave him a small sense of comfort in light of the circumstances.

Of course, true to Spencer’s nature, the minute they came aboard Restless, he’d feel responsible for them. Was that something he really wanted to add to his list of worries? Among other considerations, they’d need more food and water, and the boat would obviously be a little more crowded, but there was a big upside to bringing them along.

It didn’t matter if Rob or Natalie knew anything about sailing. The extra bodies on board meant Spencer would have help, and more importantly, he could grab some shuteye between his shifts piloting the boat. Going it alone meant no relief from his navigational duties, and while he’d soloed many times, it had only been for short excursions off the coast. The jaunt north to Stuart would take him the better part of a week if everything went well. And Spencer knew better than to count on that happening.

He continued contemplating the pros and cons of having company on board and ultimately decided that having Rob and his family join him would be in his best interests—and probably theirs as well. He didn’t even know where they lived or if they’d want to join him and Finn on their journey. But he’d make sure to find out a little more about them and where they were from. Spencer wasn’t sure what Rob did for a living, but the fact that Natalie was a nurse had helped push him toward including them in his escape from Marathon. Her skills could prove useful, especially if he arrived in Stuart and Kate or her parents needed medical help.

Spencer pushed that kind of thinking aside. If he started stressing out over the what-ifs, it would affect his ability to perform at the level necessary for survival in his new reality. Thankfully, Kate and her mom had Tom to look after them. The former Marine master sergeant was tough as nails, a trait that used to intimidate Spencer before he got to know the man. It occasionally still did. Now Tom’s grit gave Spencer good reason to believe Kate would be okay.

Tom would keep his girls safe or die trying. It was the latter thought that bothered Spencer the most as he turned his attention to Finn in an effort to finally focus on something else besides imaginary scenarios beyond his control. The dog was busy sniffing around a puddle at the corner of the bar, run-off from the grass thatched roof and Rob’s efforts to keep the Fat Snook from burning to the ground.

Spencer watched Rob from a distance. The man had gone to check on his family, who were taking shelter in one of the resort-provided beach cabanas. The canopy-covered double chaise loungers had turned a dull gray thanks to the falling ashes, each one covered by several inches of the snow-like fallout from the fires. Natalie and Maya weren’t the only ones down on the beach. Between the thick clouds of smoke that blew across the resort property, Spencer counted at least a dozen survivors among the rows of soot-stained lounge chairs.

He glanced toward the resort. What was once a lush five-star tropical paradise for vacationers had been reduced to nothing more than a smoldering heap of rubble. Shielding his eyes from the debris floating down from the sky, Spencer surveyed the rest of the nearby skyline, eventually settling back on the small group of survivors gathered on the beach. He couldn’t save them all.

The truth of the matter was, Spencer wasn’t even sure he could save himself. And while it was obvious that they wouldn’t all fit on his boat, he was sure of one thing: they would all want their share of supplies from the Fat Snook and the back of the Chevy. Making sure that happened in an orderly and civilized manner might be a challenge, based on what little information Rob had relayed about the group’s current mood. Spencer remembered the close call with the mob blocking the road and reminded himself that things could turn ugly fast.

He was all for helping his fellow man, but he had to be practical and smart about doling out supplies. Rob had mentioned that some of the people gathered on the beach had wanted to take matters into their own hands and break into the bar. Spencer couldn’t really fault the desperate, scared group of survivors; he would’ve considered doing the same if he were in their shoes. However, he couldn’t let mob rule take over. He was as generous as the next guy, maybe to a fault. But making sure he had what he needed to reach Kate was paramount. And it wasn’t just having enough to get there; he’d need provisions for whatever came after.

Spencer wasn’t sure what things were like outside the Keys. This was an isolated community without the same quantity of resources as the mainland. Maybe things wouldn’t be that bad in Stuart. But he couldn’t leave that to chance; he needed to anticipate finding a similar situation—or possibly a worse one. And who knew what things would look like a week from now? There would be better access to supplies and help from emergency services on the mainland, if such things still existed, although the more densely populated areas would take priority when it came to relief efforts.

Finn stopped lapping up water from the puddle as Rob approached from the beach. Spencer realized he hadn’t moved from the spot where the two spoke last. He’d only gotten a couple of hours of actual sleep last night at best, and he felt like it. Taking in the massive amount of destruction surrounding him was exhausting and overwhelming, and at times, it was still a little hard to accept.

As Rob got closer, Spencer could tell by the expression on his face that something was wrong. “Some of them saw you drive in and they want access to the bar.” He unloaded the news as soon as he stepped foot on the paver patio surrounding the Fat Snook.

Spencer had deliberately parked in a way that positioned the bar between the old Chevy and the beach, hoping to go unnoticed. He was disappointed to hear that his attempt to stay out of sight had failed, but he wasn’t surprised.

“I’m willing to share the supplies, within reason, but we can’t let it get out of control. I owe that much to my friend who owns the place,” Spencer stated.

“I can respect that, and I’m willing to help you try and keep the peace, but some of the things being said down there by a couple of the men…” Rob didn’t finish what he was saying and instead looked back toward the beach with disdain.

“Like what?” Spencer asked.

Rob shrugged. “A lot of stuff, but mainly that this is an emergency and any supplies are fair game and should be equally divided among everyone.”

Spencer was afraid Rob was going to say that. “Are any of them armed?”

That might have seemed like an odd question to ask, but Spencer’s encounter with the man at his truck was still fresh in his mind. The guy looked familiar and could have been one of the resort guests or a bar patron. Either way, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that one of the survivors on the beach was carrying. This was Florida, after all, a state where a person didn’t need a permit of any kind to conceal or carry a weapon.

Rob’s brow wrinkled. “Not that I know of, although seeing how things are going, I wish I had mine with me now.”

“You shoot?” Spencer’s attention shifted to the beach as they talked. A small group of people had formed at the far end of the arranged cabanas.

“Just self-defense. Nat and I took a course. I thought it would be a good idea. Jacksonville isn’t what it used to be. Unfortunately, I lost my pistol, a nice Ruger .45 ACP. It’s somewhere under all that, along with our car.” Rob glanced at the smoldering pile of rubble that covered the southern parking lot.

“Jacksonville, Florida?” Spencer’s lips hinted at a smile.

“What?” Rob asked.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. Once he threw out the offer, there was no going back. But after learning Rob and his family were from Jacksonville and that both he and Natalie had some experience handling a weapon, it seemed like fate had brought them together.

“How would you, Natalie, and Maya like a ride out of here? I can’t guarantee you much, but I’ll get you as far as Stuart. If we get the chance, maybe I can drop you off at Jacksonville Beach,” Spencer spat out. There was no more time to waste. The gathering crowd of former resort guests was making him nervous.

Rob almost shouted his answer. “Yes! Please!” He lowered his voice, but his enthusiasm was undeniable. “I mean, yeah, that would be great. Even if it’s just to Stuart.”

“Do you want to talk it over with your wife?” Spencer asked.

“No. I mean, we’re stranded. And I don’t think it would be such a bad idea to get away from land for a while.”

Spencer and Rob both flinched as an explosion sounded in the distance, as if on cue.

“Then it’s settled.” Spencer stuck out his hand.

Rob shook it firmly. “When do we leave?”

Spencer turned toward the water. “As soon as we get the boat loaded.”

CHAPTER TWO

With travel arrangements settled, Spencer turned his attention to gathering the provisions they’d need. But judging by the increased activity on the beach, he figured he’d better prepare for the worst. He’d left his rifle in the pickup when he first arrived back at the resort property, but it might be a good idea to have the weapon on display. He still had the .9mm concealed in his IWB holster at the small of his back, but he wanted something clearly visible. Not because he planned on using it but because he wanted to convey a clear message. Who was in charge when it came to the supplies was something he didn’t want to leave to speculation.

He walked back to the pickup and pulled the AR-15 out of the truck. Slipping the single-point harness over his head, he let the short carbine hang at his side. Leaning back into the cab of the Chevy, he rummaged through the backpack until he felt the cool heft of the .454 Casull. He stared at the gun for a moment and hoped he was doing the right thing by trusting Rob with the weapon.

“Here you go. Let’s hope we don’t need them, but I figure it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Spencer handed the large-caliber pistol to Rob.

Rob took the gun and studied it, eventually opening the cylinder and inspecting the five rounds loaded inside. “She’s a beast.”

“Yeah, kicks like a mule, too. Take my word for it,” Spencer added with a tight-lipped smile.

Rob closed the cylinder with a satisfying click and balanced the heavy pistol in his hand while aiming down the sights. “Thanks, I’ll take good care of it.”

Spencer made his way to the bed of the truck and reached over the side rail until he found a brightly colored can. The energy drink erupted in a volcano of neon-green foam when he popped the top, forcing him to cover the opening with his mouth and suck down the overflowing drink. The warm carbonated beverage did little to quench his thirst, but that wasn’t the purpose. As soon as he swallowed the last of it, he found a bottle of water and washed it all down.

“Help yourself. I know you’re thirsty.” Spencer tossed Rob a water.

“Thanks.” Rob cracked open the bottle and emptied it in seconds.

Spencer fished another bottle from the back of the truck and handed it to Rob.

“You know, if we took some of this down to the beach, it might go a long way toward buying us some goodwill with the others,” Rob suggested.

Spencer nodded. “Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. I’ve got a hand truck in the bar. That’ll make things a lot easier.”

Rob’s suggestion was a good one. They had to share the supplies anyway, so why not give the small group of survivors the supplies Spencer was willing to part with first? Maybe the gesture would squash their growing impatience, at least long enough to get the boat outfitted and ready to sail. Knowing that Rob and his family were coming eased Spencer’s anxiety about the process; they could work together as a team and get it done faster.

“I’ll go down and tell Nat and Maya the plan. And I’ll make sure to let the others know that food and water is on the way as well.” Rob waited for Spencer’s response.

“Okay, sounds good. Make sure they know I’ll bring the supplies to them. We’ll try to keep everyone down there.” The last thing Spencer wanted was a group of desperate, scared, and unpredictable people looking over his shoulder as he took inventory of what they had to work with. He wanted to keep the remaining guests away from the bar and the docks, where his Hewes was tied up. The small flats boat that he used as a dingy would come in handy for shuttling supplies out to the Hunter.

Rob tucked the revolver into his belt and covered the weapon’s handle with what was left of his tattered shirt, then awkwardly gathered as many water bottles as he could carry before starting for the beach. “Is this enough?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.” Spencer went through the cluster of keys in his pocket and found the key to the back door, but not before lingering on the Landcruiser key for a second, experiencing a moment of doubt about his plan to sail to Stuart. The sooner he got the hand truck loaded and delivered to the beach, the sooner he could get on with the business of outfitting the boat. There was no turning back now.

“Hey, Rob,” Spencer called out before the man had gone too far. He lowered his voice. “We should probably keep our plans between us.”

“Agreed.” Rob turned slightly as he answered but continued on toward the beach.

There was no reason to let anyone know what their intentions were. Spencer was sure the survivors gathered in the horseshoe-shaped cove would realize on their own what was going on soon enough. He imagined the remaining guests would take issue with being left behind to fend for themselves, but it wasn’t his job to save them, let alone help them any more than he had already. The supplies he was leaving were meant to clear his conscience as much as help the survivors on the beach. Spencer was sympathetic to their needs, but nothing was going to stop him from reaching Kate.

Spencer unlocked the door to the Fat Snook and stepped inside. The familiar smell of stale beer and the cleaning agent used on the floors brought memories of better times. The bar was quiet and looked as it usually did for the most part when Spencer arrived to open up for the day. The lack of smoke and background noise from the devastation consuming Marathon made it feel like he’d stepped back in time. Now that he was somewhat detached from the chaos outside, what he’d seen and experienced in the last twenty-four hours didn’t seem possible. There was no denying the reality that awaited him outside the door, though. Nor the bumps and bruises he carried as reminders of his struggle to get here.

Spencer fumbled his way through the darkness on his way to the bank of wall switches. He attempted to turn the lights on while simultaneously realizing that his efforts were useless. Even if the grid hadn’t been fried by EMPs, the panel box was disconnected for the renovations. He hurried back to the truck, returning a few seconds later with his dive light.

Making his way to the storeroom, Spencer found the hand truck and pulled it out to the center of the floor. He scanned the shelves with the beam of his light, settling on several cases of water stacked neatly in the corner. The tap water in Marathon left a lot to be desired, and while it was safe for consumption, it had a definite earthy taste that Spencer, as well as the customers, didn’t care for.

Damon always made sure the Fat Snook had lots of bottled water on hand, a precaution Spencer was especially grateful for today. He loaded two of the cases onto the hand truck, then made his way to the walk-in. There was no power due to the renovations, so nothing perishable had been left in the oversized cooler, but there were a few cases of fruit and several cases of juice used for making cocktails.

He eyed the lemons, limes, and oranges, trying to decide how much of the fruit he should give away. A little disappointed with what little was here, he wondered if Damon had cleaned some of it out in an effort to prevent what he had left from turning into a total loss. The contractors were only supposed to have the panel box disconnected for a couple of days. Looking around, Spencer wondered if the walk-in would ever refrigerate anything again.

Deciding to take a single box of fruit down to the people on the beach, Spencer began loading one of the boxes that was half full of oranges with lemons and limes. He added the box to the hand truck on top of the two cases of water, then finished the loadout with a carton of pretzels and peanuts from the shelves outside the cooler. He stood back, eyeing the pile of supplies, wondering if it was enough, then wondering if it was too much. He still had the vending machine spoils in the back of the truck and whatever else the previous owner had looted from around the island, all of which he planned on putting aboard Restless.

Spencer decided what he’d pulled out for the people on the beach was enough and tried to make himself feel good about it by reasoning that help would likely come for them eventually. And he wasn’t going to jeopardize his success by giving away supplies that he and the three people he’d committed to taking with him would need to make the trip. Spencer, Rob, Natalie, and Maya would have to ration their food and water regardless, but he was comfortable with the supplies that were left and his ability to catch enough fish to sustain them.

His goal was to arrive in Stuart with plenty of food and water for Kate and her parents. Spencer had no idea what Tom and Debbie had in the way of emergency supplies. Knowing Tom, Spencer was sure they had enough to last them a couple of weeks at least, but he didn’t want to leave that to chance. The idea of showing up with enough supplies for all of them filled his head with visions of Tom expressing his gratitude and maybe finally accepting Spencer as a man worthy of his daughter. It wasn’t that Tom didn’t approve of his and Kate’s relationship, but the man had a way of making Spencer feel inadequate no matter what. It seemed like a silly thing to worry about at a time like this, but Spencer couldn’t help basking in the imaginary potential of sailing into Stuart as a hero.

CHAPTER THREE

Spencer made his way through the bar, balancing the loaded hand truck and the flashlight, until he reached the back door. He spun around and pushed the door open with his back, stepping out into the smoke-filtered sunlight. The brightness seemed to have increased an impossible amount for the short time he was inside the Fat Snook. And he was suddenly aware of how fast his plans for an early-morning departure were slipping away.

As he rounded the corner of the building, he saw Rob heading his way in a hurry.

“They’re coming. I told them to stay put, but they won’t listen.” Rob shook his head.

Spencer looked past Rob and saw a small mob moving in his direction. The group consisted of several older men and a few women. A few people still lingered around the lounge chairs, but the majority were headed straight for the Fat Snook.

“Come on, we’ll meet them halfway.” Spencer picked up the pace, forcing the hand truck through the thick grass.

His goal was to keep the people away from the bar if he could. If they saw the remaining supplies in the bar, there’d be trouble. And while Spencer was saving a lot of the food and drinks for the boat, he was also inclined to leave some of the provisions locked up and untouched, especially the canned goods. What if, after he found Kate, they came back here? Having a stash of supplies here provided a safety net. But there was more to it than that. Spencer respected the fact that all this stuff belonged to Damon, and he didn’t want to leave the bar completely empty. There was no telling if or when they’d get help, and the possibility of Damon needing some of the food and water for himself and his family was very real. Spencer wanted to leave Marathon with a clean conscience, something he thought possible if he was considerate.

Rob Joined Spencer at his side, keeping pace with the hand truck as they approached the small crowd.

“There must be more than that in the bar,” an older man in a soot-stained T-shirt exclaimed before bothering to acknowledge or even look to see what supplies Spencer had brought them.

“We have to ration what we have,” Rob stated.

“We don’t have much on hand right now because of the renovations. We’re just not stocked up like we usually are,” Spencer tried to explain.

The man stopped in front of the hand truck and blocked Spencer’s path forward. He began rummaging through the top box without so much as a thank-you. The man grabbed a bottle of water for himself and drank it down, then grabbed another bottle as soon as he’d finished the first. Spencer bit his tongue for the time being, but the grumpy old dude’s attitude was testing his patience. Spencer tried to keep in mind that these people were thirsty, hungry, tired, scared, and a long way from home in most cases, but so was he, and it was no excuse to throw civility out the window.

“Hey, slow down, there’s other people here, too, you know.” A woman in the back ran the rest of the way to the hand truck as the others in the group descended on the provisions.

“Come on, folks, let’s keep this orderly. This is for everyone on the beach.” Spencer raised his voice over the frantic strangers who were starting to shove one another as they vied for position at the hand truck.

“Guys, take it easy. We need to be fair or this won’t work.” Rob tried to step into the mix and hold back some of the more aggressive people, with limited success. “One at a time. Please!”

The situation was devolving fast and drawing the attention of the remaining survivors still on the beach. Spencer grabbed the hand truck and yanked it backward, away from the mob, putting a few feet of distance between the supplies and the anxious group swarming him. But it was no use. The crowd closed the distance immediately, and he could see this wasn’t going to end well. He needed to do something or the situation would continue to spiral out of control.

“Everybody, back off!” Spencer brought his AR-15 up into the high-ready position, making sure the barrel wasn’t pointed directly at anyone in particular, but he held the weapon with enough energy to let them know he meant business. He’d seen more organized feeding frenzies from a school of bull sharks on a wounded amberjack.

“We’re not gonna do it this way. Form a line and take turns. There should be enough for everyone.” Spencer was rattled by the aggressiveness of the group and hoped they couldn’t tell, although he was pretty sure they could hear the wild pounding of his heart.

The older man who’d initially started grabbing at the water bottles rudely pushed his way to the front of the line, asserting himself as the leader of the pack.

“I don’t think so.” Rob stared him down. “You’ve had enough for now. Let the others get in here.”

The man challenged Rob. “Who put you in charge?”

Finn barked at the commotion. “Easy, boy.” Spencer tried to calm the dog, but not too much.

“Nobody. I’m just using common sense,” Rob said. “But I promise you this: we’re going to be civilized about this. And try to remember that Spencer isn’t obligated to share any of this. We owe him our gratitude and, least of all, our respect.” He finished his speech by moving his torn shirt tail to the side, deliberately revealing the revolver tucked into his belt.

“Oh, so it’s like that, huh?” the man complained but voluntarily took a few steps backward.

“Only if you insist,” Rob shot back immediately.

“Gentlemen, let’s not forget ourselves,” said a middle-aged woman toward the back of the group. She was covered in enough gold jewelry to make Mel Fisher jealous. “This is hard enough as it is, don’t you think?”

“How about we take this down to the beach? That way, everyone can take their share of the supplies to their cabana,” Spencer suggested.

One by one, with a series of grumbles and murmurs, most of the small group agreed to Spencer’s idea and began retreating. He wanted to move the food and water distribution center as far away from the bar as he could, especially with people like the entitled old dude, who seemed hell-bent on causing trouble. Spencer didn’t like the guy one bit; he looked like the type to take advantage of any opportunity to seize control of the situation. Spencer would be sure to keep an eye on him, along with a few of the others who seemed to be sizing him up.

It felt unnatural to speak so bluntly to people that should have been his peers. But everything about this situation was bizarre. And Spencer promised himself that no matter what happened or what the circumstances required, he wouldn’t waver. He couldn’t, not if he expected to make it out of here.

Spencer put his weight behind the hand truck to get it rolling through the ash-covered grass as the small gathering of disgruntled guests gave in to his suggestion of moving things to the beach. Rob joined him and helped push the hand truck out of a rut in the lawn.

“Tough crowd, huh?” Rob snorted.

“Yeah. Can’t blame them, really, but if we’re going to get the boat loaded and make it out of here anytime soon, we’ll have to keep things in check,” Spencer stated under his breath.

“Agreed.” Rob let go of the hand truck after it started rolling freely.

“So you talked to Natalie? She’s on board with the plan?” Spencer asked.

“Are you kidding? Yeah, we’re all for getting out of here. It’ll be tough to leave this place behind, but we’ll cope,” Rob joked.

A few moments of silence fell over the pair as they walked the supplies to the beach. But Spencer sensed Rob wanted to say something.

“So how bad is it out there? It doesn’t sound too good.” Rob wiped his face, smearing residue from the fallout across his cheek.

Just then, a series of gunshots rang out from the direction of the Overseas Highway. Spencer wondered if the roadblock he and Finn busted through on their way back was the cause.

“I think that answers your question.” He was about to tell Rob about his idea to drive to Stuart but stopped. A part of him feared that Rob might talk him out of the current plan. Spencer thought about what happened in the storage yard and pictured the snub-nosed revolver lying on the passenger seat of the Landcruiser. The confrontation with the man who had tried to steal his truck seemed like something he’d seen in a movie, but it wasn’t. And there’d be a lot more of that type of thing if they tried to make it out of here in the Toyota.

Sailing to Stuart didn’t guarantee them a hassle-free journey. In addition to the weather and mechanical breakdowns, which were always a possibility, there was the human factor. But that was the case before the EMPs, too, only now Spencer figured the chances of running into bad people on the water were significantly higher. They wouldn’t be the only ones fleeing the devastation and destruction on land. He’d already noticed more than a couple of sails gliding past the resort property through breaks in the smoke this morning, a sight that made him all the more anxious to get underway.

CHAPTER FOUR

When Spencer and Rob reached the beach, most of the tourists had organized themselves into something that almost resembled a line. Spencer eased the hand truck down at the edge of the sand and held his breath as a large cloud of smoke overtook them and pushed through the area. The others coughed and mumbled among themselves until the polluted air cleared enough that they could see and breathe freely again.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Natalie appeared from the fog, with Maya clutching her leg. The girl was still scared—that much was obvious—and she had every right to be. If the near-death experience of the pool rescue and the absolute chaos that surrounded them wasn’t enough, the rough demeanor of some of the people on the beach would finish the job for a kid her age.

Spencer thought for a minute about Natalie’s offer to help. Did he dare leave Rob and his family alone here to distribute supplies while he started gathering what they needed for the boat? They could join him when they were done, but the old man in the T-shirt worried Spencer, and so did a few of the other less-than-cordial beach crew.

He eventually shrugged. “I guess you guys could hand this stuff out.”

Rob was armed now and seemed to handle things just fine with the old man a couple of minutes ago. Spencer was inclined to think Rob could deal with any problems that arose; he wasn’t a small man, and the revolver stuffed into his waistband wasn’t a small gun.

Spencer still had no idea what Rob did for a living in Jacksonville. He’d meant to ask that question and a few more in order to get to know the people he was about to be stuck on a boat with for who knew how long. But there was so much going on that he hadn’t gotten around to it yet and didn’t really consider it a top priority. There would be plenty of time to get to know the trio soon enough. And based on how Rob had stood up to the grumpy old dude, Spencer figured him capable of keeping things orderly.

Spencer had planned on having Rob to help him load the boat, but keeping the mob of desperate survivors off his back and out of his business could be equally beneficial—and maybe necessary. Thinking the loading of supplies onto Restless wouldn’t cause issues with the tourists stuck on the beach was unrealistic. Spencer just hoped it wouldn’t cause full-blown panic. The humanitarian in Spencer couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about taking so much of the food and water with him, no matter how many times he reminded himself that he had every right to the supplies.

Spencer turned to walk away, leaving Rob and Natalie in charge of distributing supplies, but was stopped when Natalie grabbed his arm, giving him a light squeeze.

“I just wanted to say thank you for…” She lowered her voice and cast a teary-eyed glance at Maya. “Well, you know, including us.”

“Happy to do what I can. I’m hoping you guys can help me as much as I can help you,” Spencer answered.

“We’ll do whatever we can.” Natalie let go of his arm and moved to Rob’s side with a smile.

Spencer nodded, then started for the truck, but not before he caught Maya looking at him. He flashed her a quick smile and a wink, and she smiled back briefly, then buried her face in the towel. He was proud of himself for inviting the family of three to come along for the trip. They seemed like nice people, and although having them aboard would make living conditions a bit cramped, in his mind, the mental and physical support they could offer would make it more than worthwhile.

If being a little tight on space increased his odds of getting to Kate, then the slight inconvenience of sharing his boat with the three of them was a small price to pay. Of course, he was saving them from being stranded here, but there were other benefits beyond helping the couple and their daughter, one of which was the easing of his guilty conscience, at least to some extent. He was doing as much as he could for those in need, and he had to leave his second-guessing for later. Right now, there were supplies that needed to make it from the bed of the Chevy into his skiff.

“Come on, Finn, let’s go.” Spencer encouraged the dog to join him, but the words were for himself as much as his four-legged partner. Spencer opened the door to let Finn onto the bench seat of the old pickup. He’d drive down to the dock or at least get as close as he could to make things easier for himself. Hopping into the truck behind Finn, he fired up the dirty rust bucket. He was thankful for the heavy smoke drifting across the property and felt somewhat out of sight as he idled toward the docks. The boat was a short distance from where he was parked, and Finn gave him an odd look when he parked the truck and shut the engine down after traveling such a short distance.

“I know, but if I sent you to the skiff without supervision, you’d be swimming already, wouldn’t you?” Spencer said, as if Finn would understand. But it wasn’t uncommon for Spencer to talk to the dog in such a manner. Finn was his best friend, after all.

Spencer eyed the bed of the truck and the mess of supplies. The looted goods were never organized, but the evasive maneuvers he’d used to avoid the human roadblock hadn’t improved the situation.

Spencer took off running for the dock with Finn close behind. “We’ll use the fish cart.”

Finn barked his approval as the two made their way to the beginning of a walkway that stretched out over the water and led to the multiple finger piers making up the small marina. Spencer didn’t waste any time and grabbed the handle of the closest fish cart, yanking it out of place. He thought about grabbing two but decided he wouldn’t be able to handle more than one loaded dock cart at a time. They headed back toward the Chevy, plastic wheels bouncing roughly over the weathered deck boards in time with their pace.

“Three trips ought to do it,” Spencer announced as he mentally loaded the cart with supplies.

When he reached the pickup, he dropped the tailgate as quietly as he could and began haphazardly filling the dock cart with everything and anything he could grab. He’d sort through it all later. Some of the duffle bags were heavy with cans of soft drinks, and others were lighter with what he assumed were snacks from the vending machines. He hadn’t paid that much attention to what the thieves were looting at the time, mostly because he was trying not to get himself shot.

With the cart full, Spencer made another dash to the water, this time passing the row of carts and heading straight for the Hewes. The well-worn sixteen-and-a-half-foot center console flats boat that served double duty as his dingy was a sight for sore eyes. Just seeing the boat and paddleboard he and Finn had made their way to shore on last night made Spencer feel like he’d already accomplished more than he thought possible. The small Hewes would fill up fast, but thanks to the two-stroke outboard, trips out to the boat and back wouldn’t take long.

Spencer loaded the supplies into the skiff and headed back with the cart for more. Finn sat at the small boat’s helm for a moment, watching Spencer walk up the dock until he eventually gave in and chased after his owner. Spencer repeated this process three more times until everything had been transferred from the Chevy to the skiff. There was more than he thought in the back of the truck, and he wondered just how many places the former truck’s owners had looted other than the Turtle Hospital’s gift shop. He’d never seen the gunnels of the Hewes so close to the waterline.

Spencer wiped the sweaty grit from his brow and added his backpack to the pile of things filling up the boat. The rising sun seared the back of his neck as he stared down into the loaded skiff and contemplated his next move. He was anxious to climb aboard the Hewes and run the supplies out to Restless but figured he should give Rob and Natalie a progress report. He also wanted to make sure they were holding their own against the small crowd of disgruntled tourists. But most of all, he didn’t want the trio to think he was leaving without them.

Another concern was leaving the supplies exposed in a boat with a working engine. There wasn’t anyone around right now, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. At least when the food and drinks were in the back of the truck, they were hidden.

“Finn. Load up, on the boat. Come on, boy.”

Finn wagged his tail and jumped the gap between the dock and the Hewes with ease. The big yellow dog found himself an awkward spot to sit among the supplies and waited obediently for further instruction.

“Finn, stay. I’ll be right back.” Spencer held his hand out with an extended index finger.

He’d left the dog to guard the skiff plenty of times before when he and Kate took the Hewes barhopping or out for dinner and the place didn’t allow Finn to join them. So what he was asking was nothing new, but usually, it was to watch their gear and his pricy fly rods. But this was different and significantly more important. They needed this stuff to survive.

Spencer readjusted his AR-15 and headed toward the pickup. It was hot, and the gun was getting heavier by the minute, but thanks to the troubles he’d encountered since coming ashore last night, he could easily justify the minor inconvenience. He had the .9mm tucked into his waistband, but the rifle got the point across much better when it counted.

Before Spencer could reach the Chevy, he heard screams and shouts coming from the direction of the beach, then two gunshots, neither of which sounded like the .454 Casull he’d loaned Rob. He knew things had been too quiet.

Spencer sighed with disappointment at the prospect of more trouble. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but whatever it was, it would have to be dealt with before he could continue making preparations to leave Marathon. Unless he turned around right now and made a run for it. But that wasn’t an option, thanks in part to Maya’s big brown eyes.

CHAPTER FIVE

Glancing back at Finn, Spencer repeated his previous command for good measure. “Stay.”

Finn responded with an impatient whimper, almost hovering with excitement over the forward deck of the skiff as he struggled to follow orders. It wasn’t that Spencer didn’t want Finn’s help; the dog had certainly saved his butt before. But Spencer had an ulterior motive: he didn’t want to risk Finn getting hurt. With billows of thick smoke rolling through the property, the air quality and visibility weren’t exactly great. And although the latter was ideal for sneaking supplies to the boat, it complicated things now.

Spencer opted to stay on foot rather than drive the old pickup back to the bar or the beach. The exhaust was on the loud side, and he wanted to maintain the element of surprise, if possible. At just a hundred yards or so away from the boat, Spencer lost sight of Finn and the docks as a thick smog encapsulated the Fat Snook and his current position. He slowed his momentum as he was temporarily rendered blind. Eventually, the smoke dissipated enough that he could see where he was going, and he made his way to the backside of the building.

Sneaking around the corner of the bar, Spencer stopped and crouched. Visions of the grumpy old dude wrestling the revolver from Rob filled his head. What if the guy had actually managed to overtake the couple? Or maybe it was the .454 he’d heard being fired. If anything had happened to Rob, Natalie, or, God forbid, Maya, Spencer would feel responsible for getting them involved in his plan. He’d considered the benefits of having the family join him but failed to think beyond that—until now. If something happened to them while they were trying to help him, it would fall on his shoulders. He wasn’t sure he was ready to live with those consequences, although it was a little late for that.

Looking through the Aimpoint scope on his rifle, Spencer surveyed the open space beyond the Fat Snook’s patio area, but his efforts to see what was going on were useless. The air was too thick, and he couldn’t see much of anything through the small aperture of the reflex sight. He did manage to find the empty hand truck and a few of the cardboard boxes he’d used to hold the fruit, but nothing else. He’d have to get closer.

Spencer looked back in the direction of the docks before moving. He wanted to make sure Finn was staying put in the skiff. He didn’t doubt the dog’s dedication to following commands, but these were far from ordinary circumstances, and he half expected to see Finn sneaking up behind him.

The dark patches of ash-laden clouds that repeatedly blotted out the rising sun gave Marathon an alien feel. And in the rare moments when the sky seemed to open up, the sediment-filtered sunlight washed the landscape with a sickly yellowish-gray hue that in some ways reminded Spencer of an approaching hurricane. Hurricanes were a way of life here in the Keys and not something to be taken lightly. But even the destruction left by the worst of storms paled in comparison to the devastation currently laid out in front of him.

Growing up on the Outer Banks, he’d seen his share of hurricanes and devastating northeasters and had even ridden out a big category-three storm here in Marathon last season. Thanks to a little local knowledge garnered over a couple of beers and his willingness to push Restless into some tight spots, Spencer had found a place to take shelter. A deep hole in the mangroves near Little Pine Key provided a good place to hide from the wrath of Mother Nature then. But there was no place to hide from this.

He thought about the flooded businesses and damaged buildings after last season’s storm. Some of the places still hadn’t recovered. And some never would, like the smoothie place he and Kate used to frequent. The little lime-green shack had been blown into the ocean. A quick drive along the Overseas Highway would quickly reveal other scars left behind from last season’s weather. But all that paled in comparison to now. He couldn’t imagine how long it would take for the Keys to come back from this. He hated to be a pessimist, but the reality of the situation indicated the Florida Keys might remain a lawless, unstable free-for-all for the foreseeable future.

Spencer tried not to think about things on such a grand scale and instead focused on the present situation. He thought of something his dad used to say when facing what appeared to be insurmountable odds. Little things make big things happen. Whether that meant taking the first step across a support beam between freshly driven pilings two stories up or surviving one more day at boot camp, it was a truth Spencer had clung to on more than one occasion. This situation was no different. Look how much he’d accomplished already. And right now, the little thing was finding Rob and his family and getting them off the beach safely.

Spencer had the skiff loaded, and if he ran the supplies out to the boat, Rob and Natalie could have the rest of the stuff they were taking from the Fat Snook loaded into the truck and ready to transfer to the small boat by the time he got back to the dock.

The trio would be safer at the bar. Spencer already didn’t like the looks he and Rob were getting from some of the survivors on the beach. The quicker they could separate from the group, the better. And best to do it before the supplies they’d handed out were used up. But he was getting ahead of himself again. He’d heard gunshots.

Spencer stayed as low as he could, moving across the grass toward the white sandy beach that adorned the resort’s western edge. The stained gray cabanas remained hidden from view, their new color blending in seamlessly with the heavy gray air. He recognized a landscaped island and knew he was close to the beach now. Then a voice sounded over the cracks and pops of the lingering fires. At first, Spencer thought it was Rob giving instructions but soon realized it wasn’t.

“Everybody, together now so we can keep an eye on you,” the voice ordered.

One of the oversized chaise loungers came into focus as an unnaturally hot breeze blew a clearing in the smoke. Spencer ran to the cabana, sliding to a stop on his knees in the sand behind the flimsy cover. Two men with handguns paced the beach. Rob, Natalie, and Maya were near the front of the group the two gunmen had herded into a tight gathering. Spencer was relieved to see that Rob had hidden his pistol; neither of the men were holding the big Taurus revolver, so Spencer had to assume Rob still had the weapon on him.

Smart, Spencer thought. Now if only he could come up with a plan to deal with these two—and quick. Neither of the men harassing the tourists looked like they had an abundance of patience.

“Tell us where the rest of the stuff is. You had to get it from somewhere.” One of the men raised his voice and waved what looked like a black semiautomatic pistol in the air.

“Maybe they need some encouragement.” The second man stopped pacing and stomped toward the group of scared tourists, yanking one of the women out front and center. The man held his pistol to the frantic woman’s head as she pleaded to be let go, breaking down into terrified sobs.

“Hold still. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t.” He pressed the end of the barrel into her temple and drew back the hammer as he eyed the crowd.

Suddenly, a man in a bright yellow ash-soiled polo shirt standing at the back of the group took off running. Spencer watched as the faint yellow blur sprinted for the distant stand of mangroves at the end of the beach.

“Hey, get back here,” the man without the hostage yelled, but the runner kept going, struggling to gain speed in his flip-flops over the soft sand. Spencer saw it play out in slow motion, and before he could react, the gunman without the hostage leveled his weapon at the fleeing tourist and fired.

Bang!

The shot rang out over a collection of cries and gasps from the others gathered on the beach as the runner went stiff. Shot in the back, the man grabbed at the bullet hole near his spine as he contorted in agony and struggled to take another step. An eerie silence fell over the small crowd while they watched the man’s life slip away. The body hit the ground, sending a flurry of fallen ash into the air. A large crimson stain blossomed outward from the fatal wound, soaking the runner’s yellow shirt with a slick of blood that eventually trickled down into the absorbent sand.

Spencer stared for a second, unsure what to do. He’d seen enough killing in the last twenty-four hours to last a lifetime, but witnessing the cruel act was still plenty shocking and enough to render him temporarily stunned. He clenched his jaw and tried to shake off the panic. This was no time to choke. If Spencer wanted to get Rob and his family out of here, along with the rest of the supplies, he needed to take action. No one was coming to intervene here. It was up to Spencer to figure out how to deal with these thugs.

All bets were off. People had officially lost their minds. And if these guys were willing to kill people over a few oranges and some bottles of water, they wouldn’t think twice about doing the same to Spencer or anyone else. If they found out about the supplies in the skiff or inside the bar, Spencer’s shot at reaching Stuart would be in serious jeopardy. And there was no way he was going to let that happen.

CHAPTER SIX

Spencer licked his chapped lips. He’d had a bottle of water less than a couple of minutes ago, but his mouth was already bone dry as he inched around the side of the cabana. He needed to get into a better position if he was going to engage these two animals. Complicating things even further was the fact that one of the men still had a gun to the woman’s head. Spencer thought about taking the shot right then and there but worried the man might kill the woman in a final act of desperation if he didn’t die immediately.

From where he was sitting, a shot from his rifle was liable to hurt one of the tourists as well. He needed a better angle of attack. He also needed the people on the beach to be on his side, and shooting one of them in the process of trying to save them wouldn’t win him any points with the crowd. Not to mention the guilt he’d have to live with for killing an innocent person.

“The kid… The kid has all the supplies. He’s up at the bar.” The old man who had given Rob a hard time earlier pushed his way through the group and pointed toward the Fat Snook. Spencer wasn’t surprised that the boisterous old dude had sold him out, but his thundering heart skipped a beat as he heard the man give him up to the gunman just the same.

Fortunately, no one had seen Spencer behind the chaise lounge yet, and he still held the upper hand, although he suspected that wouldn’t last much longer. The old guy was clearly a jerk, even before life as they knew it took a nosedive, but Spencer had no reason to believe the others wouldn’t do the same thing if they thought they could save themselves. He’d given them food and water, but he was losing faith in humanity at an alarmingly fast rate. And his willingness to give these strangers the benefit of the doubt was evaporating even faster.

“What kid?” The man relaxed his grip on the hostage and let the pistol fall slightly but still kept the barrel aimed at the whimpering woman’s face.

With the man’s back turned, Spencer could read his paint-splattered T-shirt. It was a Blackfin Marina shirt. He’d recently purchased a few things for the boat from the place located just up the road a few miles. These guys were locals, not that it mattered. But it was disheartening, to say the least.

“The kid that works here,” the old man added. “He’s got the key to the bar. That’s where this stuff came from. There’s a lot more, I’m sure.”

“Where is he now?” the man who’d shot the runner asked, adjusting his hat to block out the sunlight that somehow managed to punch a hole through the smoke and low-hanging haze of pollution that covered Marathon like a blanket.

“I don’t know, but they do. They’re friends with the kid.” The old man eagerly pointed out Rob and Natalie.

The crowd moved away from the family of three as if they had a contagious, life-threatening condition. In some ways, they did. Spencer took a deep breath and summoned the courage to take action as he attempted to rid himself of any reservations with a deep exhale. Little Maya caught his eye. Her face was hidden once again behind the folds of a dirty pool towel while she clung to her mother’s leg. The poor kid might never recover from this trauma.

Spencer thought about everything he’d risked saving the girl last night and was suddenly filled with a growing sense of anger and frustration. It wasn’t just his life that he’d put on the line but ultimately Kate’s, Finn’s, his friends’, and his family’s. The realization that these men could ruin everything he’d worked for since coming ashore and make all he’d done count for nothing was hard to accept. Spencer’s frustration slowly turned to hatred, then resolve. These men were standing between him and the love of his life.

The man holding the woman at gunpoint released his hostage, pushing her back into the crowd, and turned his attention to Natalie and Maya as he approached the family. Spencer swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the AR-15, preparing for the worst as he watched Rob tense up. If Rob reached for the revolver, Spencer would have no say in what happened next. Watching the scene unfold through his Aimpoint optic, he kept the red dot on the first man’s head.

“So which one of you is going to do the right thing and save your daughter?” The man in the paint-splattered T-shirt strutted toward Maya, waving his gun in the air as if he was using it to think. The vile look on his face gave away his malicious intentions.

These guys had already killed a man just for trying to escape, and there was no reason to think they wouldn’t act on their threats. Spencer watched as Rob’s hand gradually moved to the back of his shorts; he must have moved the weapon. Natalie pushed Maya behind her and started backing up while the man pressed closer. Then, without warning, the man reached for Maya, but Natalie twisted her body and shuffled Maya out of reach.

“Get over here.” Clearly irritated at the evasive maneuver, the man made another attempt to grab Maya but ended up with a face full of Natalie’s right hand.

His friend laughed. “You gonna let her get away with that?”

“Why you little…” The man rubbed his nose, letting his guard down long enough for Rob to draw his weapon.

Boom!

Spencer could barely believe what was happening. He had no idea what to expect from Rob, but it certainly didn’t include him blowing a hole in the man’s chest at point-blank range. Screams and shouts erupted from the others as they began to scatter across the beach. Spencer shifted and squared up on the second man, who was already drawing a bead on Rob. There was no time to think.

Crack… crack… crack.

Spencer’s first two bullets hit the man in the chest. The third caught the gunman’s neck as he collapsed on the beach. Standing up, Spencer broke from cover and walked up to within a few feet of the gunman, keeping his canted sights zeroed in on his head. He gave the man a kick with his foot, disregarding the people running every which way all around him. He waited a few seconds until he was sure the man wasn’t breathing. Then he turned his attention to Rob and his family.

The gunman who was after Maya lay sprawled out on the sand a few feet away as blood spurted from the gaping hole in his chest with each pump of his struggling heart. The .454 Casull hollow point had unsurprisingly knocked the man backward and opened a cavity that Spencer could have put his hand through. Standing over the body, he could see clear through the gaping hole to the blood-stained beach below. There was no doubt whatsoever that the guy was dead.

Rob had his arm around Natalie and Maya as best he could while maintaining a tight but shaky grip on the big Taurus pistol. Spencer lowered his rifle and stepped back, trying to process what had just unfolded. Eventually, Rob lowered his weapon and fully embraced his wife and daughter. Neither of these two men would ever hurt anyone again.

Spencer looked around and took stock of the fact that all the people who had come out of the shadows for supplies were nowhere to be seen. A couple of heads bobbed behind one of the cabanas as an older couple tried to discreetly keep an eye on what was happening. A few of the others had taken shelter in the resort’s water sports rental hut, but the rest had left the beach entirely and, Spencer assumed, hidden in the mangrove thicket on the north side of the property. Or they’d decided to try their luck elsewhere.

He was about to call out to the scattered tourists and let them know that everything was okay and that it was safe to come back to their cabanas, but he stopped himself. He thought about the actions of the old guy who’d ratted him out. And about the others who were so quick to abandon Rob and his family when things got tough, leaving the couple and their daughter to fend for themselves against the two gunmen.

Whether it was right or wrong, at that moment, Spencer came to the conclusion that he didn’t owe any of them anything. And maybe it was a good thing if the others were a little scared for the time being. Not having a group of desperate tourists breathing down his neck would allow him to focus on more important things, like getting out of here.

“Thanks. I had no idea you were there. I owe you again, I guess.” Rob gave a concerned glance in the second gunman’s direction. “I couldn’t have gotten to him in time.”

“You don’t owe me anything. We both did what we had to do,” Spencer assured him.

The four of them stood in silence for a while, staring at the bodies. Finally, Spencer had the clarity to collect the two dead men’s weapons. The last thing they needed was guns in the wrong hands, especially with this group.

“It’s okay now, Maya. Thanks to Daddy and Mr. Spencer.” Natalie dug through the folds of the towel until a worried, tan face poked through. Maya stared wide-eyed at the closest body. Spencer took notice of the girl’s curiosity and sprang into action, followed by Rob. Between the two of them, they managed to drag the bodies out of sight behind a large cabbage palm at the edge of the sand. Spencer picked up an unopened water bottle that had been dropped in the chaos of the fight and drank down the warm liquid in a couple of gulps. It wasn’t exactly refreshing, but it was wet.

Spencer eyed the two guns he’d taken from the men. The gun used to hold the woman hostage was an older-model semiautomatic Smith & Wesson .45 that had seen better days. The other was a subcompact Glock 43 chambered in .9mm. The small black Glock single-stack was similar to the Smith & Wesson Shield he’d bought Kate but smaller, and it held less ammunition.

Spencer tucked the .45 into his belt for now. He didn’t have any ammunition for the neglected pistol, but he didn’t want to leave it lying around just the same. Besides, Kate’s dad, Tom, had a few .45s in his collection and, Spencer was sure, plenty of ammunition to go with them. But the biggest reason he kept the gun was that it felt foolish to get rid of a perfectly functional weapon in a world of limited resources. That was the way he needed to start thinking and planning.

Spencer released the Glock’s magazine and eyed the shiny brass rounds. He pushed down on the top bullet and was only able to depress the magazine spring by half an inch or so. The small pistol only held six rounds in the single-stack magazine, plus one in the chamber. He figured there were at least four bullets left in the gun. He hated to think about where the unaccounted-for round had gone.

“You should probably carry a weapon from now on.” Spencer slapped the magazine back into place and handed the gun to Natalie. Now was as good a time as any to see if Natalie’s gun range practice had paid off, although shooting paper targets could hardly prepare a person for a situation like this.

Rob caught Spencer’s gaze shifting between him and his wife and must have sensed his concern. “She can handle it,” he said with a smile. “Sometimes, she outshoots me at the range.”

Natalie looked less at ease than Rob but took the weapon anyway. She tucked the pistol into her waistband under Maya’s watchful eye and nodded solemnly at Spencer, indicating that she understood the responsibility she was assuming. They all needed to be prepared for whatever came their way, and that meant being armed.

With the tourists who’d taken shelter in the beach cabanas temporarily scared into hiding, now was their chance to get to work. And the sooner they could get the boat loaded with everything they needed and get off the island, the better. Things were bad now, but Spencer imagined this was just the beginning. The safest place they could be right now was out on the ocean. At least, that was what he hoped. The open ocean couldn’t be any more dangerous than this, could it?

CHAPTER SEVEN

There was no way they’d all fit onto the skiff and grab the remaining supplies that Spencer wanted from the bar. The Hewes was already overloaded, and Spencer was afraid they’d end up losing it all if they pushed their luck any further. He offered to take Maya out to the Hunter along with the supplies he had loaded into the Hewes. He thought leaving the girl on board with Finn standing watch as an added precaution would be safer than leaving her on land, especially considering the unpredictable nature of people and the apparent decline in empathy for fellow survivors.

In response to his proposal, Maya hid behind the towel again. Natalie didn’t seem thrilled, either. Spencer understood why as soon as he heard himself say the idea out loud and decided not to push the issue. She was their daughter, after all, and ultimately, those types of decisions were up to them.

Spencer explained what he wanted to leave behind and left the Fat Snook’s keys with Rob, along with the key to the Chevy, with the understanding that they would get the truck loaded with the remaining supplies from the bar and meet him down at the dock. Meanwhile, he’d take care of getting the skiff offloaded onto Restless and come back ready for more.

Finn assumed his usual position at the bow, snoot stuck out into the air, pointing the way as they cautiously motored toward their home on the water. Spencer glanced over his shoulder at Marathon every so often and took note of the drastically changed landscape. The four resort buildings surrounding the pool were no longer a prominent feature of the skyline beyond the once white, sandy, horseshoe-shaped beach. Instead, plumes of smoke rose hundreds, maybe thousands of feet into the air, and the dark gray smog that hung over that land now dominated Marathon’s skyline. The farther Spencer got from shore, the less detail he could see as the chaos disappeared into the marble-colored air.

The faithful purr of the skiff’s two-stroke Johnson outboard was like an old friend cheering them on. Getting back out on the water gave Spencer a renewed sense of purpose, and even though he was still shaken up a bit from the beach shootout, he felt better about their odds. A lot had happened since he and Finn had made the awkward trip into the bar last night on the paddleboard. Too much to make sense of right now. There’d be plenty of time later to come to terms with the things Spencer had done to get to this point.

The Hewes sliced cleanly through the ash-covered water, throwing off a muted wake of gray ripples. The quiet was off-putting, and when the thicker clouds of smoke hovering over the water’s surface enveloped the boat in their polluted stench, the feeling of isolation was very real. Spencer used his hand to clear the skiff’s compass bubble of fallen grit while noting the bearing of the sailboat before it was swallowed by yet another drifting mass of gray smog.

With a nudge of his knee on the tiller handle, Spencer adjusted their heading according to the compass. Finn whined at the disappearance of the boat and made a couple of circles in place on the bow before settling tentatively onto his haunches while hovering inches off the deck. Spencer recognized the position and could sympathize with the dog’s uneasiness.

He cut the throttle back to an idle well before arriving at where he expected to find the boat moored and coasted for a bit, hoping the smoke would clear out soon. The Hewes gunnels were recklessly close to the waterline because of the supplies on board. Spencer would have transferred the stuff from the Chevy in two trips if he wasn’t in such a hurry to get underway. The added weight was affecting the boat’s maneuverability, and the last thing Spencer wanted to do was approach too fast and punch a hole in the side of the Hunter with the skiff’s sharp bow. If he wasn’t careful, they’d be finished before they ever got started.

Finn barked and stood up at the edge of the bow. A second later, the thirty-one-foot Hunter began to materialize out of thin air, like a ghost ship set adrift. Their approach to the vessel seemed more like an illusion than reality. It wasn’t until he cut the skiff’s motor and let his hand glide along the slick white hull of the sailboat that he allowed himself to fully accept that they’d made it home.

There was no time to celebrate the small victory of their return, though. Resisting the urge to climb aboard and make sure everything was as he’d left it, Spencer tied the skiff off using a couple of the Hunter’s deck cleats and immediately began transferring supplies from the skiff to the sailboat’s deck.

Finn helped himself aboard, leaping up and across the gap between the two vessels effortlessly. As soon as all four paws were planted firmly, he proceeded to make his rounds, inspecting things as he normally did when he returned from a trip ashore. Spencer moved as fast as he dared, careful not to lose any of the supplies overboard—or himself, for that matter. Before heading back, he’d grab a fresh sun buff to use as a mask. The one he’d been wearing was getting hard to breathe through. He pulled the makeshift mask down and took a minute to catch his breath, trying his luck between wafts of drifting smoke. He’d be happy once they got offshore and could breathe freely again. But that was a good reason to get back to work.

Spencer worried about Rob and his family back at the bar. But at least Rob was armed, and now so was Natalie, although that did little to allay his concerns. The events on the beach had played out like a slow-motion movie in his mind. Rob hadn’t hesitated to shoot the man. Then again, Spencer liked to think he would have reacted in the same way if it had been him in that situation. He’d have done the same for Kate. He liked to think he’d have done it for Finn.

It was clear that the bad people he’d encountered had embraced the new reality and were willing to do whatever it took to survive. And if he was ever going to see Kate again, he’d have to do the same to some degree. Thinking he could get through this without doing some very hard things was unrealistic. He was trying to accept that truth, but there were moments when he feared this experience would change him permanently, although that much was unavoidable and beyond his control, really. After he took a life, there was no going back to his former innocence, no matter how justified the act.

Spencer hoisted the last duffle bag over his head and slid it up onto the deck of the Hunter. Finn returned to check in with him, no doubt anxious to gain access to the cabin and get himself a proper drink of water from his bowl. Spencer hauled himself up onto the deck between two stanchions and rolled his body aboard under the lifeline railing. He lay still for a minute before getting to his feet, taking in the spoils of his efforts and giving his arms a chance to rest after hoisting supplies aboard. He wanted to get everything organized below deck, but they could all work on that after setting sail. There were a lot of things Spencer wanted to do, but he needed to stay on track and get back to the dock as soon as he could.

After sliding some of the supplies he’d brought aboard farther away from the deck rail, Spencer made his way to the cockpit to unlock the main hatch into the cabin, making way for Finn. As he predicted, the dog made a beeline for his water bowl. Spencer listened to Finn lapping up the contents of his bowl loudly while he continued his inspection topside.

Everything seemed to have survived the fallout from the fires. He inspected the main sail, glad he’d taken the time to protect it with the canvas cover and water it down thoroughly before leaving. Then he moved forward and checked the condition of the jib. The smaller forward sail was wrapped neatly around the forestay, as per usual when out of use, but it lacked a protective cover like the main sail. Spencer had taken a precious extra few minutes to make sure the jib was well saturated before he and Finn headed for shore last night, and he was happy to see his efforts had paid off. A thin layer of black and gray speckled grit clung to everything, but overall, he couldn’t complain about the condition of the boat. While he was trying to get some rest last night, his overactive imagination had conjured some truly nightmarish scenarios.

Spencer ran his hand along the top of the rail of the bow pulpit, clearing a small section of ash down to the bright stainless steel below.

“She’s going to need a good wash, but overall, we can’t complain, can we?” Spencer stated loud enough for Finn to hear him.

Taking one more quick look around to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, Spencer headed down the companionway into the cabin. He was sure some of the rigging and canvases would be stained this dismal gray color forever, but he could live with that in lieu of what could have been.

“Oh, Finn. I guess that’s on me.” Spencer followed the trail of black dog prints to Finn’s water bowl and then up to his bed. Finn’s expression didn’t change in the least at Spencer’s discovery. His contentment at being home and having the comfort of familiar surroundings was evident in the dog’s heavy eyes.

“Don’t get too comfortable. We’re not staying long. We’ve got to go back for Rob, Natalie, and Maya.” Spencer looked around the cabin, wondering where on earth he was going to stow all the supplies lying on the deck, as well as the stuff that he hadn’t even brought aboard yet. On top of the gear, he’d have to find a place for three people to be comfortable and have something that resembled privacy. The aft cabin made the most sense for his new passengers, but he wasn’t sure there would be room in the small bed for Maya. Two people were a crowd in the aft stateroom. Maybe she could take one of the couches in the main saloon.

Spencer made eye contact with Finn. “How do you feel about sharing?”

This time, the dog lifted his head and gave Spencer a quizzical look. There were two couches in the saloon, just outside the forward stateroom where Spencer and Kate slept. Finn was known to work his way into their bed if they left the door open, but most times, he claimed the starboard couch as his own. Luckily, Maya was small and would have no trouble sleeping on either of them.

Spencer pulled the sweat-soaked and soot-stained buff over his head, replacing it with a new one. He left the new mask up over his nose and tried it out for a couple of deep breaths.

“Much better.” He pulled the buff back down and enjoyed the sensation of unencumbered breathing while he could. The air quality was definitely better out here, away from land, and that gave Spencer hope that it would improve further once they were a few miles out. But the improved conditions made him rethink how the smoke was affecting Finn. He’d been running around with Spencer since last night without anything to filter out the toxic stench or tiny particles that saturated the air. The discarded buff on the table showed darker areas where Spencer had drawn in air through the cloth.

“You know what? I think you need to stay put, buddy.” Spencer rubbed Finn’s head as he closed the stateroom door and passed by the dog, who was still half asleep on the couch. Once again, Finn perked up for a moment, realizing he was part of the conversation. Spencer looked around, tempted to sit opposite Finn, drink some water, and rest for a minute, but he couldn’t afford to do that. He checked his watch and noted that he’d already been gone for almost twenty minutes.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then. Keep an eye on things, boy. I’ll be back soon.” Spencer climbed the ladder-like steps up to the cockpit, replacing the bottom and roof slat of the companionway door. It wouldn’t trap Finn in the cabin, but Spencer hoped the added obstacle would discourage any unnecessary trips back and forth from the ash-covered topside of the boat to the mostly clean interior. From the looks of things, that wouldn’t be a problem. The dog was tired and had already laid his head back down. Finn’s attitude was uncharacteristic, but Spencer didn’t blame the dog for wanting to stay put. He didn’t want to go back ashore, either.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Spencer thought about turning the engine over just for good measure. He was nervous that something had somehow changed since he moored up last night and shut things down. The trusty old three-cylinder Yanmar diesel hadn’t let him down yet, but he wasn’t one to assume anything would go as planned.

Spencer knew the instruments were fried, or at least the fuses were. He was optimistic that the problem with the instruments was as simple as blown fuses. But he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He’d find out soon enough if the solar power system he’d installed had mitigated the damage to the boat’s electrical system, but he could take a closer look after they’d gotten underway. Working instruments or not, the boat was still their best way out.

He thought about all the things that needed attention for a second longer and decided to pass on starting the engine. They weren’t the only boat out here, though the heavy, smog-polluted air made it seem that way at times. Spencer typically regarded fellow boaters as good people, but this wasn’t a typical situation. Running the engine even for just a minute might attract some unwanted attention. And he’d already had his fill of that lately.

There were supplies on board now, and with Spencer leaving, the boat would be an easy target. Another good reason for Finn to stay behind. Lastly, he grabbed two collapsible five-gallon water bladders he kept stowed under the cockpit seating. He’d fill them from the hose at the bar if the pump was still working and add the water to the onboard tank when they returned. The additional water would more than top off the boat’s thirty-three-gallon tank. Although the water from the hose wouldn’t taste very good, he could no longer afford to be that picky.

Spencer threw the deflated water bladders down into the skiff first, then lowered himself over the side. He untied the lines and cast off with a healthy shove toward shore before giving the outboard’s pull start a spirited tug. The little two-stroke cackled to life and settled into a gentle purr as he motored toward land.

Spencer put his eyes on Restless once more before losing sight of the vessel to an incoming bank of drifting smoke. Finn’s head prairie-dogged out from the top of the companionway, searching for Spencer as if it took the running skiff for the dog to believe he’d actually been left behind. They traded glances. Finn looked more worried than he normally did when he wasn’t allowed to go with Spencer.

“Good boy, Finn. It’s all right. I’ll be right back,” Spencer reassured the dog with a promise he hoped he could keep just as the thirty-one-foot Hunter was swallowed up in a steely gray fog of pollution.

Spencer turned his attention to navigation as he struggled to locate land through the haze. A warm breeze lifted ash from the flotilla of debris and fallout clogging the water’s surface around the skiff, sending a whirlwind of glittering particles into the air around the small boat. He squinted, peering out through the fringe of his eyelashes as he pulled his buff up over his mouth and nose.

Thankfully, Spencer recognized a mooring ball passing along the port side of the skiff and was able to get his bearings. A few seconds later, the air cleared, and he laid eyes on the small marina that was attached to the Fat Snook. Now, where were Rob and Natalie? Spencer started to worry when he couldn’t find the rusted Chevy anywhere. He’d been gone for more than twenty minutes. That should have been plenty of time to gather the supplies they’d discussed taking with them. Maybe it was just as well, because he’d had a change of heart.

Spencer had initially planned on leaving some of the supplies for his boss, Damon, and his family. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized anything he left behind would be looted long before Damon could get to it. The bar was buttoned up pretty well thanks to the hurricane shutters being in place for the renovations, but there’d be no keeping people out once they got desperate enough. There was also no guarantee that the Fat Snook wouldn’t burn down. Plenty of glowing embers were mixed in with the fallout from the fires, and without someone here to keep the grass thatched roof wet, Spencer wouldn’t put money on the Fat Snook surviving for long.

He didn’t waste any time tying the Hewes up to the dock, and he cut the outboard off as soon as he could. He sat and listened for a moment before climbing out of the skiff. He didn’t hear anything other than the constant chorus of cracks and pops, punctuated by the occasional boom of a distant propane tank succumbing to the flames. He grabbed the dock cart and dragged it behind him, carrying his rifle at the ready with his other hand. He spotted the pickup parked outside the bar and peeked over the side of the bed, seeing an assortment of things he recognized from the storeroom.

“Good job, Maya.” Spencer heard Rob’s voice as he cautiously approached the Fat Snook’s open back door.

“Hey, guys. I’m back,” Spencer called out to let the couple know it was him before sticking his head inside. Natalie and Rob were both armed, and the last thing Spencer wanted to do was surprise the couple.

Natalie emerged from the back with a box of oranges in her arms while Maya did her best to manage two large cans of pineapple juice and keep up with her mom.

“Mr. Spencer! Where’s your dog?” Maya asked, her facial expression changing from excitement to embarrassment a moment later.

“Hi, Maya. Finn stayed behind to watch the boat for us and so he could take a break from all the smoke.” Spencer let his carbine hang by the sling and helped Maya with the juice.

“She was worried about you and Finn. She was scared you wouldn’t come back,” Natalie admitted.

“Of course I came back. I made a promise.” Spencer made eye contact with Maya but wondered if it wasn’t Natalie who was worried.

Natalie’s shoulders bobbed. “We couldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

“A promise is a promise. It just took longer than I thought. All the smoke is making it difficult to navigate,” Spencer explained.

“But we’re still leaving on the boat, right?” Rob joined them from the storeroom with a box of lemons and limes haphazardly piled up around a few bottles of liquor.

“Oh yeah, and the sooner, the better,” Spencer answered. “Once we get offshore a ways, I’m thinking the air will clear up. It was already a little easier breathing out on the boat.”

Rob caught him eyeing the box. “This okay?”

Spencer nodded. “Yep. As a matter of fact, I decided we should take everything we can carry. We’ll have to see how much room we have, but right now, I’m thinking it’s better to be safe than sorry and bring whatever we can manage in the skiff.”

Beer and liquor weren’t exactly high on the priority list when it came to stocking the boat with provisions, but as long as they had room, why not? If nothing else, the alcohol might prove valuable as an item to trade or barter. Only time would tell. But Spencer did have to keep in mind the weight they were adding to the boat with all this stuff, not to mention three extra people, although Maya hardly counted. Finn probably outweighed the girl by more than a few pounds.

Restless was no racing sloop, but she could hold her own. The extra weight would slow them down, though, reducing their cruising speed and, in turn, increasing the time it would take to reach Stuart. By how much, he wasn’t sure, but that was a factor well worth consideration. If they had to jettison some weight, they could. Spencer was the last person in the world who would ever consider throwing things into the water when they didn’t belong there, but in light of the current situation, littering the ocean with a few bottles of rum seemed insignificant.

They headed out to the truck with what they had in hand. Spencer was deep in thought about logistics and didn’t notice the man with a shotgun standing next to the truck until it was too late. Spencer let the plastic jugs of pineapple juice fall to the ground and went for his rifle, but the man had the upper hand.

“Easy there, kid.” The man pointed the shortened barrel of the 12-gauge at Spencer while he continued to eyeball the supplies in the bed of the pickup. Bare metal at the end of the roughly cut shotgun barrel caught the dull sunlight as the man waved the gun in Spencer’s direction. The weapon must have been recently modified, judging by the shiny burrs of metal still clinging to the freshly cut steel.

“Hey, Spencer, do you think we should…” Rob froze in his tracks, causing Natalie to run into him on her way out the door. Their expressions went hollow as the color left their cheeks. Natalie dropped the box of oranges and ran back inside—to stop Maya from becoming part of another holdup, Spencer assumed.

“Don’t go any… Hey, get back here,” the man shouted, but it was too late. Natalie was gone, and it was just the three of them now. “Who else is in there? Tell me now.”

Rob didn’t waste any time lying. “Nobody. It’s just us.”

“How about you lose that?” The man motioned for Spencer to hand over his rifle. “Hands up high, where I can see ’em.”

Spencer reluctantly unclipped the rifle from the single-point sling and began to hand it over. He should have been afraid, worried, and nervous; any of those feelings would have been warranted, but all he felt was an overwhelming sense of disappointment. After all that had happened, how could he have been so careless? He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t let his guard down again, and that was exactly what he’d done.

The man took Spencer’s rifle and backpedaled to a safe distance. Unlike the guy who’d held him at gunpoint near the Landcruiser, this man toggled the safety on, then back off again. He laid the shotgun on the rail of the truck bed and leveled Spencer’s AR-15 at Rob, then at Spencer. The man shifted his attention back and forth for a minute, like he was unsure what to do now that he’d gotten the better of them and found himself a truck load of supplies to boot. He was clearly nervous, or was it excitement? Spencer couldn’t tell, but either way, the man seemed competent enough to be dangerous.

“Lady, you better get out here before I put a bullet in your friends.” The man leered at Rob, occasionally checking the open doorway Natalie had escaped through.

Spencer ran through a few options in his head, but all of them seemed like a sure way to get one of them shot. Maybe the smartest thing to do was give the guy whatever he wanted. They still had the skiff and the supplies he’d already taken aboard Restless. They could sail out of here right now with what they had and make it to Stuart. He was pretty sure about that. But there was one thing he knew for certain: nothing inside the Fat Snook was worth dying for.

CHAPTER NINE

“Lady, I’m going to give you until the count of three. Then it’s lights out for your man unless you come out of there with your hands were I can see them.” The gunman made his way around the backside of the pickup and moved to the other side of the bed, getting a better angle on Rob. He must have figured out the two were husband and wife.

“One… two…” the man counted slowly.

“Please, I’m coming out. Don’t shoot.” Natalie stepped through the doorway and out into the gray morning light with her hands over her head.

Spencer was glad to see that Maya wasn’t at her mother’s side for once, but he was also a little disappointed that Natalie hadn’t slipped out of the bar another way and flanked this desperate idiot. Spencer stole fleeting glances at the abandoned shotgun, careful not to let the man notice. The weapon had been left unattended on the truck’s bed rail about five feet from where Spencer was standing. He still had the .9mm tucked into the small of his back, and he assumed Rob and Natalie still had their guns as well. But the shotgun was a better play, especially since they all had their hands over their heads.

The shotgun was just a lunge away, and the barrel was already facing the right direction now that the man had made his way around to the other side of the truck. Spencer would have the truck between himself and the gunman just in case he was too slow on the draw, but Rob and Natalie would be fully exposed if he went for it. Another factor he had to consider was the weapon’s condition. What if the man had been bluffing? What if the gun wasn’t even loaded? Maybe that was why the guy was so eager to commandeer Spencer’s AR-15. These were all real concerns, but none changed the predicament they were in. And the look in Rob’s eyes suggested he was getting ready to make a move of his own. Spencer pictured the gaping hole in the body he’d stashed behind the cabbage palm near the beach, only this time, it might be one of them bleeding out on the ground.

“Take the truck and the food. Rob, give him the keys,” Spencer blurted out, surprising even himself.

“Oh, that’d be easy, wouldn’t it? There’s a lot more food in there, not to mention the booze. What do you take me for, an idiot?” The man reached into the box of oranges that Rob had set on the hood of the truck and pulled out one of the bottles, inspecting it as if he’d never seen a handle of rum before.

It was now that Spencer realized the man wasn’t desperate. He was one of those people who saw this as an opportunity, like the men who broke into the Turtle Hospital and the others who attacked Damon’s house. It was obvious by the crudely modified shotgun that this man’s first priority was arming himself so he could pray on the unsuspecting. At least that was how Spencer saw it.

“You want the keys? Here?” Rob started to reach for his pocket.

The man tossed the bottle of rum back into the box with a clink and retrained the AR-15 on Rob. Spencer rocked forward, putting his weight on the balls of his feet. He was about to go for the shotgun, but now that the man had the barrel stuck in Rob’s face, the timing was wrong, not that it had been right before.

“Slowly, I want the truck keys and the bar keys,” he demanded.

Rob continued, eventually fishing out the keys. He let them dangle from his finger by the key chain, holding them up in front of the man.

“Toss ’em over.” The gunman took his hand off the foregrip of the rifle and held it out.

Rob flung the keys with more momentum than necessary, causing them to sail over the man’s head and land several feet behind him.

“You did that on purpose,” the man claimed.

“I’m sorry. I’m… I’m just nervous,” Rob stuttered.

The man ignored the keys for the time being and leveled the rifle at Rob as if he were going to shoot him for what he’d done. As the man squared up on Rob, Maya sprang from the darkened doorway of the bar and sprinted to her father’s side, screaming hysterically.

“No, please. Please don’t hurt my daddy,” Maya pleaded, clutching her father’s leg.

“Maya!” Natalie tried to intercept the girl but missed.

Spencer saw the man tense up as his attention shifted to Maya, then to Natalie. It was now or never. There was no more time to wait for a better opportunity or a distraction that would probably never happen. Spencer made it to the shotgun in a split second, grabbing the handgrip and finding the trigger while using the bed rail to lever the gun into position.

Crack. Boom.

Natalie’s scream competed with the dueling gunshots. Spencer wasn’t sure if the man’s attempt to shoot him had been successful or not, but there was too much adrenaline pumping through his veins for him to care. Spencer steadied himself on his feet and ditched the shotgun in favor of his Smith & Wesson. He stayed low, making his way around the back end of the pickup, ready at any moment to come face-to-face with the man who was trying to kill him. His blood ran cold when he heard Natalie’s sobs, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake and somehow Maya had been hurt in the skirmish.

Spencer cleared the bumper and stood upright with his pistol trained on the body lying motionless at Rob’s feet.

“You got him. He’s dead.” Rob stepped away from Maya and Natalie, who were holding each other tightly and staring wide-eyed at the dead man. The shotgun had been loaded with birdshot, but at less than ten feet away, that hardly mattered. The steel shot shredded the man’s face, neck, and chest to the point where he was almost unrecognizable. Spencer caught himself thinking death had come too swiftly for a man who seemed all right with killing them over a few bottles of rum.

He stared at the body for a while, trying to shake a feeling of grim satisfaction. He’d just killed another person, and no matter how bad the guy was or how evil his intentions were, the incident was hardly a reason to celebrate. On the other hand, it was. The feeling was short-lived, though, and excitement turned to nausea. Spencer found himself getting hot, with cold chills running down his back. The roller coaster of emotions and physical sensations, combined with the fact that Natalie and Maya were still in hysterics, didn’t help.

He wasn’t sure why all this was hitting him now. This wasn’t the first incident, far from it. But he suddenly felt as if the weight of the world was closing in around him. The bloody mess lying at his feet was a reminder of all the things he was trying to escape. It was a reminder that this was the new normal. Everything they did and every move they made mattered. Even the little decisions had life-and-death consequences. Like letting his guard down for a couple of minutes to help Maya carry two jugs of pineapple juice.

Spencer wiped a ticklish bead of sweat from the back of his neck and summoned the strength to stay upright as he was overcome with dizziness. He leaned against the truck, and a moment later, Natalie was by his side. She helped him make his way to the back of the truck, where Rob was waiting with the tailgate down. Spencer sat down and took the bottle of water that Natalie pushed toward him as everything went blurry.

“Spencer… Spencer…” Natalie’s voice was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

CHAPTER TEN

As Spencer opened his eyes, he realized that he was still on the tailgate of the Chevy, only lying down, his head resting on a towel. Next to him, Maya slowly came into focus as he struggled to get his bearings.

“Mom, Mr. Spencer is up,” Maya shouted.

Spencer pushed himself into a seated position and looked around, wondering how long he’d been out. Based on the additional supplies loaded into the back of the pickup, he guessed at least a few minutes.

“You gave us a good scare there, buddy.” Rob was first to exit the Fat Snook’s back door. He was carrying two large plastic tubs of snack mix that Spencer was all too familiar with from filling the bowls that lined the bar top.

“How are you feeling?” Natalie was right behind him with a box of bottles that rattled with every step. She added her box to the truck bed and sat down next to Spencer, surveying his face and extremities as any good nurse would have.

“Okay, I guess,” Spencer lied.

He felt hungover but worse. His right temple throbbed, a sharp pain pulsing in sync with the beat of his heart. On top of that, his vision still hadn’t fully cleared. The bright gray glare that reflected off the low-hanging smoke clouds only added to his disorientation, causing him to squint as he tried to cope with the pain in his head.

“You don’t look okay. I don’t want you moving from this spot until you’ve finished both of these.” Natalie repositioned the bottles of water on the tailgate by his leg and stood up.

“What happened?” Spencer picked up the water bottle he’d started drinking from before he passed out.

“Stress, dehydration, smoke inhalation. You’ve got a lot of things working against you right now.”

Spencer felt a hand on his shoulder. “Rest up,” Rob said. “You’ve earned it. Besides, we’re just about done, I think. As far as I can tell, we’ve pretty much cleaned the place out.” He glanced at the pile of supplies in the truck bed.

“It looks like it,” Spencer agreed.

He felt Maya staring at him. He turned his attention to the girl and forced himself to smile. “I’m gonna be all right.”

Maya smiled back, but her heavy brown eyes betrayed her uneasiness. She slid off the tailgate and took a few steps before turning to look at Spencer again. He could tell she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. Instead, she followed her parents back into the bar, leaving Spencer all alone with his thoughts.

He rubbed his head, trying to subdue the pulsing, needle-like pain and promised himself he’d take something once they got back to the boat. Then he remembered the first aid kit in the storeroom. He forced the second bottle of water down quickly, nearly choking in the process. Natalie was probably right; he did need to hydrate, but he drank the water mostly to keep her happy. Spencer felt like disregarding her advice was akin to ignoring his own mother.

He stood up cautiously, not fully trusting his legs yet, but soon realized he was managing better than he’d expected. His vision was clear now—or at least as clear as it could be, considering the air quality. He wasn’t alone, though. Rob, Natalie, and Maya all looked like they’d been sitting on the wrong side of a campfire for way too long. Spencer was looking forward to putting some distance between them and this stifling air; he had no doubt it was killing them all slowly.

He found his AR-15 leaning up against the truck and picked it up, reconnecting it to his harness. The sawed-off shotgun the man had first threatened them with was lying in the truck bed with the rest of the supplies, but the breech-loaded weapon was cracked open and empty now. Spencer thought for a second, then decided to get rid of it before heading into the Fat Snook to take stock of the couple’s progress.

He closed the shotgun on itself and heaved it into the water. The effort required to make sure the heavy antique cleared land shot through his head like a knife, reminding him that his ego wasn’t the only thing that had been damaged.

Before passing out, Spencer had wanted to tell the others that he thought it was time to cut their losses and get out of Dodge. He was prepared to give the gunman what he wanted if it meant they could walk away unharmed and get underway, and nothing had changed. He might have been successful in eliminating the immediate threat, but if he’d learned anything since all this started, it was that there was no shortage of bad people looking to take advantage of the situation. The longer they stuck around here, the better their chances of running into more trouble.

Spencer closed the tailgate and headed for the bar. The emergency medical kit was all he wanted now. Thinking about how loaded down the skiff was when he and Finn ran the first load of supplies out to the Hunter gave him good reason to believe it was time to call it quits.

There was more stuff in the back of the truck now than there was before, and this time, there were three more people that needed to come along with the supplies. He’d anticipated this problem to some extent. That was the main reason he left the paddleboard at the dock, but now he was afraid that wouldn’t be enough. Spencer didn’t like the idea of leaving someone behind and having to make another trip back to land. He hated to admit it, but they might have to make some tough decisions and decide what could come and what would have to stay. The beer and liquor would be first on the chopping block.

Too many supplies was a good problem to have, but that didn’t mean he’d feel good about leaving any of it behind. Spencer was trying to think further down the road than Stuart.

Jacksonville, Florida, wasn’t that much farther up the coast, maybe a few days’ sail. But the boat would be even heavier with Kate and possibly her parents on board. More weight translated to slower speed on the water. What should have been a quick jaunt up the coast to Jacksonville could very well turn into another week or more at sea. The thirty-one-foot Hunter had plenty of room for Spencer, Kate, and Finn, but it suddenly seemed very small.

The situation in Stuart had been on Spencer’s mind, along with countless other things. More precisely, he wondered what the Hunter’s loadout would look like after he took on three more people. But an even bigger concern was that Kate’s parents might not want to leave Stuart.

They had friends there, and Kate’s mom, Debbie, had an older sister just north of them on Hutchinson Island. And what if Kate didn’t want to leave her parents? He couldn’t blame her for that. But Spencer was also determined to make it to Buxton, North Carolina, to check on his folks. There were so many variables to factor into the days and weeks ahead that his head spun, and so, for now, he decided not to think about it at all. Or at least he’d try not to.

Luckily, there was still plenty to be done in order to get underway, so Spencer focused on the immediate future for the time being. He eyed the bar as he made his way to the storeroom to grab the first aid kit. Rob and Natalie were busy filling empty boxes with anything they thought might be of use while Maya helped under their direction.

“I think we have all we can handle. We should go before we push our luck here. That won’t be the last guy looking to score supplies,” Spencer suggested in passing.

Natalie stood up and placed her box on the bar top. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I don’t think there’s that much left worth taking anyway.”

“I’m just grabbing the first aid kit from the back, and then I’m good to call it done here,” Spencer announced.

“Sounds good. We’re ready when you are.” Rob brought his box to the bar near Natalie and Maya, who nodded in agreement.

Spencer continued into the back. He found the medical kit mounted to the wall in Damon’s closet of an office and yanked it off unceremoniously. A cascade of drywall dust spilled down onto the desk, coating a framed picture with white powder. Spencer felt bad about the mess until he realized how foolish that was, all things considered. The Fat Snook might not even be here this time tomorrow.

Spencer stared at the picture for a second. Damon’s girls smiled proudly on the back of their dad’s boat as they displayed the eighty-one-pound wahoo they’d taken turns reeling in. Spencer knew the story that went along with the picture because he and Kate had gone on the fishing trip with Damon and his family. Kate had taken the shot, if he remembered correctly.

He also recalled not bringing enough ice to cover the fish sufficiently that day, so Damon had to push the twin outboards to their limit to get back in. Running the twenty-six-foot yellowfin back to Marathon, they all got soaked with bow spray thanks to a summer storm that kicked up a two- to three-foot swell. But there were smiles all around, and their bruises and sore muscles from the rough ride were easily forgotten over cold drinks and fresh wahoo on the grill.

Spencer couldn’t help but crack a smile at the memory. However, the feeling quickly faded, along with his grin, when a distant explosion interrupted his daydream. He wondered if anything like that would ever be possible again. Maybe someday life would be relatively carefree again, and the biggest problem they’d face would be running out of ice for the fish box, but not if Spencer didn’t kick things into high gear and get moving.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Before locking the back door, Spencer took one last look at the place and wondered if he’d ever step foot in the building again. He wouldn’t hold out much hope that the bar would survive, but at least he’d gotten what he could from here. The supplies from the bar and whatever the looters had amassed in the Chevy from their crime spree weren’t exactly the types of things he’d have stocked for a long trip, but he wouldn’t complain.

He was impressed with the amount of fruit and bottled water he, Rob, and Natalie had managed to lock down. He was less excited about the other things, like the vending machine snacks, bar food, and drink mixers. Those items were unconventional when it came to survival food but would at least fill the gaps, taking some of the pressure off Spencer to catch all their meals.

“Ready?” Rob called out from the driver’s seat of the pickup.

“Just about.” Spencer took a few steps toward the truck and tossed the first aid kit to Natalie. She and Maya were sitting in the back of the pickup among the supplies. “You guys can ride in the front if you want.”

It was a short ride down to the dock where the Hewes was tied up, but Spencer had a couple of last-minute items he wanted to add to the truck bed. Jogging back to the building, he went around the side to the rack of propane tanks Damon kept on hand to run the patio heaters in the off-season. He went down the line, hoisting each tank a few inches out of its cradle to see which, if any, were full, all while keeping a mindful eye on the beach. They hadn’t been bothered by any of the surviving resort guests using the beach cabanas for shelter since the two men with guns scared everyone off, but he wasn’t letting his guard down again.

“Two tanks. Is that all?” Spencer voiced his disappointment out loud, then shrugged. He wasn’t surprised; it was the beginning of summer, after all. Currently, there was really no need for propane at the bar aside from running the outside grill, which they seldom did for parties.

They probably didn’t have room for any more than two cylinders anyway. As it was, he’d be strapping the tanks down topside, and at this point, what difference did it make? They were going to look like refugees sailing out of Marathon, and in some ways, he guessed they were. Spencer pulled the two full gas tanks from the rack and made for the Chevy as fast as he could with the two unwieldy tanks at his side.

When Rob saw Spencer round the corner, he jumped out of the truck and joined him at the tailgate, helping him get the gas loaded. Natalie and Maya had taken Spencer’s advice and moved into the cab.

“Just follow the concrete toward the water.” Spencer sat on the tailgate between the gas tanks and pointed out the way. “Oh, wait a minute. I almost forgot.”

He jumped from the truck and ran to the hand pump and coiled garden hose that Rob had used to keep the Fat Snook from burning to the ground. He’d forgotten all about filling the water bladders he brought from the boat. He lifted the bright red handle and thumbed the sprayer, but he could already tell there was no water pressure. His shoulders dropped as he stared at the weak trickle of water dripping from the nozzle. And he was suddenly very thankful for the twenty-five gallons of potable water he already had on board Restless. Not to mention the cases of bottled water.

Spencer jogged back to the truck and hopped onto the tailgate with a heavy sigh, banging the truck’s body with his hand. “Never mind, let’s go.”

Rob nodded, and within a few seconds, they were moving. Spencer watched the Fat Snook fade from sight and said goodbye to a place that had been a fixture in his life for quite some time. He’d already said his goodbyes to Damon and the girls, but this moment carried a finality he hadn’t been expecting.

Before long, Rob was on the brakes as he brought them to the edge of the dock. All four busied themselves with transferring everything from the truck to the skiff. Even little Maya did her part, grunting and sighing as she wrestled with armfuls of goods. Her animated efforts gave Spencer something to smile about. It was a welcome, albeit temporary, respite from their grim reality. Rob helped Spencer lash down the two gas tanks on the bow of the skiff after everything else was loaded and they were done. Spencer jogged back to the truck and tucked the keys up into the sun visor. He didn’t know what the future held, but if he did end up back here, the truck might come in handy.

He had the Landcruiser, but if Damon made his way to the bar, which Spencer figured he eventually would, at least he’d have a ride home. His boss’s relatively new F-250 wasn’t worth the space it took up in his driveway, thanks to the EMPs. Ella’s Mercedes and Charlotte’s new Mini were certainly no better off. Being considerate and taking the time to leave the keys to the Chevy was probably a waste of time. There was a very good chance someone else would happen upon the truck before Damon, but Spencer would do anything to alleviate some of his guilt about cleaning out the bar.

Spencer surveyed the Hewes as he made his way out onto the dock where it was tied up. Rob, Natalie, and Maya were all on board, along with the supplies, and to say the skiff was overloaded would have been a gross understatement. If Spencer had come across a vessel like this while he was in the Coast Guard, the situation would have warranted an escort back into the dock and a hefty fine for the operator.

Rob was easily the heaviest of them.

“So, Rob, have you ever been on a paddleboard?” Spencer grabbed the tail end of the lightweight twelve-foot craft and pulled it in alongside the skiff.

“Just once. We rented a couple from the resort the first day we were here,” Rob stated.

“And how’d that go?” Spencer was trying to determine if Rob was good enough to take the board out to the boat along with a few things from the skiff.

“All right, I guess.” Rob shrugged and shot his wife a nervous glance.

Natalie held in a laugh. “I better ride on the board.”

“Mommy, no,” Maya protested immediately.

That wasn’t the arrangement Spencer had envisioned, but if Natalie was better at balancing on the board, it was a no-brainer. Plus, Spencer could definitely put a few things on the board with her.

“Hand me those tanks, will you?” Spencer waited while Rob untied the tanks they’d just secured on the bow of the skiff.

Spencer was acutely aware of the time being wasted here, but if the skiff sank or capsized with all the stuff, their efforts over the last hour or so would be in vain. Rob handed him the heavy tanks one by one, and he used the gear webbing on the paddleboard’s deck to strap the two thirty-seven-pound propane bottles to the deck.

“All right, I’m ready for a passenger.” Spencer helped Natalie out of the Hewes and back onto the dock, where it would be easier to step onto the paddleboard.

Maya’s face displayed just how much she disapproved of what was happening, but she remained silent otherwise.

“Your mom is going to be right behind us, just a few feet.” Spencer tried to ease the girl’s concerns but failed to get a reaction.

Rob slid into Natalie’s place and sat by his daughter.

“It’s all right, Maya. I’m still here.” Natalie gently moved onto the board with Spencer’s assistance.

“You don’t need to stand or paddle. I’m going to pull you along behind us with the boat,” Spencer explained.

“Okay, I’ll sit, then.” Natalie sat cross-legged on the deck of the board and took the paddle from Spencer.

“Here, just in case you need to steer a little.” Spencer tied the end of a line to the GoPro mount on the paddleboard’s nose and gave Natalie a gentle shove. She slid out behind the skiff through the ash-encrusted water with pings and clunks as the floating debris bounced off the board’s lightweight, foam-filled hull.

Spencer kept a close eye on Natalie to make sure he wasn’t asking too much of the woman, but Maya stared at her without blinking. When he yanked on the pull start, the outboard fired right up as if it were any old day. Spencer made sure the line cleared the outboard’s prop as he backed out of the slip, and Natalie guided the paddleboard skillfully out of his way. Maybe he’d underestimated these two. Rob had certainly proven himself a man of action on the beach. And Natalie was more than willing to pull her own weight.

He pretended the water wasn’t a sickly gray color and closed his eyes for a second, taking in the heavily filtered sunlight on his skin. He wanted to pretend it was just another day and he and Kate were taking groceries out to the Hunter, but it wasn’t. At least he could take some satisfaction in the fact that he’d chosen his new shipmates wisely. Or he’d gotten extremely lucky. Either way, Stuart seemed a whole lot closer right now than it had in a long time.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The trip out to the boat took about as much time as Spencer expected. With the paddleboard in tow, he had to be extra careful and watch his speed. The Hewes handled worse than the last time he and Finn ran stuff out, but that was also predictable, considering the load they were carrying.

Adding to the difficulty of navigation were the refuse and hazards that littered the water. On several occasions, Spencer was forced to alter their course to avoid pieces of charred timber lurking just below the waterline. The only indicators of these obstacles were the lumps of ash sticking above the surface. With any luck, the debris field would thin out as they left land behind. But to be safe, he’d have to post someone on the bow of the Hunter, at least until they were outside the channel and in open water. Maybe longer, depending on the conditions past the inlet.

Everyone remained mostly quiet for the ride out. But that was fine with Spencer. The toxic air and drifting smoke made it difficult to breathe, let alone carry on a conversation. And since visibility was so poor, he needed to concentrate on maintaining a heading that he knew would take them to Restless.

Maya’s gaze was fixed on her mother, who, although she was only about fifteen feet behind the skiff on the paddleboard, disappeared from sight every now and then in a haze of smog. She seemed to be doing just fine and had at some point decided to stand up and take a more active role in avoiding the larger chunks of trash that threatened to hit the board.

Spencer had been checking his watch routinely but stopped because of the frustration it was causing him. Last time he checked, it was close to ten o’clock. He huffed at his ambitions to be through the Moser Channel and under Seven Mile Bridge by six. He knew his original timeline was aggressive, but he had no idea getting the boat stocked would take this long. How could he? They’d certainly seen their share of hiccups along the way, most of them caused by human depravity.

Ding… ding… ding… ding.

“What’s that?” Maya’s attention moved from her mother for the first time since they left the dock.

Spencer listened carefully to the slow but consistent metallic ringing, then smiled at Maya. “That’s Finn. We must be close.”

“Your dog knows how to ring a bell?” Rob’s brow wrinkled.

“Not exactly.” Spencer cupped his hands around his mouth and aimed his voice in what he figured to be the direction of the boat. “Finn, is that you, buddy? We’re back, boy. Where are you?”

Spencer had barely finished calling out to the dog when a few sharp barks sounded off the skiff’s bow. He adjusted the tiller handle accordingly and aimed for the noise. A few seconds later, the veil of smoke lifted, exposing Restless less than twenty yards from their location but further to the port side than he anticipated. Leaving Finn behind had paid off in more ways than one.

Ding, ding, ding, ding.

Finn resumed ringing the aluminum mast with his tail as his excitement grew and he realized it was Spencer.

“There’s your bell ringer,” Spencer joked.

“We’re coming, Finn,” Maya shouted.

Spencer had hoped Finn would stay put below deck instead of wandering around topside through the soot and ash residue, but that was a trivial concern. He was just glad to be home. Even better, there would be no return trip to shore in the near future. Spencer checked back on Natalie as he brought the Hewes alongside the Hunter and saw that she’d already cast off the tow line and was coming into the boat under her own power.

Natalie caught his gaze and smiled. “I got it.”

Rob encouraged her. “Good job, baby. You’re a natural.”

Spencer quickly tied off the skiff and greeted Finn, who was wiggling his entire body as he waited at the rail. “I know, I know. I told you I’d be back soon. You’re a good boy. Yes you are.”

Spencer wrapped his arms around Finn and buried his face in the dog’s dirty fur for a moment, giving Finn the attention he craved and undoubtedly deserved for watching over the boat and guiding them through the smog. Finn might have done the latter unintentionally, but it made no difference to Spencer; it might have taken him a lot longer to locate Restless without his furry partner’s help.

“All right, you gonna let us on board or what?” Spencer pushed Finn back from the edge and extended his hand to Maya. “Welcome aboard, Maya. Ladies first.”

Rob guided Maya to Spencer over the haphazardly assembled pile of supplies so he could lift her up onto the deck. As soon as Maya’s feet hit the roughly textured fiberglass deck, she ran aft to greet her mother, with Finn excitedly chasing after her.

“I might as well stay put and hand stuff up to you,” Rob offered.

“Let me help Natalie aboard. Stand by for a sec.” Spencer joined Maya on the boat, making his way down the starboard side toward Natalie on the paddleboard.

She passed him the gas tanks one by one. Then he helped her up.

“Welcome aboard, Natalie. Make yourself at home. It isn’t much, but it’s ours.” Spencer worked on fishing the paddleboard out of the water and stowing it in its usual spot against the rail with a few bungee cords, while Maya and her mother looked around.

“Thank you. It’s wonderful. Oh, and Spencer, I don’t mind if you call me Nat. All of my friends and family do.” She reached out and squeezed his good arm, grinning warmly. “Maybe after we get going, you’ll let me clean that up for you.”

“Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.” Spencer hadn’t paid any of his lumps and bumps much attention over the last few hours; he’d been too engrossed in getting out of Marathon. Ella had tended to his wounds just this morning, but the bandages were already filthy and starting to fall off. That was easy to believe, though. Everything Spencer was wearing had been ripped and stained a dull gray thanks to everything they touched being covered in a sooty residue.

“And don’t hold back letting us know what we can do to help around here. We’re willing, ready, and able.” Nat ran her hand through Maya’s dark brown curls. “Right, Maya?”

Maya continued rubbing Finn’s head while nodding in agreement. Spencer was grateful for their enthusiasm to pitch in. There would be plenty for them to help with, but right now, he just wanted to empty the skiff and get underway.

He thought about firing up the motor and charging up the raw-water washdown station so Nat could hose the ash off the deck, but he wasn’t keen on starting the engine until they were closer to being ready to leave. And he didn’t want to soak the supplies, either. Other than the noises carrying over the water from land, it was eerily quiet out here, a few hundred yards from shore, and Spencer was still worried about attracting attention. He’d be perfectly happy if they didn’t see another soul until they reached Stuart.

“You could start going through the stuff and taking inventory of what we have food- and water-wise.” Spencer’s gaze fell to the heaping pile of supplies he’d brought out earlier.

“We’ll get started.” Nat made for the pile, taking Maya with her.

Spencer nodded and left Finn with the girls while he and Rob unloaded the skiff. It didn’t take long to get the Hewes emptied of the cargo and move the small boat around to the Hunter’s stern, where it could be rigged to follow behind them. When Spencer rejoined the family of three over the pile of provisions at the center of the boat, they had already made decent progress sorting through the pile.

Crack… crack.

Spencer and the others stopped what they were doing and looked toward shore.

Crack… crack… crack.

This time, screams followed the gunshots, then more shooting and yelling. There was too much smoke between them and the beach to see anything, but Spencer was glad for the poor visibility this time.

“Is that coming from the beach?” Rob asked.

Spencer considered fetching his binoculars but didn’t think it would help much, and finding out what was happening onshore really didn’t matter. “I think it’s time to go.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“We can sort through this stuff underway. I’m gonna get us out of here.” Spencer hurried to the cockpit and exchanged his AR-15 for a boat hook.

He hustled to the bow and unhooked the line, running out to the mooring ball that kept Restless static. Normally, Spencer would have started the engine and pulled forward, giving himself slack to work with, but if they could hear people and gunshots from the beach, then people on the beach would be able to hear the engine running. He’d do his best to detach silently and cope with the outgoing tide.

Rob appeared behind him. “Can I do anything?”

“Grab that line and pull. We only need enough slack to untie. The current should move us off the ball,” Spencer explained as he took in the portside bow line, hand over hand. Rob copied Spencer until he was instructed to stop. Spencer used the boat hook to pull the moorings painter up to the rub rail before disconnecting, then repeated the process on Rob’s side.

“Make sure the lines stay out of the water. You can coil them up by their cleat if you want.” Spencer didn’t bother going into any more detail before starting for the stern. He noticed the concerned look on Maya’s face as several more volleys of gunfire rang out from the resort property. “It’ll be all right. We’ll be on our way before you know it.”

Zing.

Another volley of shots echoed off the water as the bullet flew overhead.

“Follow me to the cockpit. Come on.” Spencer motioned with his hand. “Rob, I still need you on the bow, but stay low.”

Spencer let the girls climb down into the cockpit first, then followed. He turned the key, forgoing the typical extended pause to warm the glow plugs. The trill of the engine alarm was soon drowned out by the scrappy cackle of the reliable little diesel. As the engine coughed to life, Spencer soon heard the familiar trickle of water from the discharge. He peeked overboard, checking to make sure the flow of water was adequate to cool the engine. With all this garbage in the water, he wouldn’t be surprised by a clogged intake.

Satisfied that everything was running as it should, Spencer reached around the helm station and threw the boat into gear instead of letting the engine warm up. There was no time for that today, not with bullets flying past.

As soon as they’d fallen off the mooring ball several yards, Spencer shifted into forward gear and eased the throttle down.

“Rob, I need you to be my eyes up there,” Spencer called out. “If you see anything coming up that we need to avoid, throw an arm up on the side we need to turn toward. Understand?”

Rob turned to give Spencer a thumbs-up. “Got it.”

None of the gauges lit up, but Spencer had expected as much. Hopefully he could remedy that at some point during the trip, but he didn’t need any of it right now. Using the analog tachometer, he brought the diesel up to an ambitious three thousand RPMs and settled into a six- or seven-knot cruising speed thanks in part to the outgoing tide. He didn’t like to run the diesel much over 2500 RPMs, but he was more than willing to make an exception, at least until they put some distance between themselves and the lunatics taking over Marathon.

Another bullet whizzed through the air, but it sounded closer to where they’d been moored. Scanning the portside horizon, Spencer strained his eyes, looking for recognizable landmarks through the heavy pollution. Pockets of semi-clear air dotted his field of view, and he briefly caught sight of the Turtle Hospital. In the light of day, he could plainly see there wasn’t much left of the place.

The shed housing the emergency generator was fully engulfed in flames, and Spencer wondered if the natural gas line that ran to the building was fueling the fire. Either way, the sight was confirmation that he’d made the right choice in opening the sea gates to the rehabilitation pens. Kate would be proud of him for that one.

“See something?” Nat asked.

“Oh… ah, not really. My girlfriend, she’s a marine biologist at the Turtle Hospital over there. Well… she used to be,” Spencer added.

Nat stood up to get a better view. “Oh, what a shame. We took Maya there a couple days ago to see the turtles. She loved it.”

“I got to feed the stingrays,” Maya chimed in.

“Those poor animals, they’ll be trapped,” Nat said with a sigh.

“I took care of that last night when I went to check on some of Kate’s coworkers. I didn’t find anyone there, but I did open all the pens so the animals can get out into the ocean.” Spencer winked at Maya.

In front of Maya, Spencer decided not to mention the men he ran into in the gift shop or the origin of the Chevy. The kid had already seen too much. There was no sheltering her from what was happening, but Spencer didn’t need to add to the trauma she was experiencing. Leaving land behind for a few days would be good for her. It’d be good for all of them.

Nat nodded. “You’re a good man, Spencer.”

Just then, Rob’s right arm shot up over the starboard side of the bow. “Something big in the water, coming up about twenty yards out.”

Spencer cut the wheel hard, causing the boat to list slightly, which caught Maya off guard.

“Whoa.” She pulled herself back onto the seat cushion, using Finn as an anchor. The two were quickly becoming friends. Finn wasn’t shy about taking full advantage of Maya’s willingness to continually scratch him, nor was she upset about having a life-sized teddy bear.

Spencer and the others watched as the floating obstacle in the water came into focus. The glossy white bottom of a sizable sportfishing boat hung on to a pocket of air trapped in the hull somewhere as it bobbed lifelessly in the water. Only the front twenty feet or so of the hull stuck out, the boat a clear victim of a catastrophic fire.

“Good job on the heads-up.” Spencer shot Rob a thumbs-up.

That was the type of thing that could end their trip before it even started, a perfect example of what Spencer feared the most with such limited visibility. He glanced back at the sunken vessel and watched it ride their wake while trying to remember what other boats he’d passed last night on his way in. With the large number of boats in the Keys that were full-time live-aboard vessels, more partially submerged wrecks would likely be waiting ahead. But all he could picture were the burning buildings and airborne fireballs from the multiple explosions peppering the night sky. He must have been in shock last night. His memories of navigating the channel were a messy, blurred storm of flames and smoke.

The sunken and half-burnt sportfisher also served as a reminder of just how fast a shipboard fire could get out of control. Spencer was eager to show his new friends their living quarters in hopes of convincing Maya to take shelter below deck, but he needed Nat to do something for him first. Occasionally, hot embers still fell from the sky, and he didn’t want to risk ending up like the sinking sportfisher.

“So, Nat, how’d you like to do something for me?” Spencer asked. He hated to pull her away from Maya, but the girl looked fairly content for the time being as she made friends with Finn.

“Sure.” Nat stood up and moved toward the helm station.

Spencer pulled the coiled hose from its holder and handed it to Nat. “Do you think you could give the deck a good rinse and get rid of as much of this fallout as you can? I’d also like to keep the sails and rigging wet, just in case.” As Spencer finished making his request, an ember glowing bright orange drifted in and settled on a coil of line.

“Good idea.” Nat gave the smoldering ember a blast from the hose.

“That’s the raw-water washdown,” Spencer explained, “and as long as the engine is running, we have use of the hose. It’s salt water, and I normally wouldn’t encourage spraying the boat down with salt water on purpose, but if it keeps us from catching fire or tracking all this ash inside the cabin, the dried, crusty coating of sea salt will be well worth it.”

Spencer was second-guessing his plan to wet the boat down again, but the floating ember had proven it was necessary. And they still had a ways to go before they reached Moser Channel or the bridge and even farther yet before they could leave land behind, along with the countless still-burning structure fires. As long as Spencer could see land off the port side, he’d remain vigilant when it came to making sure they didn’t fall victim to any stupid mistakes—like letting an airborne spark start a fire on board.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nat worked her way from the stern to the bow, washing the deck down as she went. Long tendrils of black water snaked past Spencer’s feet, then out through the drain holes. It was no wonder the clear blue tropical waters he was accustomed to had taken on such an ominous shade of gray. How long would it take for Mother Nature to clean up this mess? How much wildlife would die because of this? The oxygen level in the water must be at record lows. He was afraid the answers to those questions would be very disappointing.

Maya and Finn had left the cockpit now that bullets were no longer zipping by. The few hundred yards now separating Restless from the shoreline had put everyone in a somewhat more relaxed state of mind. Even Rob had come up off his belly and was now crouching in the bow pulpit instead of lying prone on the deck. Spencer wasn’t sure the air was any cleaner out here, but in small doses, it seemed more tolerable without the buff over his face. The easier breathing was probably due to the fact they were moving, though, rather than sitting still at the mercy of the drifting pollution.

Finn, never one to miss out on a running hose, made Nat’s job harder than it needed to be. Taking advantage of her ignorance about his habits with the hose, he tried to catch mouthfuls of salt water from the nozzle. At least Maya was enjoying the show. And Finn was more than happy to offer entertainment as he made a fool of himself.

“Careful, don’t let him have too much salt water or we’ll all be sorry later,” Spencer warned.

He hated to end their fun, especially since it made Spencer feel good to see Maya laughing. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t seen this side of her yet, and he knew the brief interruption from reality was good for the girl. But if Finn had too much salt water, it would come out of both ends later. A consequence none of them would find very amusing on a cramped boat.

Spencer called the dog back to the cockpit so Nat could wrap things up. “Finn, get back here and let the girls finish up.”

They weren’t in any real danger at the moment, but Spencer wanted to stay focused on getting to the channel.

“Finn, here.” Spencer spoke sternly, and the reluctant dog finally gave in. Of course, Maya followed her new best friend, and just like that, Spencer had two sets of dark brown eyes boring into him.

“Maya, how’d you like to get Finn cleaned up and take him below with you? I can show you your cabin,” Spencer suggested.

He didn’t mind either one of them being in the cockpit, but he wasn’t convinced they were in the clear just yet. If bullets started to fly again, the best place for Maya and Finn would be below deck and out of sight. Spencer’s concern about passing under Seven Mile Bridge was growing by the minute. Moser Channel would lead them out to open water, but they’d have to sail under the bridge and the Overseas Highway in the process. If they were going to run into people, Spencer would bet on it happening there, from above, which he considered a serious threat.

Maya looked back at her mother, who nodded her approval. “Okay.”

“How are we looking up there, Rob?” Spencer checked in before stepping away from the wheel.

“All clear as far as I can see,” Rob reported back.

“Under that seat, there’s a stack of old towels. How about grabbing one and laying it in front of the companionway so we have a place to wipe our feet… and paws.” Spencer knew they wouldn’t be able to keep all the ash and soot outside the cabin, but he wanted to try.

“Companionway?” Maya wrinkled her brow as she lifted the seat cushion.

“It’s a nautical term for the entrance to a boat or the stairway between decks,” Spencer explained.

Maya was having trouble pulling a towel out from under a stack of life jackets, so Spencer held the wheel with his foot and lifted the lid of the seat for her. The smell of freshly washed towels reminded him of Kate. And the pile of life jackets reminded him that Maya should wear one next time she was on deck.

“Is this okay?” Maya held up a towel that was severely frayed around the edges.

“Yeah, they’re all Finn towels, as we call them, so they’re all a little rough but good for cleaning up messy dogs and other things.” Spencer eyed Finn and then flashed a grin at Maya. Finn was more grayish-brown than yellow now. Spencer would have liked to hose the dog off before letting him inside, but that would make an even bigger mess. Maybe later.

“Would you mind taking the wheel for a second?” Spencer was going to wedge a cushion against the helm station, but since Nat was done using the hose, she could keep them on course while he gave Maya the nickel tour below deck.

“Me?” Nat’s eyes grew wide.

“Just keep her straight unless Rob says otherwise. You’ll be fine. I’ll only be gone for a second and a few feet away if you need me,” he assured her.

“All right.” Nat took the wheel as if he was handing her a live rattlesnake.

“You’ll be fine. Just like driving a car. Well, sort of.”

With Nat at the helm, Spencer turned his attention to Maya, showing her how to remove the section of hatch he’d left in place for Finn’s sake. If he was going to be sharing the boat with three other people, the sooner they learned their way around and how things worked, the better. And that was true for navigation as well. Spencer planned on assigning them all helm duty. That was part of his plan to sail nonstop to Stuart and one of the reasons he’d offered to give them a ride to Jacksonville.

“All right, now I want you both to wipe your paws,” Spencer joked.

“I don’t have paws.” Maya made a silly face as Finn pushed past them and led the way down into the saloon.

“Sorry about the mess. I was in the middle of a few projects.” Spencer looked back up into the cockpit at Nat apologetically.

He continued the hasty tour, making sure the gun cabinet was locked in the process. He showed Maya the cabin where she and her parents could sleep, although calling their sleeping quarters a “cabin” was a stretch. The small aft compartment was big enough for sleeping only, but there was also a chaise-style seat in the space, and Spencer hoped the three of them could make it work. He’d show Rob and Nat around later but hoped Maya would make herself comfortable and stay below deck for a while, at least until they were out to sea.

“Is it easier to breathe down there?” Nat must have read his mind or, like any concerned mother, wanted her child to be safe.

Maya had already removed the piece of the torn shirt she’d been using as a mask. “Yeah.”

“Maybe you should stay down there with Finn until we get out of this smoke,” Nat suggested.

While Spencer was explaining the features and layout of the boat to Maya, Finn had settled into his dog bed on one of the couches and was already half asleep.

“All right.” Maya seemed disappointed at her mother’s request but took a seat across from Finn at the table all the same.

Spencer was anxious to get topside but remembered Kate had a marine biology book in the forward cabin. He found the book and took a few extra seconds to pull a small bottle of orange juice from the cooler. The ice had melted long ago, but the juice was still cool to the touch—or at least cooler than any of the bottled beverages up on the deck.

He presented Maya with the book and orange juice. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile.

The contents of the book were over her head, but it was full of detailed, colorful illustrations she might enjoy. Could she even read? Spencer had no idea what six-year-olds were capable of, but it was the best he could come up with for now. He’d initially been worried about having a kid her age on board, but as he headed topside and looked back at her cozying up on the couch, his concerns seemed unwarranted. If anything, Maya’s presence was inspirational. She was a constant reminder that doing the right thing was worth it. A reminder that even though today, and maybe the immediate future, looked grim, there was a bigger picture to appreciate.

Spencer couldn’t control much, but if he could make Maya feel safe and secure, that was something. Something that gave him purpose while he made his way to Stuart.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Spencer was slightly jealous of Maya as she stretched out on the couch, occasionally sharing something she’d found in the book with the sleepy dog. He only stayed below deck long enough to make sure she was content enough to stay put. He also rinsed his face off in the sink, although he regretted wasting the water as soon as he’d done it.

Maya looked as tired as Finn. The gentle rocking of the boat and the steady hum of the diesel would lull her to sleep in no time. Spencer had fallen victim to the Yanmar’s drone many times himself when he and Kate would run the small engine to generate power. Now that he had the solar panels, it wouldn’t be necessary—if the system he’d recently installed was still worth anything after the EMPs. He was anxious to have a look inside the fuse box, but that would have to wait for now.

“Spencer!” Rob’s voice cut the air like a knife.

Spencer skipped the ladder up to the cockpit, using his arms to pull himself up through the opening in one swift move. “What’s wrong?”

Rob didn’t speak. Instead, he guided Spencer’s attention toward the boat with a pointed finger. Approaching their port side was an old Shamrock Mackinaw. Spencer recognized the vessel immediately because it was the same boat his father owned. And it was coming in fast.

“Hey, look out! You’re heading right for us!” Spencer waved his arms and shouted at the top of his lungs, but the Shamrock did not alter its course or appear to slow down whatsoever. The smoke-rich air made it difficult to see into the vessel’s pilothouse, but as far as he could tell, there was no one at the wheel. One thing was clear, though: it’d be up to him to prevent a collision.

Spencer took the helm from Nat and began evasive maneuvers, turning the wheel hard to starboard and backing off the throttle before pulling the lever past neutral and into reverse. As soon as he heard the expected thunk of the transmission slipping into gear, he pulled the throttle back as fast as he could and spun the wheel in the opposite direction, causing Restless to swing its bow away from the runaway Shamrock.

“Take the line in. Don’t let it get caught in our prop,” Spencer instructed.

Nat followed his directions and began taking in the line that attached them to the skiff they were towing. A moment later, the Hewes was up against their stern with a sickening crack as the Hunter pushed the small boat out of the way. Spencer feared they might sink the little skiff thanks to the emergency maneuvers they were executing, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. If Nat could keep the line connecting them to the dingy from fouling the Hunter’s prop, that was really all that mattered. If not, their progress backward would quickly come to an end.

The little three-cylinder Yanmar screamed, belching black smoke in protest of the sudden demand. Spencer pulled back on the throttle, giving it all he could in his attempt to reverse course and avoid a collision. He hated pushing the boat’s mechanical limits like this, but there was no choice. The twenty-seven-foot Shamrock was a heavy, well-built boat. He knew this because of how his dad’s pickup truck squatted when they pulled their Shamrock out of the water at the ramp. The sharp, Deep-V hull would slice through the sailboat’s side with little effort, leaving them to scavenge what they could and pile into the skiff if it survived.

“Get ready with the boat hook,” Spencer warned Rob.

The boat hook wouldn’t be enough to keep the Shamrock away from them, if it came to that, but it might be enough to minimize the impact if he could maneuver them far enough out of the Shamrock’s course.

Twenty yards, ten yards. Spencer watched the distance between them and the runaway boat shrink while pushing down on the throttle so hard he feared it might snap off its mount. He spun the wheel back to center and straightened the thirty-foot sailboat out in the final seconds, positioning them as best he could for the imminent impact.

“Hang on!”

The Shamrock grazed their side with a groan as the vessels’ rub rails mashed together in a manner that made Spencer sick to his stomach. The Hunter shuddered under the strain, and visions of splintered fiberglass and water rushing into the cabin filled his head for a moment as the two boats battled for dominance. Rob did the best he could, pushing against the Shamrock with the boat hook, but it made little difference. They were being pushed sideways, which was amazing since the Hunter’s heavy keel extended nearly five feet below the surface.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Rob!” Spencer shouted.

The offending boat eventually started to slide along the rub rail, pivoting into a new path of less resistance. Spencer facilitated the movement by turning the wheel hard to port, sending the Shamrock skidding away from them with a gut-wrenching squeal. He backed off the throttle immediately and took them out of gear while they all watched the Shamrock continue on as if nothing had happened, its original course only slightly altered by the collision.

Only after the Shamrock had passed did the reason for the runaway boat become clear. Slumped over the Shamrock’s aft steering station was the blood-soaked body of a man. The peppering of bullet holes in the boat’s transom suggested the man had been trying to get away from someone or maybe a group. It was a wonder the thing was running, although if the charcoal-black smoke pouring out of the engine vents was any indicator, it might not run much longer.

Spencer’s instincts kicked in, and his first thought was to chase the boat down and stop it from running into someone else. But that wouldn’t be possible, even if circumstances allowed it. For starters, they wouldn’t be able to catch the Shamrock. He could have caught up to the vessel with the skiff, but that meant leaving Rob and his family alone. And with such poor visibility, finding his way back to the Hunter might not be that easy.

The Hewes. Spencer remembered the crack of fiberglass he’d heard when backing up.

He took the line from Nat’s shaking hands and turned his attention to the skiff.

“That was close. I thought that thing was going to cut us in half.” Rob stood on the bow, looking as pale as the smoke surrounding them while he continued to watch the Shamrock chug off into obscurity.

“That came out of nowhere fast,” Nat chimed in.

“Looks like he had the same idea we did but didn’t get out in time.” Spencer examined the skiff’s bow, noticing a series of cracks in the gel coat but nothing serious.

The shamrock was out of sight now, but Spencer could still hear the boat’s engine in the distance. He speculated where the boat might end up. Unchecked, it would likely run aground on a sandbar or small island or maybe wind up somewhere deep in the Everglades if nothing got in its way. Either way, it wasn’t their problem anymore. With any luck, the engine would give out before the boat did any more damage or hurt someone.

Spencer gave the skiff a shove with his foot and let the line pay out before climbing back into the cockpit. Maya and Finn were standing on the top rung of the ladder in the companionway, both looking equally unsure about what had just happened. Spencer hadn’t noticed them before and wondered how long they’d been standing there.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Just another boat getting a little too close.” With an unsteady voice, Nat did her best to reassure her daughter they were out of danger.

Spencer took a deep breath after adjusting the sun buff covering his face and slowly eased the throttle forward. “How’s it look?” he called out. He would have gone to check on the damage from the collision himself, but he was reluctant to turn the helm over to Nat so soon after the close call.

To his surprise, she stepped up on her own. “I can take it again if you want to go see for yourself.”

Spencer nodded and let her take the wheel, but not before pointing out their heading on the compass. “Try to keep the needle between 280 and 300.” He spun the bezel until the orange marker on the glass aligned with the bearing they needed to maintain for good measure. “Right there.”

Nat nodded. “Got it.”

Rob was already prone and partially hung over the side when Spencer reached the starboard rail. “Not too bad, I don’t think.”

Spencer joined him and looked for himself. To his astonishment, the rub rail had absorbed the brunt of the collision with the heavy boat. Like fingers of lightning, a web of superficial cracks in the gel coat of the fiberglass hull reached out from the point of impact, but as far as Spencer could tell, there was no real damage. He counted them lucky to have escaped with what amounted to a black eye for the thirty-one-foot Hunter.

“Is it bad?” Rob asked.

“No, looks cosmetic. We’ll be fine.” Spencer played the incident off as best he could, hoping the others couldn’t tell just how much the close call had shaken him up.

The family of three was counting on his expertise and seafaring acumen to get them out of here safely. But the collision was a wake-up call for Spencer. And a stark reminder that just because they’d managed to get underway and leave the dangers of land behind, plenty could still go wrong.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Spencer tried not to let the collision with the Shamrock bother him, but he hated to see his boat damaged like that. Finding an older Hunter that was in good shape and somewhat affordable was no small accomplishment. Acquiring Restless had taken months of research and several unproductive road trips that ended in disappointment. And now the boat he’d carefully selected as his and Kate’s home had been reduced to a vessel he wouldn’t have given a second look. Seeing the cracks in the gel coat was discouraging, to say the least, and in a small way, it felt like a failure so soon into their journey.

He tried to focus on the fact that they weren’t taking on water, an accomplishment in and of itself, considering how hard they’d been hit by the other boat. But that was difficult when he took into account he’d damaged the skiff as well with his evasive maneuvers. Thankfully, neither the skiff nor the Hunter were any worse for wear performance-wise. Spencer took a deep breath and blew it out, resolving to move on from the encounter, frayed nerves and knotted stomach notwithstanding.

Rob resumed his position at the bow, looking out for hazards and other boats. More than anything, Spencer’s takeaway from the incident was a newfound awareness that they weren’t the only ones out here. It was no surprise that they weren’t alone in attempting to escape via boat, but it was a wake-up call.

Spencer edged the throttle farther forward, pushing the RPMs and his confidence in the engine closer to their limits. He’d been anxious to reach open water before, but now he was sure their survival depended on it. Maya and Finn retreated to the cabin once more. This time, Nat joined them, taking some of the supplies from the messy pile on deck. Spencer apologized for the mess again and answered questions from the helm station about where she could stow things. It soon became clear they’d have no choice but to leave a lot of it topside. He liked to run a tight ship. However, there was limited space below deck for the newly acquired supplies and people. But that was a lesser concern compared to some of the other things on his mind.

The boat was heavy; he could feel it in the steering and see it in their exaggerated wake. It wasn’t anything to lose sleep over, but it was certainly a factor he needed to consider. An unbalanced or overloaded boat wouldn’t cause any problems in calm water, but out on the ocean, the extra weight could prove problematic if they encountered rough seas. In his opinion, they weren’t in immediate danger, but sitting lower in the water would, at the very least, negatively impact their speed and efficiency. The trip to Stuart was going to take longer than planned, something he’d already thought about but was forced to accept as fact at this point. His original timeline of four or five days to reach Stewart was officially unobtainable.

But it wasn’t their current load that worried him the most. Things wouldn’t get any better after Stuart, especially if Kate’s parents joined them. The trip to Jacksonville, through unfamiliar waters, would prove even more challenging. But that was a bridge he’d cross when the time came. Right now, he needed to get under one.

Spencer checked the Hunter’s LCD displays out of habit. The cluster of LCD panels that normally provided a bevy of important information stared back at him, black and empty.

Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dead instruments, his soot-covered face providing proof that this wasn’t a bad dream. The first order of business once he had a little breathing room and made it out past the channel would be to crack open the fuse panel. His intention to troubleshoot the boat’s electrical system when he and the others first boarded fell by the wayside when bullets started flying.

Sailing to Stuart was the right choice. Their morning ashore had proven that beyond a doubt, but without instruments, the trip would be monumentally more difficult. Spencer had known this was an issue, and it was one of the main reasons he’d considered taking the Landcruiser to Stuart in the first place.

Of course, there was a chance that the Hunter’s electrical system was damaged beyond repair. Subconsciously, Spencer wondered if that was the real reason he’d avoided cracking open the fuse box. In some cases, ignorance was bliss, and with everything else going on, he was reluctant to add to his troubles.

For the time being, Spencer didn’t need the instruments. The water was plenty deep, and he knew where the sandbars and hazardous areas were from here all the way out through Moser Channel.

“Spencer.” Rob’s left arm shot out over the water.

Spencer turned the wheel. “What is it?”

“Another boat,” Rob answered.

A few seconds later, Spencer spotted the vessel: a sailboat similar in size to the Hunter, several yards off the starboard side. The boat looked to be in working order, but as far as Spencer could see, there was no one on board. Nat’s head popped up from the main hatch as they passed the sailboat. Spencer grabbed his AR-15, moved to the rear of the cockpit, and assumed a lower stance.

Maya was back at the table, this time with Finn sitting next to her. She had Kate’s marine biology book in front of her again, but instead of thumbing through the pages, she stared at her mother in nervous anticipation. Spencer felt the same as they cruised past the empty sailboat. The boat looked abandoned, but that didn’t make any sense because it wasn’t moored up or anchored. And thanks to the outgoing tide, the seemingly empty vessel was drifting toward the Seven Mile Bridge almost as fast as the Hunter was moving under power.

The closer they got to the main channel and the open water around the bridge, the faster the current would pull them toward the ocean, a tidal effect Spencer was especially thankful for today. However, the swift-moving water also made passing the unfamiliar boat take longer than he would have liked. Spencer cut the wheel a little sharper, putting a few extra yards of space between the two boats.

Nat spoke softly. “I don’t see anyone.”

Spencer glanced at Rob on the bow, who had a better view of the drifting boat’s cockpit. Rob met his gaze and shrugged, quickly returning his attention to the empty sailboat. Spencer couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he had about the situation and gave the wheel another quarter turn to the port side. He held this new course for a few seconds before bringing the boat back around to its original bearing.

Now in a position to see the cockpit, Spencer noticed the companionway hatch was wide open, with an assortment of clothing and gear scattered about. Had the boat been ransacked for supplies and abandoned? He clipped the AR-15 onto his sling and let the weapon hang across the front of his torso, all the while keeping an eye on the aimless vessel. He kept telling himself that they’d pass the boat without incident, but just then, a heavy bank of smoke drifted between them, obscuring his view.

Spencer pulled the buff up over his face, squinting in the thick smog and hoping they’d be well past the other sailboat when the air cleared. Then he heard a sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“What was that?” Nat asked.

Spencer didn’t answer, mostly because he didn’t want to worry her or Maya, but to him, the noise sounded like someone wracking the front slide of a shotgun. He held his finger to his lips and grabbed his AR-15 by the handgrip, pointing the weapon in the general direction of the strange boat. Rob followed suit and pulled the .454 from his belt. Spencer backed down on the throttle, not because he wanted to stick around but because Rob was no longer watching ahead of them for hazards.

Spencer felt a warm breeze over his shoulder and watched as the smoke between them began to dissipate. He had no idea the five-mile trip from the resort property to Moser Channel would be this fraught with obstacles and potentially dangerous situations. At this rate, they’d be lucky to make the channel by noon, but that was all right with him as long as they avoided any real trouble along the way.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Spencer took his eyes off the faint outline of the sailboat and checked the compass to make sure they were still on course. He adjusted the wheel, bringing the orange mark on the bezel back in line with the compass bearing, and prepared to increase their speed since the smoke was thinning out.

“Get down!” Rob followed his abrupt warning with a shot from the big revolver.

Spencer let go of the wheel and put both hands on his weapon, bringing the red-dot optic to eye level. Rob’s shot struck the stern of the drifting boat, missing a man with a shotgun who was crouching just below the cockpit coaming.

Crack… crack.

Spencer let two rounds fly. Both struck fiberglass, sending splinters of material skyward and showering the other boat’s cockpit with debris. As soon as he fired, Spencer ducked below his own cockpit. Nat had already retreated into the saloon and was holding Maya in her arms on the couch.

Boom.

Spencer recognized the sound of the 12-gauge, the one he’d heard being loaded before the smoke drifted in. Dozens of lead balls pelted their boat, with some of the pellets clanging off the aluminum mast and raining down on Spencer. He couldn’t let the guy get another shot off.

Spencer popped up and found the man in his sights as he was about to fire the shotgun again.

Crack, crack, crack. Boom.

Spencer squeezed off his shots as fast as he could, sending three bullets across the forty-yard gap between the boats in rapid succession. At least two of the bullets found their target, but not before the guy had a chance to get off another shot. This time, the shotgun was aimed toward Rob on the bow. The man’s body contorted against the impact of the .223 rounds and then slowly dropped out of sight while Spencer checked on Rob out of the corner of his eye.

“Rob… Rob?” he called out, but the only sign of his new friend was the Taurus revolver lying on the deck near the anchor locker.

Spencer was reluctant to take his eyes off the shooter, but the man had vanished, falling down into his own cockpit. He let the AR-15 down from his shoulder and turned his attention toward the bow. Had Rob been hit and knocked overboard? Spencer hadn’t heard a splash. Then again, his ears were still ringing from the gunfire.

He gave the strange boat another glance before heading for the bow.

“You can come out now. It’s over. I need you to take the wheel again.” Spencer didn’t wait for Nat to come out of the cabin when he saw a hand and then a foot clinging to the portside stanchions. Rob was hanging over the side of the boat and, from the looks of it, losing his battle to remain aboard.

“Hang on, I’m coming.” Spencer leaped from the cockpit, sliding over the raised portion of deck over the saloon in a single motion. “I got you.”

As soon as Spencer was close enough, he latched onto Rob’s hand, working his way down to the man’s ripped shirt before getting a good grip. Rob threw his other hand up onto the rail, and with Spencer’s help, he pulled his trailing leg out of the water and climbed aboard.

Rob lay still on his back for a few seconds, catching his breath. “That was close.”

“Too close,” Spencer agreed. “Good thinking, going over the side, though.”

“Not much choice.” Rob laughed nervously as he sat up and looked himself over for injuries.

Spencer looked back to make sure Nat had taken the wheel in his absence. They were idling forward at just a couple of knots, but even at that speed, a collision with something could do plenty of damage.

“Go ahead and give it a little throttle. Just ease it forward and maintain the bearing I marked,” Spencer instructed.

He was anxious to put some distance between them and the shooter, although the strange sailboat was already fading into the polluted air behind them. He was sure the guy was dead or at least mortally wounded; two of his bullets had struck the man in the dead center of his chest. Spencer hadn’t been awarded the Coast Guard marksmanship medal for nothing.

He would return to the helm himself to expedite their departure from the area, but first, he wanted to inspect the boat for damage, although he was reluctant to do so for fear of what he might find. At this rate, they’d be in pieces before they reached the channel. Two blasts from a 12-gauge at what he estimated to be about forty yards was nothing to discount. Thankfully, the man had been using birdshot, the kind he and his dad used for shooting buffleheads from their duck blind. Spencer picked up a loose pellet from the deck and rolled it between his fingers. A number four, maybe.

He kept his eyes forward as Nat slowly increased the Hunter’s speed. Nothing ahead but open water and the faint outline of the small island that sat at the beginning of Knight Key Channel. They were almost even with the start of Seven Mile Bridge and close to passing the last piece of inhabited land before they’d have an unobstructed view of open water. They still had a mile or more to go before reaching the entrance to Moser Channel, but once they had nothing but ocean off their port side, hopefully the air quality would improve.

Thanks to the Hunter’s forty-seven-foot, four-inch mast, they needed to cross under a section of the new Seven Mile Bridge engineered specifically for taller boats. Otherwise, they could have come about right here and headed for open water.

Spencer inspected the bow first, finding several tiny cracks and swirls in the once-shiny fiberglass topcoat, but he saw no real damage.

“You all right to stay on the bow for a while longer?” Spencer asked Rob.

Rob forced a smile. “Yeah, sure, just let me know if you see any more shotgun-wielding lunatics.”

“Will do.” Spencer headed aft, stopping to investigate the section of the mainsail boom and mast where the first blast from the 12-gauge had hit.

He found several holes in the sail cover and as many dings in the aluminum mast and boom, but otherwise, it seemed he’d gotten lucky again. He’d know for sure when he unfurled the mainsail if any patch work needed to be done, but he was fairly confident the boat had avoided any real damage.

As soon as Spencer took control of the helm from Nat, she ran to the bow and gave Rob a thorough examination. She stayed with him for a while, her arms wrapped around him as they kept a forward lookout together.

The air began to clear, and for the first time since coming ashore last night, Spencer felt like he could breathe freely. Along with cleaner air came better visibility. If conditions continued to improve, Rob and Nat could abandon their post at the bow and join him in the cockpit.

“Maya, you can come topside if you want to. It’s starting to clear up.” Spencer didn’t see any other boats around and figured she and Finn could both use the fresh air.

She didn’t answer, but Finn’s ears perked up at Spencer’s offer. The dog hopped up from the couch and made his way to the ladder, waiting as if he wanted to make sure it was safe.

Spencer encouraged Finn to come topside. “Come on, boy.”

Maya followed reluctantly, eventually climbing out and taking a seat on the far cushion next to the dog. Finn stretched his snoot upward into the air and took a few deep breaths that led to a dramatic sneeze.

Spencer was glad she’d come out, and now that he could see their surroundings better, he was satisfied there were no immediate threats nearby. It was hard for him to accept that he’d just shot and killed another man. But having Maya outside with the others was a good way for him to avoid being alone with his thoughts. There’d be plenty of time later to come to terms with the things he’d been forced to do to get them out of Marathon.

His hopes had been high that once they got away from the craziness that was consuming Marathon, things would settle down, but that hadn’t been the case at all. Here they were, a mile or so out from the channel, and both the Hunter and the skiff had already taken damage. If things continued like this, they’d never make it to Stuart.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Spencer was encouraged by the sight of Pidgeon Key. The small island, located about a third of the way across the Seven Mile Bridge, was home to a marine science education program and the old bridge tender’s residence, which was now a museum. The one-hundred-year-old national historic landmark looked to be intact. No smoke or burning buildings like the rest of Marathon. Kate and Spencer had been to the island many times due to Kate’s work, and he assumed the place had survived because it was solar-powered.

“See that? It’s called Pigeon Key.” Spencer pointed at the island.

“Pigeon Key?” Maya’s brow wrinkled.

“The old Spanish charts called the place Cayo Paloma. That means dove or white pigeon. Some of those buildings are over a hundred years old. They used the island as a base of operations when they built the original Florida East Coast Railroad. That’s what the small bridge closest to us used to be, until a big hurricane damaged it in 1935.”

“Can I walk around the boat?” Maya asked.

“Sure, but first, put this on.” Spencer pulled the smallest life jacket he could find out from under the seat and helped Maya get it on. “You don’t have to wear this below deck or in the cockpit, but promise me you’ll wear it everywhere else.”

“I promise.” Maya tugged at the bright orange flotation device, then climbed out of the cockpit. Nat kept an eye on her daughter as she made her way to the rail to get a better look at Pidgeon Key. Finn followed the girl, inserting himself between Maya and the safety rail as if he was trying to keep her from getting too close to the edge.

“The water’s getting clear again,” Maya reported.

Spencer smiled. “It sure is.”

He’d noticed the turbidity of the water slowly decreasing as they distanced themselves from Marathon and the fallout from the fires. The undulating variations of emerald green and turquoise blue, mixed with a myriad of brightly colored coral heads and sea life dotting the otherwise white sandy bottom, was a welcome sight. The depth through here ranged from seven to twelve feet, and as the air and water quality both improved, Maya entertained herself by watching the kaleidoscope of tropical colors pass under the hull.

Looking south toward the channel, Spencer could almost imagine this was any other day out on the boat. But the illusion was easily shattered. The smoking wrecks and the multicar pileups strung along the bridge contrasted starkly with the soothing tropical shades of their immediate surroundings.

“Look, a turtle. Mommy, I see a turtle!” Maya cried out excitedly, pointing to a spot off the port side.

Nat and Rob joined their daughter at the rail. There was no need for Rob to stand watch on the bow any longer; Spencer could see well enough to navigate on his own, and conditions would only improve from here. Maya’s excitement had interrupted Spencer’s wandering thoughts, a distraction that he welcomed. He looked to see what type of turtle she’d found so he could let her know what species it was.

“Where is it, Maya?” Spencer held the wheel with his right hand and leaned over toward the edge of the cockpit.

“There, see it?” Maya pointed eagerly. “It’s a baby.”

Spencer found the turtle right away but couldn’t believe his eyes when he did. “That’s Lewis. I can’t believe it. Good for you, little guy.”

“So you, um… You know that turtle?” Rob made a face.

“I do, actually.” Spencer laughed. “He’s one of the rescues from the Turtle Hospital where Kate works… worked.” Spencer corrected himself. “He was the first one out of the tank last night after I opened the gates. See his back flipper? That’s Lewis, all right.” Spencer couldn’t help but smile at the chance encounter.

He was proud of the juvenile turtle for making it out to clean water. The sight confirmed his efforts at the Turtle Hospital weren’t wasted. The risk he’d taken opening the holding tanks had paid off, giving him another piece of good news he could deliver to Kate. That alone was worth the price.

“What happened to him?” Maya asked.

“Shark attack,” Spencer stated.

Maya’s smile vanished for a moment but quickly returned when Lewis broke the surface a few feet from the boat and blew water from his nose.

“Lewis is a loggerhead turtle, Maya. He’ll get to be about three feet long and probably weigh close to three hundred pounds when he’s full grown,” Spencer explained.

“Wow.” Maya watched Lewis’s every move as he checked out the boat, then slowly veered away toward the bridge and open water.

Anything and anybody who had the means to leave Marathon was doing so, including the wildlife. Spencer had already noticed the lack of waterfowl that normally called the Keys home. He hadn’t seen a single cormorant this morning. The clusters of mangroves were noticeably vacant as well. The herons, kingfishers, and egrets that used the foliage as nurseries for their young were nowhere to be seen.

But the grim reality of their circumstances couldn’t dull the sudden spirit of optimism Spencer felt about seeing Lewis swimming healthy and free. The young turtle had his work cut out for him if he was going to survive in big water, but then again, so did they.

Maya stayed at the rail, watching Lewis long after the others had given up. Rob and Natalie joined Spencer in the cockpit as he refocused on the upcoming channel and the high section of bridge that crossed over it. They were less than half a mile from the deep-water cut that would funnel them out to the ocean, and as they drew nearer to the channel, Spencer’s brief moment of enthusiasm was replaced with apprehension about what lay ahead.

“Would one of you mind grabbing the binoculars? First compartment, top shelf on the starboard side,” Spencer asked without taking his eyes off the upcoming section of bridge.

Nat hopped up. “Starboard, that’s the right side, right?”

Spencer nodded. “Yep.”

She returned a few seconds later with the black case containing his gyro-stabilized binoculars. “Is this it?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Spencer didn’t waste any time unsheathing the high-tech optics. He turned the stabilizer feature on and took a closer look at the bridge. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He handed the binoculars to Rob, who was seated close by.

“That looks like a mess and a half.” Rob handed the optics over to Nat, who took a hasty turn inspecting the bridge before passing them back to Spencer.

“But we should be fine, right? I mean, we’re just passing under the bridge. They won’t be able to get to us.” Nat was worried about the groups of people that seemed to be gathered at the high point of the bridge, and rightfully so.

Based on what he saw, Spencer wasn’t convinced things would go that smoothly, though. A dozen or more people lingered on the section of bridge they needed to pass directly under. They were there for a reason; it looked too deliberate to be a coincidence. He expected the possibility of people walking north across the bridge in an attempt to get back to their homes. This was the only way back to the mainland, after all. But the small crowd of people that had his attention wasn’t actively crossing the bridge like some of the others. They were waiting, but for what?

Spencer backed off the throttle a hair and considered their options for a moment. Ever since the thick air had cleared, he’d noticed a few sails on the horizon out past the channel, several boats on the Gulf side of Marathon, and a few farther south off of Big Pine Key. They weren’t the only ones escaping the madness via boat. No surprise, really. In fact, the thing he found most remarkable was that there weren’t more boats heading out to sea. Maybe they were leaving late and most people with the means had escaped already. But that reasoning only added to his anxiety.

As Spencer debated their course of action, he noticed a boat emerge from the backside of a small mangrove-covered sandbar to their south. He glassed the vessel to get a better look; the last thing he wanted to do right now was sail too close to another boat, especially after their most recent encounter.

She was a long, sleek, black-hulled catamaran. He estimated forty feet plus, and she was making good time. Judging by the wake, he guessed both the catamaran’s engines were turning the props at full tilt. It was obvious the boat was heading to Moser Channel as well.

The big catamaran would reach the bridge crossing well before them, even if Spencer pushed Restless to the limit, and that was just as well. He was more than willing to let the other boat play guinea pig in shooting the channel. Spencer backed off the throttle the rest of the way and idled in place, letting the current pull them along for the time being.

He panned the binoculars between the catamaran and the bridge, trying to gauge any change in the waiting crowd. There was discernable excitement as the boat drew nearer to the channel, and the small gathering of people began moving about with a definite interest in the approaching vessel. Spencer could have sworn he saw a rope being coiled by one of the people at the crest of the bridge, but he couldn’t be sure.

“They’re going for it.” Rob bit his lip and watched nervously.

“We don’t really have a choice, do we?” Nat asked.

Spencer shook his head. “No, this is the only way out to the ocean, unless we run south around Key West, but that would at least add two days to the trip, and that’s if the wind is with us.”

Kate might not have that much time, depending on how bad things were in Stuart. Rob and his family might not have minded the few extra days it would take them if they chose that route, but Spencer wasn’t willing to risk the added distance. Another issue would be the extra fuel consumption if the wind didn’t cooperate. The eighteen-horsepower diesel was an efficient engine, but if Spencer put the hammer down and made good time, something he wouldn’t be able to resist doing, they’d burn about a gallon an hour. He would have to fuel up at some point, but that was a problem for another day. According to the gauge, they had enough to reach Stuart, although he was relying on the wind quite a bit to make those numbers work. He’d have to figure something out before departing for Jacksonville to take Rob and his family home, though.

But right now, all Spencer and the others cared about was seeing how the big catamaran faired at navigating the channel. Things were going to get interesting fast. And if the sudden activity of the catamaran’s crew on deck was any indication of what was to come, they were expecting as much.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Spencer, Rob, Natalie, Maya, and Finn all sat in silence, glued to the scene unfolding before their eyes. The crew’s movements on the larger sailboat’s deck had reached a fevered pitch with bodies running here and there, some of them with weapons, some manning the rigging.

A mild offshore breeze of at least several knots had been building all morning. Spencer was thankful for it. He’d been worried earlier; the air had been so heavy and still while they were loading the boat. But once they reached Seven Mile Bridge, the weather started to improve in their favor. And that was good if they wanted to save fuel.

He watched as the catamaran stalled for a bit, and her crew hoisted the main sail and let the jib out to full in order to take advantage of the tailwind. As soon as the main sail snapped open and filled with wind, the catamaran picked up speed again but continued running its engines as well to coax as much speed out of the vessel as possible. Minimizing their time under the bridge would be key in making the crossing.

“What if we…” Nat cut herself off with a shake of the head.

“Go ahead.” Spencer encouraged her to finish.

“What if we went through the channel with the other boat? I don’t know if that’s something that’s allowed, but it might help draw attention away from us.”

“I don’t think there are any rules anymore.” Rob looked back at the rising columns of black smoke darkening the sky over Marathon. The long, dark billows of pollution reached upward into the air, where they merged with one another, like a charcoal drawing smudged by a giant finger.

She had a good point. Spencer thought for a minute and considered Nat’s idea. Normally, he’d wait his turn. It wasn’t proper sailing etiquette to crowd another boat when it was navigating a tight channel like Moser, but as Rob had been quick to point out, there were no rules anymore. That was obvious with the lawlessness running amuck on land.

“I think it’s a solid idea. Divide and conquer, right?” Spencer eyed the couple, then used the built-in range finder function of the binoculars to measure the distance between their boat and the catamaran. The bigger vessel could outsail the Hunter any day of the week, but they were closer to Moser than the other boat if they cut the channel marker short. That wasn’t something Spencer would recommend, but he knew the bottom well here and had spearfished the area extensively. They’d have to act fast, though, if they were going to capitalize on their position and try to slip through Moser with the other boat.

The channel was less than a couple hundred feet wide at the entrance, which sounded like a lot, but with the jibing angle necessary to utilize the wind and the fast-moving currents that ripped through the deep-water conduit, things could go south in a hurry. The additional complexity of attempting the channel with another large boat only complicated things further. The catamaran probably had a beam of around twenty-two feet or more. Suddenly, the sub-two-hundred-foot-channel entrance that cut through the remnants of the old Seven Mile Bridge segment didn’t seem all that spacious. And Spencer wasn’t even taking into consideration the much narrower second part of the channel that ran under the modern section of bridge, which was meant for vehicular traffic. But first things first.

“If we’re gonna do this, we need to act fast. Now might be a good time for Maya to get below deck.” Spencer hated to send the girl away, but it was for the best.

Nat led Maya to the companionway, although the girl was reluctant to leave her mother’s side.

“Finn, cabin. Go on.” Spencer ordered the dog out of the cockpit while simultaneously getting to work stripping the main sail’s protective cover away from the boom.

He used a few precious seconds to inspect the sail where the shotgun blast had grazed it. Several frayed threads were all he found. Thankful the thick canvas cover had taken the worst of it, he moved on.

“Rob, I need you at the mast. See that black line? That’s the halyard. Uncleat the line and make sure it’s free. Once I get on the winch, you can help the sail along by hand and keep the line clear of fouling,” Spencer instructed.

The sail would need extra help making its way up the mast. Normally, Spencer would have turned into the wind before raising the main sail, but there was no time. This meant that the hanks guiding the sail along the mast track could pinch, an issue he’d have to muscle through as best he could with the halyard winch.

“What can I do?” Nat emerged from below.

Spencer let the sail cover fall to the floor and moved on to freeing the boom from line tension so the wind could lift it freely. “You could stow that below deck.”

“I’m on it,” she quipped.

Spencer released the boom vang clutch and reefing lines, then eased out the mainsheet, leaving around two feet of play for the boom to swing into the wind. He knew guys that would open the clutches all the way, leaving the boom to swing wide, but that was a good way to knock someone overboard, especially when there were inexperienced sailors aboard.

“I’m glad you know what you’re doing because I’m thoroughly lost,” Rob remarked.

“Just be ready to help that sail up,” Spencer said and prepared to settle in behind the winch.

There was only one thing lacking. With the autopilot system down, Spencer needed someone to keep them heading in the right direction while he manned the halyard winch and cranked the sail up.

“Need a hand up here, Nat,” Spencer called out.

She appeared a few seconds later, her sweat-dappled face red with excitement.

“I need you to keep us on course. Aim for the gap.”

“I don’t know if I—”

Spencer cut her off. “You have to. As soon as the sail’s up, I’ll take over, but I need you at the helm now.”

Nat lowered her head and fell in behind the wheel. Spencer hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but now was not the time for doubt. It was do or die as far as he was concerned. If Rob and his wife wanted Spencer to get them and their daughter to Jacksonville, they’d have to earn it. And the sooner they started working like a team and learned their way around the boat, the better.

Spencer began cranking the winch handle as fast as his muscles would allow. This was no Sunday afternoon cruise. His ability to see Kate again might very well hinge on them getting through the channel with the other boat. And he intended to do everything in his power to make that happen. He wasn’t sure Nat’s idea to deflect attention to the much larger, fancier boat would work out, but it was their best bet. Compared to the Hunter, the catamaran was a luxury cruiser, and Spencer hoped it would garner all the attention from the unruly gathering on the bridge.

He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt over using the other boat as bait, but it wasn’t like he was forcing the crew of the catamaran to run the channel. They were clearly headed through either way, so why not take advantage of the situation? Telling himself that did little to ease his concerns, though. He wasn’t expecting a free pass. The brunt of the mob’s desperation might be focused on the big catamaran, but there was no way they’d slip through unnoticed. The growing number of people gathered on the bridge assured him of that much.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Spencer stayed at the halyard winch, doing his best not to let the burning in his arms and shoulders slow his pace. The sail was resisting, with an occasional pinch or bind on its way up the mast track, but he expected as much thanks to the wind direction in relation to the bow.

Performing a jibing maneuver was slightly more technical than tacking into the wind. He’d run the boat through a similar zigzag pattern, tacking back and forth toward the channel, but with the wind at the stern. If done correctly, the maneuver should put them in position to shoot through the first part of the deep-water passage with enough of an angle to clear the concrete bulkheading near the edges.

But that wouldn’t be the end of the process, nor the riskiest part of it by far. Spencer was mindful that after making their way through the broader entrance to Moser, he’d have to tack back to port immediately, cutting a sharp angle toward the narrow part of the channel that ran under the section of Seven Mile Bridge meant for vehicle traffic. However, there were no cars moving over the high arc of the bridge now, only people on foot, the majority of whom looked to be waiting for their arrival.

Rob pushed a hung-up fold of sail toward the top of the mast, freeing the last couple of feet. Spencer gave the winch a few more cranks until he saw a vertical seam appear in the heavy fabric, indicating the sail was at its peak tautness. Spencer wanted to rest but couldn’t afford a break. He jumped up and made his rounds to the rigging, tightening the boom vang and mainsheet, finding the sail’s sweet spot in the wind. Then he moved on to unfurling the jib with Rob.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s mind raced through the possibilities. Did the people on the bridge really intend to try boarding them by swinging down from ropes? The pedestrians on the bridge were desperate for a way out of the hellish nightmare their lives had become. What better way than to hitch a ride on a passing boat? But Spencer was determined to prevent that from happening. He couldn’t let a single one of these people on board. Otherwise, the rest would be emboldened, and the floodgates would open.

Spencer steeled his resolve against what lay ahead. He’d have to set the tone early, making an example of the first person who attempted to board Restless. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but this was no time to shy away from being aggressive. He was glad Maya was below deck again.

Taking the wheel from Nat, who was more than eager to relinquish the controls, Spencer plowed ahead. He adjusted their course, making the most out of the moderate breeze without causing the jib to be eclipsed by the mainsail. The catamaran was still gaining on them, but they were in good position after cutting the channel marker short, heading straight for the bridge.

Spencer eyeballed the catamaran’s trajectory, comparing it with their own, and was satisfied they would be neck and neck through the channel. The other boat’s crew was probably scratching their heads, confused about his intentions. Hopefully, they wouldn’t take his actions as a sign of aggression. But that was a chance Spencer was willing to take.

Spencer hung on to the wheel while reattaching his AR-15 to the single-point harness. Putting up a good display of their capabilities might be enough of a deterrent to keep the people on the bridge looking for an easier target. He’d spotted a couple of guns being carried by the crew on board the catamaran, so he already knew they intended to do whatever was necessary to get through, so much so that one of the crew was willing to brandish a speargun.

Spencer had the rigging under control now for their approach. “Rob, why don’t you go below deck and grab the shotgun from the cabinet?”

The shotgun was a better choice for what they were up against. Plus, the big revolver made Spencer nervous. One misplaced shot and one of the large .454 rounds could easily ricochet off the metal and concrete bridge and hit the boat. A piece of lead that size would punch a nice hole in the hull. Damage control was something Spencer could do without right now.

“Zero, six…” Spencer stopped. It felt wrong to give Rob the code to the weapons locker, but they were way beyond that now. “Zero, six, one, five,” he finished.

Rob disappeared below deck, reappearing a minute later with the 12-gauge Benelli SuperNova and a box of shells.

Spencer nodded. “I see you found everything okay.”

“Yeah, double-aught buckshot?” Rob set the box down and opened the top with his free hand. “That’s like big pellets, isn’t it?”

Spencer nodded again. “Nine of them. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Maybe when they see what they’re up against, they’ll think twice about messing with us,” Rob stated.

“That’s what I’m hoping. I want us all to be topside, except Maya, of course. Nat, you should have your weapon out and ready as well. Let’s put on a good show,” Spencer added.

“And if it turns into more than that?” Nat’s eyes widened.

“Then we need to be ready for that, too.” Spencer unzipped the backpack he’d taken ashore with him originally, making it easier to grab a new magazine for his rifle if need be.

“Semper paratus, right?” Nat eyed the tattoo peeking out from under Spencer’s T-shirt.

“Always ready,” Spencer confirmed with a nod.

That was a tall order currently. The Coast Guard motto had taken on new meaning for Spencer in the last twenty-four hours. Being ready for any situation was impossible, but he’d always prided himself on being prepared for most emergencies. But this was different. This wasn’t an emergency, more like a never-ending stream of problems to solve and people to avoid.

They were close now, though. Just a little farther and they’d be past the bridge and everything else that threatened to keep him from reaching Kate. Spencer had high hopes for relief once they left the ruins of Marathon behind.

“Mommy,” Maya called out from the cabin, her voice shaken and thin.

Nat excused herself from the cockpit, promising to come right back as soon as she could get Maya settled. Spencer needed her up on deck with them but didn’t dare stop her from checking on her daughter. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel if he had children to worry about in all this. He and Kate had talked about having a family someday. He wondered if that would ever happen now. No matter how soon help came or the rebuilding started, staying alive and avoiding danger was the new goal for the foreseeable future.

The EMPs had changed everything, and it wasn’t just the destruction and panic they’d caused. The attack had torn apart the very fabric of their lives, rearranged priorities, and broken dreams. A part of Spencer still refused to believe any of this was real or that the EMPs had struck the entire nation. There was a chance things could be much better on the mainland farther north. But deep down, he understood that wasn’t the case.

Nat rejoined them in the cockpit, explaining that Maya was scared and full of questions. They all were, really. The three of them prepared themselves in silence for what came next. The bridge was just a couple hundred yards away, and in a matter of minutes, they’d need to tack to their port and aim for the smaller opening that would allow them to escape this smoldering wasteland, at least temporarily.

Spencer took the opportunity to brief Rob and Nat on the process of tacking and explain what he expected from them to make the evolution go smoothly. He could have changed course without their help, but the faster they maneuvered through the turn, the less momentum they’d lose. In the end, he was sure the best defense they had against the people waiting for them at the bridge was speed. Minimizing their time spent under the high arc of the bridge was crucial to reducing their vulnerability and getting through in one piece.

All the planning and all the scenarios he’d run over and over in his mind faded into obscurity as the sleek catamaran began closing the distance. The reality of what they were about to attempt was all he could focus on now. The shouts and pleas from the pedestrians on the bridge melded together into a dull roar of white noise.

Spencer kept one hand firmly planted on the paracord-wrapped wheel of the Hunter while the other readied his rifle as he prepared to tack toward the bridge and the waiting mob. A small group of those gathered to one side of the bridge’s archway was obviously there to do more than just beg for a ride out of the apocalypse and began tying off ropes to the guardrail. There was no denying they were going to attempt a boarding. Spencer had expected as much, though maybe, in the end, the eighty-foot drop to the water would be a convincing deterrent. Apparently, that wasn’t going to be the case. In another couple hundred feet or so, he’d find out for sure.

“Get ready. They’re gonna try to board us.”

“What do we do?” Nat clutched her pistol with a shaky hand.

“Whatever you have to,” Spencer warned. “Just keep them off the boat.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Spencer glanced over at the catamaran, making sure he was giving the larger vessel enough room to navigate, but without getting too far away. The other boat was only forty yards or so off the Hunter’s starboard side now, close enough that he got a good look at the people on board.

An older couple stood at the helm station. The man sported a holstered pistol on his left hip. His wife was firmly attached to his other hip as he called out orders to the small crew. Two guys and a girl who looked to be around Spencer’s age scurried about the deck, handling the rigging. They were getting ready to turn into the channel and head for the bridge as well. One of the guys toted a small stainless-steel shotgun. Spencer recognized the Mossberg 590 Mariner because he’d considered buying one before settling on the Benelli. That must have been the extent of their arsenal, other than a speargun.

“Coming about.” The other captain announced his maneuver loud enough for both boats to hear.

Spencer hadn’t wanted to tack this early, but the catamaran had forced his hand, although he was thankful for the captain’s warning.

“Jibe ho,” Spencer warned the others.

The early tack was no fault of the other boat or her captain. Spencer didn’t take the move as an act of aggression, even though Restless was uncharacteristically close to the other sailboat; he understood it was necessary. The catamaran’s taller mast dictated the course of action needed to clear the bridge, forcing the captain to aim for dead center of the passage, where the bridge arc was the highest. As it was, the big twin-hulled boat would be pushing its luck in getting under the bridge unscathed. Spencer had never seen a boat this size attempt Moser Channel, and he wasn’t sure it could clear the bridge.

Spencer had more room for error. Passing under center-span wasn’t as critical for the Hunter, but there were limits to how far out to one side or the other it could pass through the channel. Depth wasn’t the problem here, but rather clearance. Catching the mast on any part of the bridge’s structure would be disastrous. A bent mast or torn sail, and it was over for them. They couldn’t make it to Stuart under power alone. They didn’t have enough fuel for that. And getting snagged on the bridge would stop them in their tracks, making them an easy target for looters.

“Bring it in a little more, Nat. Now, Rob, out. More. A little more. Hold there. Perfect. Tie your lines off,” Spencer instructed his novice crew as he made adjustments to the Hunter’s angle of attack. The boat heeled hard to port and picked up speed almost instantly, cutting through the emerald-green water with renewed purpose.

In spite of the Hunter’s abilities, the catamaran would eventually overtake them. Spencer kept the engine engaged, but the other boat was motor-sailing as well. They were both trying to hit the underpass with as much speed as possible. Spencer just hoped they could hang with the catamaran long enough to make their risky move pay off.

As the bigger sailboat closed the gap, it almost seemed impolite not to speak to the captain and crew on board the other boat. They were dangerously close now, and at this distance, under normal circumstances, there would have been blasting air horns and probably a few unpleasantries exchanged over the lack of etiquette.

Spencer would never have sailed this close to another boat in these conditions, especially through a tight channel, and he felt bad about putting this kind of pressure on a fellow sailor. But the gray-bearded man at the catamaran’s helm gave Spencer a nod as if he understood perfectly what was happening. The look on the captain’s and his wife’s faces indicated they’d seen their share of trouble today. There was no telling where they’d come from, but if they’d had a morning anything like Spencer’s, it was no wonder why they were going broke to reach open water.

Spencer bounced an abbreviated two-fingered salute off his forehead and turned his attention back to the bridge. At least he didn’t have to worry about trouble from the other boat’s crew. There was always a chance that his aggressive sailing tactics would be perceived as a threat, but it seemed as though both crews were too fixated on the bridge to worry about the other’s intentions, and rightfully so. The mob was growing in size and momentum with each passing moment. There were people tying themselves off to the lines that had been attached to the guardrail. Their intentions were as clear as the water.

Spencer had started thinking the lines were meant to try and snare the boats as they ran under the bridge. Boarding a boat from that height wasn’t going to be easy. But that was exactly how desperate these people were. He’d known it all along. Spencer was just hoping to get through the channel without resorting to more violence. There were no choices anymore, it seemed, just bad situations that made him dig deep, abandoning what felt like the dwindling reserves of his humanity.

“They’re definitely going to try and board us.” Spencer let out a sigh and braced himself for the inevitable.

“We have to do what we have to do, right?” Rob swallowed hard and climbed out of the cockpit.

“Where are you going?” Nat shifted her weight against the heaving boat.

“Someone has to get up front, and someone needs to steer. I don’t need to know anything about sailing to see that this is going to be tight.” Rob glanced over at the catamaran, which was almost even with them and only about forty yards off their starboard side.

“He’s right,” Spencer said. “The sooner we can stop them from dropping down on us, the better. And yeah, we do what we have to do. It’s us or them. Can’t be both. We can’t afford to take any passengers, even if we wanted to.”

Natalie nodded in silence. A solemn look wiped the energy from her face as she eyed the pistol in her hand.

“If one person manages to make it aboard, they’ll all try it, and they’ll overrun us,” Spencer added. “We can’t let that happen, Nat. I know how you feel, believe me. I know it goes against who you are as a nurse. I feel the same way. But right now, we need to help ourselves. And these people aren’t giving us any options. Think of Maya.” He ended his attempt at a motivational speech. They were running out of time, and he needed Nat ready to fight.

“I understand. I’m ready,” she answered without looking away from the gun in her hand.

Spencer wasn’t sure he believed her, but it didn’t matter as the shadow cast by Seven Mile Bridge crept across the water toward their bow.

“Rob.” Spencer pointed to a man climbing the guardrail off the port side. He was several yards too far to the left to drop straight down on top of them, but he was setting himself up to make a swing for their boat by running back the other way.

“I’m on it.” Rob ran the rest of the way to the bow, keeping the man in sight.

The catamaran was dead even with them now—and facing its own problems. The twin-hulled vessel was fitted with the typical hammock section across the hulls at the bow, a very inviting place for a jumper who had little to lose on land.

Zoooosh.

Spencer heard the bullet hit the water, catching the splash between the boats in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it did signal the end of civility as far as he was concerned.

“Stop, please. We can’t take anyone,” the older woman on the catamaran pleaded at the top of her lungs.

A ruckus of jeers and expletives exploded from the mob atop the bridge, as well as a shower of trash and other debris. There were some chunks of concrete in the mix, and several pieces pelted the boats with loud clacks that echoed off the underside of the bridge. Spencer had had enough.

Crack, crack… crack, crack.

The sharp report of his AR-15 was amplified by the cavernous structure. The man backing up along the outside of the guardrail went stiff and teetered precariously for a second before plunging headfirst off the bridge. Those around him scattered, abandoning the rope and letting their friend hit the water with a smack.

Boom… boom.

Rob joined the fray, turning the 12-gauge on the bridge above. One of his shots kicked up sparks on the metal structure, and a shower of double-aught buck rained down on them from above. Spencer was about to tell him to hold fire but was interrupted.

Boom… boom… boom.

One of the catamaran’s crew was shooting now. The guy with the shotgun was shucking shells through the Mossberg like he had an unlimited supply of ammunition on hand. Another body fell and hit the water, but not before bouncing off the other boat with a thud. A wave of screams swept the air as the mob began to break away from the edge, and the man on the other boat continued spraying the bridge with rounds from his 12-gauge. Spencer threw up his arm and prayed there was no collateral damage from the wild shooting. Maybe shooting the channel with the other boat wasn’t such a good idea after all.

The screams and shouts from above were suddenly muffled as they passed under the bridge and into the coolness of the shadows. The quiet reprieve wouldn’t last long, though. The mob’s intentions were betrayed by the thunder of footsteps above. They were crossing to the other side of the bridge to wait for the boats to emerge from cover. They’d want more than a ride this time. This time, they’d want revenge.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Get ready for the other side,” Spencer shouted as loud as he could so the crew on board the catamaran could hear him, as well as the people up on the bridge. To make matters worse, the other boat’s steep entry into the channel had put them too far north. They were both going to have to jibe again. Spencer’s blood ran cold as the shade of the massive bridge chilled the sweat on his neck, and he realized the unfortunate reality of the situation.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Slowing down to come about was bad enough, but it would take all of them again to do it smoothly. That meant nobody would be able to do anything about the people above them—the people who wanted them dead.

Rob must have sensed his concern or seen it on his face. “Where do you want me?”

“Stay put for now. Then I’m going to need you back here. We’re going to tack again. I’m just not sure when yet,” Spencer warned him.

They could have done it now, while they were protected from the angry mob above, but thanks to the catamaran off their starboard side, they were boxed in against a looming concrete bulkhead.

Spencer cupped his hand over his mouth, directing his voice toward the other boat. “Coming about.”

“I can’t, not yet,” the other captain called back.

Spencer huffed and stayed on their course. They were running out of room. If the people above them didn’t put an end to their trip, then the concrete bulkhead bordering the channel through this section would, unless the big boat took action. They were getting squeezed and running out of room fast. Spencer prepared to kick the main sheet free. Going dead and dropping behind the other boat was a death wish, but so was playing chicken with the shallow edges of the channel.

“Coming about,” the old man called out.

Spencer had never heard two words that sounded so good. And just like that, the maneuver he was dreading became their lifeline.

Still in the shadow of the bridge, Spencer called Rob aft to man the rigging as he brought the bow to starboard and let the main sail pivot. Nat manned her station like Spencer had instructed, but he could tell something was wrong. Her weapon lay on the seat cushion nearby as she went through the motions with a lifeless expression on her face. Spencer was worried about the woman, but there was no time to get into it.

“Come on, babe. We can do this,” Rob encouraged his wife.

“Good. Now tighten up,” Spencer directed the two of them as the sail filled with wind.

The boat heeled over to the opposite side, and they were cutting through the water once again. Spencer handled the jib rigging while Nat took a seat in the cockpit after the maneuver was complete, as if coming about was their only concern, but it wasn’t. Rob headed back to the bow to prepare for round two of repelling would-be boarders. A sharp line between shadow and sunlight marked the end of their short-lived journey through the shade as the bridge’s edge quickly approached.

Spencer was at least grateful that they hadn’t been in a more awkward position for the jibing maneuver, but that didn’t mean they could rest easy. He could see the shadows of people moving high above them at the opposite guardrail. They were no doubt tying off lines and preparing for another attack on the two boats. Spencer glanced over, watching the catamaran pull away as it picked up speed at the new angle. The bigger boat would outpace them eventually, but being left behind made him anxious. Nat’s idea of going through the channel with the other boat had so far paid off. The catamaran had garnered most of the attention, and Spencer was surprised they hadn’t been boarded, at least not yet. The large section of netting that spanned the distance between the twin-hulled vessel made for an ideal landing pad.

As much as Spencer hated to see the other boat pull away from them, a part of him was glad the catamaran would be first out from under the bridge. With the mast barely clearing the steel and concrete structure, the catamaran’s twin hulls broke from the shadows. A roar from the crowd of people above announced the boat’s progress, and soon thereafter, it was met with a shower of items meant to inflict damage. The guy with the shotgun started unleashing the shiny pump-action Mossberg once again, working his way through the freshly loaded shells.

“Get ready, Rob,” Spencer warned, clutching the Hunter’s wheel and his rifle.

Nat cowered in her seat, staying low in the cockpit, her weapon still abandoned beside her. They needed her help defending the boat against would-be invaders, but she clearly wasn’t in a good place, cringing and cowering as the shouts and cries above intensified.

“Nat, get below with Maya.” Spencer was disappointed but didn’t want her to get hurt and didn’t want her in the way.

“Are… are you sure?” Nat responded with a shaky voice.

“Yes, go take care of Maya,” he insisted.

He tried not to sound angry with her but was afraid she’d seen through his attempt. Spencer really didn’t blame her for the way she was reacting to their situation, but it would have been nice to have another set of eyes and ears topside. Nat dragged herself through the companionway like a scolded dog, disappearing below deck. Just then, a scream that sounded more like a primal battle cry echoed off the cool concrete.

Spencer looked up to see a man mid-swing at the end of a rope. The wannabe pirate was on a collision course with the catamaran’s sail. The forced boarding played out in slow motion, or so it seemed as Spencer watched from the limited safety of the Hunter. He thought about taking a shot to help the other boat’s crew, but the angle was bad and would have required him to shoot over the catamaran’s helm and the older couple’s heads.

On board the other boat, the younger guy with the shotgun swung his weapon at the invader, and Spencer found himself almost in line with the shot. He ducked, but fortunately, the guy didn’t shoot; he’d realized the Hunter was in his line of fire. There was too much going on for this tight of a space. And to make matters worse, their bow was starting to push past the overhang of the bridge. They were at a disadvantage this time, not being able to see what the people above were planning.

Rob spun on his heels, shotgun tight against his shoulder, and aimed straight overhead, into the sun.

Boom… boom.

The Benelli sounded like a cannon thanks to the acoustics under the bridge, but the deafening report of the 12-gauge was soon replaced with a blood-curdling cry. A few seconds later, a body fell, smacking the water with bone-shattering force. If the shotgun hadn’t killed the man, the eighty-foot fall would have.

Next door on the catamaran, an all-out battle for control had erupted. The man on the rope had successfully made it aboard, using the sail to slide down to the deck and complete his assault. The old man at the helm pulled the pistol from his holster but suffered from the same problem as Spencer; there was no clear shot without the risk of hitting one of his crew or damaging the boat since their uninvited guest was midship.

The other crewmember, who was closest to the jumper, joined the fight. With a speargun in hand, she poked and jabbed at the intruder as the two of them danced around the deck. But less than a few seconds into the standoff, another jumper launched from the railing above. This time, the attempted boarding was cut short by the limits of the rope tied around the man’s waist. It snapped under the load, flinging him like a rag doll onto the catamaran’s trampoline. He bounced several feet into the air, flailing his arms and legs. The girl with the speargun turned to face down the new intruder. As soon as the man found his footing, he charged her, in spite of the razor-sharp weapon pointed directly at him.

Thunk.

Spencer heard the spear sink into the man’s chest. The guy staggered, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, his footing already uneasy on the soft netting. He tumbled off the bow and was instantly run over by the moving boat. The remaining intruder on the catamaran made the mistake of charging the captain and was met with a pistol shot to the chest. He staggered backward and went headfirst over the rail, joining his friend in the water.

“Spencer,” Rob shouted, but it was too late.

Spencer had been preoccupied with the battle taking place on the catamaran and only caught the flash of a sneaker headed for his face. He took a stinging blow to the cheek as he attempted to evade the attacker and was knocked off balance. He managed to stay on his feet, using the boat’s wheel to keep himself upright while his attacker swung out past the transom and dangled for a second over the water before heading back at the boat.

Boom.

Rob had moved from the bow toward the stern and was only standing a few feet away from Spencer when he took the shot. The concussive bark of the shotgun triggered an instant ringing sound that filled Spencer’s head, blocking out all other noise. The man hit the water and silently thrashed about. Spencer felt like he was watching a movie, but this was real life. The splash of salt water that reached the cockpit proved that much.

Spencer turned his attention back to navigation while keeping an eye on the small riot taking place over their heads. The failed attempts at boarding either boat did little to quiet the threats and jeers from above, but so far, no one else seemed brave enough to give the ropes a try. Rob sidestepped to avoid a glass bottle that missed him by inches. Smashing to bits, the container sent shards of green glass skating across the Hunter’s deck. Finn, no longer able to resist his curiosity, dared to look topside.

“Stay, Finn.” Spencer didn’t want the dog to get cut on the glass.

He regretted taking his own shoes off now that they were being pelted with trash from above. But that was better than the alternative. There hadn’t been any more gunshots from the crowd since they first passed under the bridge. He wondered if one of the first bodies to hit the water had been responsible for the shooting, but he was glad it had stopped. Spencer still wasn’t a hundred percent sure his boat hadn’t been hit by friendly fire. Once they were well past this mess, he’d inspect the Hunter for damage. Dodging bottles and small chunks of concrete wasn’t any fun, but they wouldn’t sink the boat like a bullet through the hull.

Spencer glanced back at the man Rob had peppered with double-aught pellets. The crimson foam kicked up by his struggle to stay above water indicated the 12-gauge had done more than just graze him. And if the gunshot wasn’t enough to do him in, the wild splashing and bloody water that had drawn the attention of a few locals would. He was trying to reach the side of the channel, but the sleek bronze-colored fin of a bull shark cut through the water toward him. Spencer looked away, glad that Maya wasn’t on deck to witness the cruel reality of nature.

Rob stared wide-eyed while Spencer did his best to ignore the screams. No one deserved that, not even someone who meant them harm. He thought about what the man might have done if he’d been successful in his attempt to land on their boat, but it did little to ease his guilt about the feeding frenzy happening in the channel behind them.

Rob finally forced himself to look away from the grisly scene, instead focusing on the bridge as it slipped farther and farther off the stern. The shouting began to fade, and the thrown objects no longer reached the Hunter’s deck. They’d done it; they’d made it through the channel mostly unscathed, as far as Spencer could tell, although the ringing in his ears and the kink in his neck were good arguments to the contrary.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he rubbed the tender, growing lump on the side of his head. But his celebration was premature. Nat’s face was pale white as she stood at the bottom of the companionway, looking up at him and her husband.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“We’ve got a problem.” Nat’s words stung worse than the sneaker Spencer had taken to the head minutes ago.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“There’s water coming in from somewhere.” Nat raised a dripping towel and rang it out into the cockpit.

“Rob, take the wheel.” Spencer stepped away from the helm.

“What? Where do I go?” Rob sounded as nervous as Nat about taking the helm earlier.

Spencer paused and looked out at the horizon. “See that red buoy? Head for the left side of it, then straight out toward open water.”

Rob took the wheel cautiously. “What about the other boat?”

Spencer glanced over at the catamaran. “Stay out of their way,” he advised, then headed below deck with Nat.

He hated sailing blind, and having an inexperienced person at the helm was almost the same thing. They were through the channel, but there were still hazards to their left and right. This close to shore, shoals and coral heads sat deceptively shallow at the edge of the deep-water cut. But there were bigger problems to deal with right now.

Spencer’s plan was to cut the engine and continue under wind power as soon as they cleared the bridge. That wouldn’t be possible before they solved the leak issue, though. They’d need the bilge pump to continue doing its job if they were taking on enough water to soak a beach towel in just a few minutes. And with the onboard electrical system still down, running the engine was the only way to keep the pump working.

Nat led the way below deck, but that was the extent of her contribution. “Don’t know where it’s coming from,” she remarked.

Spencer’s heart sank at the sound of water sloshing around below the floorboards. This was bad. Really bad. In fact, this was the worst thing that could have happened outside of one of them being shot. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he started pulling floor panels along the exterior of the cabin.

“Are we going to sink?” Maya’s voice trembled.

“No, we’re not going to sink,” Spencer answered as confidently as he could without knowing the true extent of the damage.

He worked his way down the port side, looking for the source of the leak, when he noticed a small shaft of sunlight cutting through the interior of the cabin. He followed the light to a hole in the floor and removed the panel.

“Found it,” he exclaimed.

Nat stood over him, covering her mouth with her hand. She eyed the hole in the deck, then the hole in the bilge, and she must have realized just how close the bullet had come to where Maya was sitting.

Maya got to her knees on the couch and scooted backward, away from the gushing water. “Mommy.”

“It’s going to be all right, sweetie. Right, Spencer?” Nat slid in next to her daughter, wrapping her arms around the concerned girl.

Spencer surveyed the damage for a split second before jumping into action. He quickly found his damage control kit in the bright yellow bag and selected a small wooden plug, a run of hemp fiber, and a mallet from the set. He had a container of fast-setting epoxy putty that he kept on board for just this type of situation. However, there was too much water to get a good seal with the putty. The wooden plug and hemp were a fast, temporary repair that would slow the influx of water for now and all but stop it after swelling up. Once the bilge pump was able to catch up, he could come back and do a better job of repairing the leak. They were also still in the channel, and Spencer didn’t have that much faith in Rob’s navigational abilities.

Maya and Nat watched as Spencer wrapped the hemp around the soft wooden plug and drove it into the hole with a few gentle taps of the mallet.

“That’ll swell up once it’s saturated and stop most of the water. I can fix it properly with epoxy later.” Spencer tried to explain what he was doing in a way that would put the girls at ease, but his explanation appeared to fall short of comforting them.

The truth was that the only proper and permanent fix would require hauling the boat out of the water and repairing the fiberglass from the outside as well as the inside. That wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, maybe never. Spencer sat back on his knees for a moment, throwing the repair kit up onto the table in disgust. His boat was taking a beating. This wasn’t part of his plan.

“I’ll leave the floor panel out for now, so watch your step.” He needed to get topside. “Keep an eye on that, will you? And let me know if the water doesn’t start going down in a few minutes, okay?” He forced a smile for Maya’s sake.

He didn’t feel like smiling, though. He felt like curling up on the other couch with Finn and giving up, but that wasn’t an option. So far, nothing was going the way he’d hoped. Their escape from Marathon had been messy. His pride and joy was taking a beating inside and out, and his body wasn’t far behind. The most recent offense, a kick to the head, had left him with a pulsing migraine that was competing with the ringing in his ears for attention.

Spencer’s will to continue was fading. How were they supposed to make it to Stuart when they could barely get themselves out of Marathon? And now a hole in the boat. The hits kept coming. It couldn’t get any worse. He knew it could, but that was how it felt at this moment.

Spencer’s self-pity party was interrupted by a cold, wet nose under his arm. “Finn. Hey, boy. It’s gonna be all right.”

Spencer said the words out loud for himself as much as the others. He had to be stronger. This wasn’t about him, after all. He’d changed the stakes by offering this family of three a ride home. And what about Kate? What about his parents? He couldn’t quit now. Finn pressed his luck with another nudge, hoping for some scratches in return. Spencer obliged and gave the dog a few swift strokes to the neck before getting to his feet.

“Come on, boy.” Spencer grabbed a broom on his way past the galley.

“Spencer?” Nat spoke up.

“Yeah.” Spencer turned to face her.

“We are going to be all right,” she insisted.

He nodded, heading topside with Finn in tow, thinking of something written on the exhaust vent stacks near the helicopter deck on his old Coast Guard cutter.

YOU HAVE TO GO OUT, BUT YOU DON’T HAVE TO COME BACK.

The unofficial Coast Guard saying was most commonly applied to running search and rescue operations in dire, often dangerous weather conditions. But there was a deeper meaning to the phrase. To Spencer, it meant that no matter the odds, he had to keep moving forward. There were no guarantees of success. There never were in life, but that wasn’t an excuse to quit. He’d find Kate and get his new friends home, or he’d die trying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Spencer held Finn back from rushing out onto the upper deck until he was sure all the glass and other trash was off the boat. The last thing he needed to add to his list of chores was tending to a cut paw and a possible infection. Running Finn to the veterinarian was no longer an option. Like them, Finn was at the mercy of whatever medical resources they could pull together themselves. Another reason that the decision to let Nat and her family join him for the trip was an easy one. Her medical knowledge could make a difference in an emergency.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but what if Kate or one of her parents needed medical attention? Who better to show up with than a nurse? Spencer glanced down at his cuts, scrapes, and bruises. There were almost too many to keep track of. The throbbing in his head was outpacing them all on the pain scale, but it was the least of his concerns. An infection out here could be big trouble. And he was thankful for Nat’s reminders to keep his wounds clean and bandaged. Without her, Spencer wouldn’t have given that task much attention. As soon as he felt they were in the clear, he’d give in to her well-meant nagging and let her change out the bandages Ella had applied.

Rob gladly swapped his position at the helm for the broom and got to work cleaning debris off the deck while Finn watched impatiently from the cockpit.

“How bad is it? The leak, I mean.” Rob swept a busted beer bottle overboard. Spencer would have normally taken issue with littering so casually, but the little bit of pollution seemed irrelevant at the moment.

“I’ve got it handled for now. Once I get most of the water out, I can do a better job and make a permanent fix with some epoxy I have.” Spencer scooted a jagged chunk of concrete off the deck with his foot.

He kept them pointed at the sea buoy while he watched the catamaran pull away and head south. He couldn’t help but wonder why the boat had risked the channel when they could have taken the backwater out and around Key West. Of course, he had no idea where the other boat was going, but the more he thought about the catamaran’s course, the more he reasoned they’d headed for open water to avoid running into the kinds of problems Spencer and the others had encountered on their way out of Marathon.

The gulf side of the Florida Keys consisted of a seemingly endless labyrinth of small Keys, oversized sandbars, and mangrove clusters. It was the perfect place to live aboard a boat and drop out of the rat race. But that meant being self-sufficient to some degree, a skill that would serve a person well in a situation such as this. The backwaters would be full of boats and people fleeing land, not all of them amiable, as Spencer had discovered the hard way. And some of them would be downright inhospitable and dangerous.

That lawless element was present before the EMPs. To some degree, this event would only push those with nefarious tendencies further toward the edge. The Keys being cut off from civilization might be a dream come true for those less scrupulous members of society. Spencer could see the area becoming a lawless free-for-all and a dangerous place for most people. But there was no assurance that the open ocean would prove any safer. They could run into their fair share of trouble out here. There was nowhere to hide on the ocean, especially not in a sailboat, a fact Spencer was reminded of as he counted the boat-shaped specs on the eastern horizon.

Most of the boats he saw were sailboats; that was no surprise. But some were larger vessels. One in particular was unmistakably a cruise ship. Was that the one he’d seen the other day? Cruise ships were a common sight in the waters between the Keys and the Bahamian islands. It could have been any one of many that cruised these parts, and it really didn’t matter. He despised them all the same.

Spencer pondered what life aboard one of those floating tourist traps was like right now. They’d have plenty of food for a while if it was rationed, but he had no idea what onboard systems would have survived the EMP pulse. He imagined things could get quite miserable, and in a hurry, without working toilets, air-conditioners, or refrigeration. Or would the steel hull act like a giant Faraday cage, shielding vital components from the debilitating surge of energy that had caused all the fires and ruptured electrical transformers on land?

That was a question he didn’t care to find the answer to, though. His plan was to stay as far away from the big, gaudy ships as possible. But not just cruise ships. Spencer intended on staying away from all boats, at least for now. They’d had enough excitement for one day, and if he could help it, they’d spend the next day or so without human contact. They had everything they needed to reach Stuart—and then some. If anything, he was afraid they’d become a target if they were discovered by a less fortunate vessel.

That was the benefit of having Rob and Natalie aboard. Sailing wasn’t rocket science. To a newcomer, it might seem intimidating at first, with all the nautical terms and special names for rigging components, but they’d pick it up quickly and become assets. He was sure of it. At the very least, they were the solution to the loss of his autopilot.

Spencer huffed a humored blast of air from his nose and gave Finn a rough scratch on the head. If the dog could read a compass, even he could keep them pointed in the right direction. Navigation wouldn’t be hard in open water.

Neither one of the couple had been very enthusiastic about taking the wheel, but Spencer couldn’t blame them. The channel wasn’t an ideal place to learn how to sail, especially with a forty-foot catamaran using the lion’s share of Moser Channel.

Navigation was still nothing to take for granted, though, and reaching Stuart wouldn’t happen without some work and planning. While Nat addressed his wounds, maybe he could get the chart out and start plotting their course. They’d still have to zigzag their way up the coast. That meant tacking occasionally, with the expectation that Rob and Nat could perform as crew, but they could make much longer runs between maneuvers, unlike before in the channel.

Spencer took a deep breath of salty ocean air, trying to rid himself of the heavy weight pressing in on him. He stole a glance over his shoulder at the hazy, smoking remnants of Marathon. All that remained clear in his mind was the faces of those he had killed, yet all other details seemed blurred and uncertain, like some kind of far-off dream. His chest tightened at the thought of how it had all led him here. He brushed the feeling aside and blamed the discomfort on a lack of sleep and breathing in too much smoke while ashore.

Better to keep busy than dwell on things he couldn’t change. Spencer turned on the raw-water washdown and gave the cockpit a quick rinse before passing the hose off to Rob. He might as well take advantage of a running engine and make sure the boat was free of any small pieces of glass or litter that could hurt their feet. It wouldn’t just be Finn running around anymore; there was another set of tender little feet to worry about, although Spencer was pretty sure Maya was sleeping. He’d seen Nat go with her to the aft cabin he’d assigned them earlier.

If this were any other day on the water, Spencer would have set the autopilot and popped a beer with the somewhat guilty expectation that he’d occasionally nod off for cat naps. With this type of mileage ahead of them, there wasn’t much else to do now but sail. But that was an oversimplification, and he knew it. Spencer took another deep breath and did his best to suppress the unhealthy thoughts.

He was trying to stay positive about their chances of reaching Stuart in a timely manner. And it was sort of working, thanks to the fresh breeze that was pushing them along and keeping the stench of destruction from souring their noses for the time being. He zeroed in on the upcoming sea buoy they were about to round and prepared to head north, all while bouncing potential wind conditions, achievable sailing speeds, and nautical mile equations around inside his head.

These were things that he could rely on to hold true in a world where everything else he’d come to depend on had let him down. Spencer was under no illusion that wind, weather, or sea conditions were anything but unpredictable. But right now, these finicky elements felt like familiar friends—friends that would help him reach Kate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

There were no maritime rules or regulations when it came to keeping a logbook, at least not in the civilian world, but it was a habit Spencer had hung on to from his days in the Coast Guard. Most recreational boaters that he knew of didn’t keep any kind of official records, but he found it helpful to track weather and tide patterns.

The logbook also came in handy when he explored new areas, making for an easier return trip should he and Kate ever decide to revisit the place. This was especially useful when documenting a specific characteristic of an inlet or how it handled a rigorous outgoing tide.

In his entries, Spencer always made sure to include any notable hazards to navigation, outstanding landmarks, or prime coves where he could spend a lazy evening under the stars without interruption. The logbook was an invaluable resource as far as Spencer was concerned, and he had no plans of breaking the habit as long as he could manage the time to make an entry. However, he wouldn’t need to write down his next entry in order to remember what happened today.

Captain’s Logbook:

June 11, 2026, 0100 hrs

Seas: 1–2 foot chop, water temp: 98°F!

No log entry yesterday. I witnessed several EMP detonations to the north over land just before 2200 hrs. Marathon is a wasteland, lawless and dangerous. Damon and his family are safe for now and staying in place. The Fat Snook was still standing at our departure time: 0945.

Today will live in infamy as one of the worst days in American history and may very well be the end of the country as we know it. So many lives lost. All forms of communication are down, even the VHF. The panel lights up, but no signal reception.

The EMPs have fried mostly everything. Thankfully the boat seems to be running fine, which I attribute to the recent installation of the solar power system and its network of inline fuses and circuit breakers that took the hit for most of the electronics. Houses and buildings with solar installed seem to have been spared for the most part as well.

Temporarily lost all instruments aboard Restless, but with the help of one of the new crew, we were able to regain some functionality. Everything but the following equipment was repairable:

GPS/chartplotter/autopilot

One of the multifunction display panels

Wi-Fi/cellular range boosters

Radar

I speculate some of these systems are nonfunctional as much from the energy surge of the EMPs we experienced as they are from system-wide failure, and I fear boats along the entire East Coast, or maybe more, have lost these capabilities as well, God forbid.

Jaw clenched tightly, Spencer wiped away the wetness in his eyes and continued writing.

I’ve taken six lives in self-defense and witnessed just as many killed by others or by the EMPs and the massive fires sweeping the land. In the short term, I fear humanity is lost and I will trust no one for some time to come.

Spencer stopped writing for a moment and considered erasing the last part but decided the truth was better than denial. Putting it down on paper was a way to get his feelings out of his head and into a place where he could keep them safely locked up.

I’ve taken on three crew members from Marathon: Rob Morales, his wife Natalie, and their daughter Maya, who is six. I promised them passage home to Jacksonville for their help, and I will do whatever I can to make good on that commitment. Nat, as she prefers to be called, is a nurse and has proven herself an asset already.

Finn has become Maya’s new best friend, second only to a stuffed turtle she named Lewis. I found the toy in one of the duffle bags full of stolen loot from the Turtle Hospital visitors center. And as it turns out, Rob is a master electrician by trade and the main reason Restless has regained some of her instruments. Rob and Nat are both decently handy with a gun, which has been equally useful as things go.

The four of us and Finn are northbound, heading for Stuart, Fl., to find Kate after more than a few close calls and a bullet hole through the hull as we tried to escape Marathon. I have the hole patched with fast-curing epoxy now and have reduced the water intake to a small trickle that is easily mitigated by the bilge pump.

The wind dropped off significantly after sunset and we are currently maintaining a discouraging 2.4 knots under sail. If slack winds continue through the morning hours, we will run under power for most of the day tomorrow or until conditions improve and as fuel allows. We have roughly 14.5 gallons of diesel on board and 25 gallons of potable water. I would have liked to top off all tanks before setting sail, but conditions ashore did not allow it. I will hold out for wind and avoid running the engine for now, letting my shipmates get some much-needed sleep so that I can do the same tomorrow if possible.

Thanks to Damon and the Fat Snook and a lot of luck, we were able to take on food, water, and other supplies before getting underway. I estimate that if we are careful and I can continue to catch fish, we will have plenty of supplies to reach Stuart and beyond. My biggest fear is the weather—or lack of wind, to be precise. I estimated the trip to Saint Lucie Inlet would take 3–4 days, but with these conditions and the lack of fuel availability, I worry it could be much longer.

My concerns about the weather extend to more than just the wind, however. The water temperature is extremely high, even for this time of year, and in spite of the light breeze, there is an overall looming stillness to the air that seems foreboding. This evening before sunset, the yellow-orange haze that settled in and blanketed the sky continues to linger overhead at a low altitude, blocking out the stars and all but the slightest hint of the moon. If the pollution is still present tomorrow, we will head farther off the coast and stay there until it dissipates or until we reach a latitude conducive to setting a course toward Saint Lucie Inlet.

So far at least, the thicker air has stayed well above us, making it easier to breathe without filters over our faces ever since we left Marathon. And even though the water is bathtub warm, it hasn’t seemed to affect the fishing. I’m thankful for the small victories we’ve had, including the incredible luck of crossing paths with a school of cobia today.

I was able to catch one of the fish on a rubber eel, and we ate it for dinner with rice and orange slices, washed down with warm beer. The cobia wasn’t a large fish at 43” and 37 lbs., but the meat it provided was sufficient to feed us all, including Finn.

At this pace, there won’t be much to keep us busy except what I expect to be a never-ending attempt to keep the boat as tidy as we can. Four people and Finn constitute a crowd compared to normal, but I’m thankful for the company. Rob and his family are good people and seem eager to learn and help out where they can. One of their greatest contributions so far has been the additional eyes and ears, and someone to share helm duties with. Even Maya, who apparently has quite the eagle eye for other boats and sea life, has contributed by standing watch with Finn at the bow for hours on end and taking her turn at the wheel—with supervision, of course.

I feel bad for Maya, beyond the immediate misery and chaos we’ve all been exposed to. What kind of future does she have to look forward to? Do six-year-olds even worry about stuff like that? For her sake, I hope not. I don’t have much control over that aspect of her life or even my own at this point, so I guess there’s no use in worrying too much, if I can manage that. But I’ll at least continue to do my best to remain confident about our situation when around her and in general, although that is extremely hard at times. Seeing her laugh at Finn’s antics or watching her face light up when there is a dolphin or other sea life spotting makes the effort worthwhile and puts our relatively good fortune into perspective. There’s little doubt that she improves the energy on board.

SH

Spencer tucked the pencil behind his ear and ran his hand over the closed logbook. He liked to make his entries as though he were writing a letter to Kate. And that felt especially satisfying tonight, dulling the pain that tugged at his heart and making him feel a little closer to the love of his life in spite of the miles between them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Spencer checked his watch and was encouraged to see that morning wasn’t far away. He hoped the wind would pick up with the rising sun and allow them to increase their speed. The slow pace of the late night and the early-morning hours had taken a bite out of his ambitious schedule. By his calculations, they’d covered roughly forty-some nautical miles so far. The numbers were disappointing. He’d run the figures several times in hopes that he was making a mathematical error, but he wasn’t.

The progress they’d made since leaving Marathon was far less than what he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t unexpected, considering the wind conditions and the loaded boat. To make matters worse, with the approach of morning, the wind had backed off even further, pushing them along at a meager 1.5 knots for the last few hours.

Spencer was anxious to start the engine but promised himself he’d wait until daylight. On the plus side, the reduced wind had made the surface of the ocean as smooth as glass. The calm water would allow him to maximize fuel efficiency while running the small diesel, although that was hardly a fair trade for the less-than-ideal sailing conditions.

The fact was that they didn’t have enough fuel to reach Stuart or even Saint Lucie Inlet under power. They could cover about half the distance with the fuel left in the tank, but he needed to hold a minimum of at least a few gallons in reserve. Navigating the inlet and waterways into Stuart and Kate’s parents’ house would require agility and power if the conditions were anything like what they’d seen in Marathon. Tom and Debbie lived on the water, but they were located several miles up the Saint Lucie River, in Hoggs Cove.

Reaching Tom and Debbie’s would present its own set of challenges: another bridge and countless hidden sandbars in a place Spencer wasn’t all that familiar with. The inlet itself wasn’t too bad as far as inlets went, but gaining entry to the river could still prove problematic.

But he was letting himself get wrapped up in the moment. The wind would pick up eventually; it had to. Afternoon thunderstorms were fairly common this time of year, although lately, there hadn’t been as many as usual.

Spencer looked toward shore, trying to forget about their schedule for a minute. They were about five miles off the coast and, by his estimation, somewhere between Islamorada and Tavernier, Florida. The pinpoints of artificial light that would have normally been visible from here were missing and had been replaced with a dim orange glow that melded with the smudged gray sky. Spencer couldn’t complain; the constant light of the fires made navigation easy, and he had no problem following the northwest curvature of the Keys up the coast. Without the chartplotter and GPS, knowing exactly where they were on the map would be tough at best. And running unpolished and hypothetical numbers through his head was quickly becoming his least favorite pastime, especially when the results were so dismal.

He turned his attention toward the eastern horizon and admired the warm hints of morning light breaking through the darkened skies. Whatever pollution had drifted over them last night seemed less intense today, and to his relief, he wouldn’t have to factor running farther offshore into an already concerning situation. Adding distance to their journey would come as a big blow to his already damaged expectations.

Spencer was jolted from his thoughts by the rich aroma of fresh coffee. He looked down into the cabin to see Rob milling clumsily about the galley. He’d be forever grateful to the man for getting some of the boat’s electrical systems back online yesterday. They were far from fully functional—or even what most would call seaworthy, for that matter. Ordinarily, Spencer wouldn’t have considered leaving port with this many technical problems, but they’d make do. They had to.

“Can I get you a cup?” Rob spoke softly as he stuck his head up through the companionway.

“Yes, please. That’d be great.” Spencer’s mouth watered at the promise of coffee.

Rob joined Spencer and Finn in the cockpit a few minutes later, taking a seat across from the lazy dog. No words were spoken initially; both of them were content to enjoy the fresh-brewed beverage and take in the stillness of their surroundings.

Rob finally broke the silence. “Wow, it’s beautiful.”

“I’d like to see a little more wind. But yeah, this is why we live like this.” Spencer added the latter in an effort to start the day on a more positive note.

He caught Rob eyeing the functioning display panel that showed them depth, speed, and water temperature, along with a few other metrics. It looked like he wanted to comment about their lack of speed. At least that was what Spencer interpreted his look to mean. But the man said nothing, and Spencer was glad for it.

“The girls still asleep?” Spencer asked, eager to talk about something other than the obvious lack of progress.

“Maya is. Nat’s up but staying put for Maya’s sake. Should I get her to come up?” Rob sipped his coffee.

“No, no need for that. I’m just anxious to start the engine. This wind isn’t gonna cut it if we expect to get to Stuart anytime soon.” Spencer took another drink from his mug and adjusted the steering wheel.

The sun was consistently gaining ground on the darkness, brightening the morning by the minute. It was going to be another hot one, and without wind, they’d have no choice but to take it on the chin. Staying below deck in the shade wouldn’t provide much relief. Even with the forward hatch open for ventilation, conditions would get unbearably stuffy below deck. Spencer had a small air-conditioning unit, but he didn’t want to run it all day. If they were relying on power to push them toward Stuart, any accessories they ran would only reduce the engine’s fuel efficiency. The solar panel he’d recently installed would go a long way toward keeping the batteries charged, but he doubted it would generate enough power to keep the interior comfortable all day with this cloud cover, and it certainly wouldn’t work at night.

Spencer second-guessed his decision to get out of Marathon as quickly as they did without looking into procuring extra diesel. There was a marina just north of the resort property, but from what he could see, it was in flames, just like most of the island. And after dealing with the people they’d fought off to get underway, he didn’t want to push their luck. It was easy to play the what-if game when there weren’t bullets whizzing past their heads.

“Good morning.” Nat emerged from the companionway, a steaming cup in hand.

“Morning. You guys look like proper crew now,” Spencer joked.

Nat and Rob were both wearing the Fat Snook T-shirts he’d insisted they help themselves to while gathering supplies from the bar.

“Thanks for these, by the way. It sure beats the shirt I was wearing.” Rob chuckled.

“I’m not sure you could call that a shirt anymore.” Nat smiled and took a seat next to her husband, scratching his back with her free hand.

They sat in silence for a minute or two before Maya joined them with a plastic cup of something and her stuffed turtle.

“How did Lewis sleep last night?” Spencer asked.

Maya smiled shyly. “Good.”

“The rocking really knocks you out,” Rob added.

“Well, that’s better than the alternative.” Spencer had been worried one of them might get seasick, but with the minor swells and lack of wind, there wasn’t much chance of that. Still, he’d seen guys get seasick in similar conditions. He never quite understood why someone prone to motion sickness would join the Coast Guard, but he was thankful his current crew was doing well. However, he’d trade the near-flat conditions for some decent wind chop in a heartbeat if it meant momentum without the engine.

If anything, the wind had died off further since the sun began to rise, and in the short time it took Spencer to reach the bottom of his coffee cup, it was nearly still. He’d hoped for a little cooperation, but he could read the weather and knew it wasn’t meant to be, at least not anytime soon, unless an afternoon storm materialized. The lack of wind made the decision to run under power an easy one, albeit a little concerning. There was one benefit to motoring, though; it would simplify operation of the boat and make navigation a fairly straightforward task for the couple to share while Spencer caught up on sleep.

He adjusted the compass bezel and went over a few functions with Rob and Nat, making sure they understood the importance of staying within the designated bearing while taking into consideration the distant shoreline. He was reluctant to leave them in charge, but this was one of the benefits of having them along. It was easier to think about them helping out than it was to walk away from the helm and let them have at it, but that was Spencer’s nature. And he was tired, although before he hit the rack, there was one more thing he wanted to do.

“Rob, want to give me a hand with this?” Spencer had been putting the chore off for as long as he could, but it was time, and the big appliance was dead weight that would only slow them down and take up room they didn’t have to spare.

“Sure.” Rob joined him at the starboard rail where they’d hauled out the brand-new stove Spencer had installed just days ago.

“On three. Make sure we clear the boat and really get it out there.” Spencer didn’t want the heavy appliance to take a bite out of the hull on its way over.

“One… two… three.” He felt the warm ocean water splash his legs as the stove hit the surface. He watched the glint of stainless steel flash as the damaged appliance twisted and spiraled toward the bottom. The reflections of sunlight bounced off the polished stainless steel like a giant fishing lure until it reached a depth the pale-yellow light of day could no longer penetrate.

It was like throwing money overboard. Fourteen hundred dollars, to be exact. He’d never even gotten a chance to use the thing, a new state-of-the-art all-electric model that was supposed to eliminate the need to carry propane on board and capitalize on the solar electric system. Luckily for Spencer, he was a procrastinator and hadn’t lugged the old stove out of the aft stateroom yet. He’d meant to take it into the dock on the skiff the other day but completely forgot about it before he and Finn headed out to test the new modifications and, of course, to do some fishing.

The old stove was propane-powered, and he and Rob swapped it back into place with the new stove in no time yesterday. The EMP pulse had done something to the new appliance, rendering it useless. Rob tried explaining the specifics, but all Spencer heard was, It’s never going to work again.

“Sorry, that’s got to sting a little.” Rob stood next to him, watching as the stove faded from sight. They were in thirty-three fathoms of water currently, or about two hundred feet. It might take a minute or so for the stove to reach the bottom. For a moment, Spencer imagined the appliance tumbling through the darkening hydrosphere, all alone, before he walked away from the rail.

“Hey, at least the old stove still works, right? And we’ve got plenty of gas.” Nat eyed the propane tanks lashed around the base of the mast.

Spencer nodded. He should have been happy that they had a working stove, but instead, all he could think about was how Kate wouldn’t get to see the new one in action. She’d helped pick out the appliance. Tossing the stove tasted of defeat and was a bitter pill to swallow, but it almost seemed par for the course at this point.

Spencer helped stow the jib and main sail before leaving the family to themselves. There was no need to complicate things while he wasn’t there to help. And with the lack of wind, there was really no point in having either up, as disappointing as that was to admit.

He checked again with the couple before retiring below. “Well, guys, you’ve got the conn. I’m going to grab some sleep since there isn’t much going on. You good? Any questions?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Rob answered too quickly for Spencer’s comfort.

“How long will we hold this course?” Nat asked.

“All day and then some.” Spencer started below deck, checking back to see if Finn was coming with him.

But the big yellow dog had made his choice thanks to the attention he was getting from Maya, and it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere. It was just as well with this heat and humidity. The last thing Spencer needed was a hot, furry snoring machine taking up space on the bed next to him.

He made his way to the forward stateroom, replacing the logbook and pencil on the shelf above the radio desk. Then he grabbed himself a bottle of water. He downed the entire thing in several greedy chugs and flopped down on the bed, popping open the forward hatch with his foot.

The fresh influx of air cut the stuffy atmosphere inside the small stateroom with a slight draft, mixing familiar aromas. The smell of laundry detergent and coconut-lime skin moisturizer, one of Kate’s favorites, welcomed him while the steady hum of the diesel and thoughts of reaching Stuart lulled him to sleep in a matter of seconds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Spencer dangled his legs off the stern while Kate enjoyed a leisurely swim in crystal-clear, aqua-green water. Finn voiced his disapproval of being made to stay on board with a few barks as she repeatedly dove down to the bottom, each time bringing up a different piece of trash. She dove again, but Spencer grew nervous when she didn’t come back up right away. A slick gray fin broke the mirror-like surface several yards away. Spencer tried to get up from his spot and jump in, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Kate!” He sat up in bed. His cold, sweat-soaked T-shirt stuck to his body like a restraint, tangled and twisted. He took a deep breath and calmed himself, realizing it was only a dream.

“Oh man.” Spencer sighed and pulled himself to the edge of the bed, waiting for the fog of sleep to clear. How long had he been out? He’d only meant to grab a couple of hours before returning topside, but the bright glow of daylight was noticeably absent from the hatch.

“Spencer, are you up? You might want to take a look at this,” Rob called from the cockpit, and Spencer didn’t like the sound of it.

“Coming.” He forced his eyes open all the way and headed topside.

He could see the fog before reaching the three-step ladder to the cockpit and noticed the diesel’s lower tone. Why were they idling? His heart sank as he wondered if something was wrong with the engine. If the engine went up, they were screwed. When he broke through to the cockpit, he was somewhat relieved to see the reason they’d slowed to a snail’s pace, but he was equally confused.

“What time is it?” Spencer answered his own question and checked his watch.

“Almost six,” Rob answered anyway.

“I didn’t mean to sleep that long,” Spencer apologized. He had no intention of leaving the couple topside for anywhere near that length of time.

“It’s okay. You needed it. You were up for over twenty-four hours,” Nat reminded him.

But Spencer wasn’t worried about that anymore. He was taking in the dense fog that had surrounded them and noticed a coolness to the air. It seemed to be originating from the water’s surface.

“What’s going on? When did this happen?” Spencer was astonished at the drastic change in conditions and wouldn’t have believed it unless he’d seen it for himself. Was he still dreaming? No, his aches and pains were proof enough that the pea-soup-like air preventing him from seeing more than forty yards in any direction was very real.

“We sailed into it about two hours ago. It wasn’t this bad at first, but in the last half an hour or so, it’s been getting thicker. Then we hit this.” Nat glanced out into the oyster-white abyss.

Spencer took the helm and checked the gauges. “Sixty-seven degrees?”

That explained the fog, but he could hardly believe the radical swing in water temperature until he noticed the depth sounder. They were sailing in nearly five hundred fathoms of water! His eyes darted to the compass, but according to the dial, they were on course. He still wasn’t fully awake, but none of this made any sense. He stared at the compass, puzzled, then realized that it was suspiciously still, no longer righting itself against the gentle movements of the boat. He smacked the bezel with an open palm and was mortified to see the globe inside break free and spin almost eighty degrees off course.

“No, no, no, no…” Spencer held his hand over his mouth, rubbing several days’ worth of beard growth as he came to terms with their predicament and the compass revealed their true heading. Of course they were in three thousand feet of water. They’d been heading straight offshore for who knew how long. They were probably closer to the Bahamas than Stuart at this point.

He ran below deck without saying a word.

“Spencer, what’s going on?” Nat’s voice followed him down the companionway.

But Spencer didn’t answer. Instead, he returned with one of his navigational charts and unrolled it on the seat cushion between them.

“We’re way off course. Look.” Spencer traced the edge of the Florida escarpment with his finger while running the numbers silently. The comparatively shallow water shelf that surrounded the Keys dropped off quickly at around thirty to forty miles offshore. They were definitely closer to the Bahamas than the Keys. “My guess is that we’re somewhere around here. I’m not sure how long the compass has been stuck, but we could be forty or fifty miles offshore and going in the wrong direction.”

He fell back into the seat, unable to take his eyes off the spot on the chart. This was bad, really bad. They’d burn through the rest of the diesel just to get back to where they started. And not only were they still dealing with unfavorable wind conditions, but now they’d have to contend with deep-water currents as well.

An upwelling cold-water current was the only explanation for the cooler ocean temperatures and the milky-white blanket of fog that seemed thick enough to cut with his Leatherman blade. At idle, they might be losing ground against the moving water. They were well into the Gulf Stream, a prominent northbound, normally warm-water current that ran up the East Coast toward the Carolinas at an average of four miles per hour, although it was anything but warm today.

With the way things were behaving weather-wise, Spencer wondered if he could even count on what he knew anymore. If they were in the Gulf Stream and being pushed north, it could work to their advantage, but not if they overshot Stuart. Without the GPS and chartplotter, there was no way to know for sure where they were. He’d planned on navigating by land and the fires still burning on shore, but if they were this far out, that wasn’t an option, either. And even if they were closer to shore, land wouldn’t be visible in these conditions.

Spencer’s dread turned to anger once he realized what this little mistake had cost them. They didn’t have enough fuel to reach Stuart, but he wasn’t even sure they had enough to make up for the miles they’d lost.

“So… no big deal, right? We just turn around and head back. Problem solved.” Rob’s statement sounded so casual it irritated Spencer. He wanted to blame them both for this disaster but couldn’t. It wasn’t their fault; the equipment was to blame for this mess, as much as Spencer himself. Why did he have to sleep for so long? He should have known better than to leave two inexperienced sailors at the helm. He would have picked up on the malfunctioning compass right away, but that didn’t matter now. And taking his frustration out on Rob and Nat wouldn’t help anything, either.

Spencer chose his words carefully and explained to his fellow shipmates what all this meant for them. They took it better than he thought, which made him feel guilty for being so quick to anger. They were in this together, and although this had taken them farther from Stuart, it didn’t change what had to be done.

Spencer looked out at the water and thought hard about their options. There weren’t many beyond heading back toward land. He pushed the throttle forward and aimed Restless toward what he hoped was Stuart and switched on their running lights. He didn’t really want to draw any attention to the boat, but it was the responsible thing to do. He also didn’t want a larger boat plowing into them. They were deep in the shipping lanes out here, and for all he knew, plenty of large tankers and cargo ships had been unaffected by the EMPs.

At 1300 feet long and 220,000 tons, with a draft of around fifty feet, a container vessel would reduce the Hunter to pieces in her props like a bug through a meat grinder. A ship that size wouldn’t even notice running them over, and it certainly wouldn’t stop to look for survivors—because there wouldn’t be any. Using their running lights might be risky, but it was better than getting chewed up by one of those ocean-crossing behemoths. And thanks to the unrelenting fog, darkness would come early tonight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Spencer couldn’t help but check the fuel gauge every so often. Rob must have noticed and brought him a cold beer from the fridge to calm his nerves.

“Listen, I’m sorry, man. I had no idea we were so far off course.” He apologized for the third time since they discovered the faulty compass.

“It’s not your fault. It could have happened to anybody. Seriously. You gotta let it go. We’ll get to Stuart without diesel. It’s just going to take a while. I mean, this can’t last forever.” Spencer looked out over the water off the port side, the persistent fog still limiting his view. He couldn’t see much but the mirror-like finish on the surface of the water. He’d seen flat, windless days before, but this was the most extreme example he’d ever experienced.

“It’s so quiet. I’ve never seen the ocean so still.” Nat joined the conversation from the bow. She’d gone forward of the cabin just in front of the mast to sit somewhere she could stretch her legs and take advantage of a little Maya-free time. Her daughter was below deck at the dining table, serving her turtle and Finn an imaginary meal, complete with plastic cups and paper plates. She’d asked her mother and Spencer if it was okay for her to play in the saloon. Spencer could see that she was frightened by the fog, and Finn was as bored with the lack of scenery as she was scared. It was just as well; there was nothing to see.

“Dead calm.” Spencer spoke out loud, not really intending to.

“What’s that?” Rob asked.

“Dead calm. That’s what this is called,” Spencer repeated.

“How long will this last?” Nat sat up and moved to the edge of the deck, looking down at the glassy water.

“Who knows, but we’ll be out of diesel in a few hours at this rate.” Spencer tapped the fuel gauge, hoping to find that it was malfunctioning, too, but no such luck.

“Then what?” Rob joined Nat at the port rail.

“Then we wait for wind. Not exactly the rescue I had planned.” Spencer shook his head, disappointed in himself for putting them all in this position.

The confidence he felt earlier about his decision to leave Marathon without figuring out where or how to top off the tank was evaporating faster than their fuel supply. He was positive now that he’d made a poor decision. They were only four gallons short of a full tank when they left, but that equated to roughly thirty miles of range. They only ever had enough diesel to get close, but he’d also counted on sailing most of the way.

“We’ll get there. It’s summer in Florida. There’ll be a storm soon, and with it, wind. And it’ll clear all of this out.” Nat made her prediction with confidence, but she was just trying to stay positive.

Spencer appreciated her optimism and normally would have bought into her logic. But this was different: the extreme water temperatures, the oppressive heat, the atmospheric anomalies. Yesterday, he noticed several high-altitude clouds moving fast but in different directions, crisscrossing one another as if there were multiple layers of weather, each one different. Yet none of what he saw translated to wind on the surface of the ocean, where they desperately needed it. It was obvious to Spencer: the EMPs had played a role in what they were experiencing, but to what degree, he wasn’t sure.

The weather conditions were also apparently affecting the bite. Rob admitted to trolling for a while today with one of the rods Spencer had left rigged from yesterday. But he reported no activity whatsoever, not even a look from anything for the entire five hours of effort. That bothered Spencer, but he wrote it off as inexperience on Rob’s part. Having the wrong setup for trolling didn’t help. But that was a convenient excuse. He knew in his heart that something should have at least checked out the bait. He could have dragged a spoon from the drawer in the galley behind them and at least brought fish to the surface.

It usually didn’t take much effort to attract opportunistic predators out here, where there wasn’t much natural cover or an excess of food. Maybe their luck would change tomorrow, when the water warmed up and they left the cooler current behind. But Spencer was getting tired of hoping for better luck.

Nat made them all a bowl of rice on the new/old stove, and they had a pack of peanut butter crackers with an orange for dessert. The lack of fish was noticeable, and Spencer vowed to put meat on the table tomorrow, even if he had to get in the water and hunt something down with his speargun. That, of course, depended on them being able to make it in close enough to find shallow water. They at least had enough diesel for that, although the current was definitely taking its toll on their progress.

They ate early, and even though he was well rested, Spencer found himself daydreaming as he stared off into the marble-white mist that was beginning to feel like a prison they might never escape.

“Hey, check it out.” Rob pointed at the lone display panel.

It took Spencer a second to realize what he was so interested in, but then he saw it. The water temperature had risen to seventy degrees.

“It’s warming up,” Spencer announced.

“See? It’s changing already,” Nat added.

“That doesn’t mean we’ll get any wind, but maybe.” Spencer forced himself to end on a high note, although he was pretty sure the change in temperature was nothing to get excited over.

But as he cast his gaze skyward, he noticed the fog starting to dissipate. The empty white nothingness gradually gave way to salmon- and gold-colored wisps of clouds as they reflected the setting sun, like a window to another world opening over their heads.

“Finn, come back. You have to eat your dinner.” Maya tried to coax her playmate back to his dog bowl for some real food this time, but Finn was interested in something else. He ignored her calls and made his way up into the cockpit, then onto the starboard rail, where he stared off into the distance, a low, continuous grumble developing in his throat.

“What is it, Finn?” Spencer scanned the horizon, but the fog was still thick at water level and he couldn’t see much farther than before.

Finn remained rooted to his spot, the low rumble manifesting itself into a full growl, complete with a few nervous looks as he checked with Spencer.

“Something’s out there,” Spencer announced softly.

Rob and Nat made their way back to the cockpit, and Finn joined them but remained interested and attentive to whatever mystery lay beyond their view.

“Mommy, what’s going on?” Maya’s timid voice preceded a head of wild, curly brown hair as she peeked outside.

“It’s fine, sweetie. I think Finn must hear something, maybe another turtle or some dolphins coming up for air.”

Nat tried her best to downplay Finn’s uneasiness for Maya’s sake, but Spencer wasn’t ready to discount his dog’s intuition. Finn was known to give his opinion of curious turtles and pods of dolphins while out on the open ocean, but this was different, and Spencer recognized that. He grabbed his AR-15 from where he had it wedged between the seat cushions and clipped it into his sling.

Rob glanced over at him and nodded before heading below to fetch the Benelli shotgun. Maya retreated into the cabin with her dad but did not return with him, as per his instructions. It didn’t take doglike hearing to know something was wrong. Spencer throttled down to an idle, then cut the engine off altogether. The air was heavy with anticipation, the only remaining sound generated by their residual momentum and the chatter of their hull cutting through the water.

Spencer licked the salt from his lips and swallowed hard as he struggled to see through the heavy mist. Reflected light only added to the difficulty, making the fog nearly opaque at times.

“There, I see it. It’s another boat.” Nat took a step back as if there was somewhere to hide. But there wasn’t. Spencer started the engine immediately and put the boat in reverse, taking evasive action. He saw the ship now, too, and it was alarmingly close. The lingering fog made it hard to see the other boat in its entirety, but he took the vessel to be a trawler of some type, judging by the shape of the hull. It looked more like an apparition than a solid object. What were the odds of running into someone else out here? After they were aimed away from the trawler, Spencer backed off the throttle until they were at idle again. He’d intended to put a little distance between them but stopped when he realized this might be an opportunity to do something about their situation.

“Why are you stopping?” Nat ran her fingers through her hair.

“They might be willing to trade for fuel.” Spencer didn’t like the sound of his own idea once the words left his mouth, but it could be the difference between reaching Stuart in a couple of days or sometime next week. He had to try. It was a worthwhile risk, in his opinion.

Rob’s brow creased. “What are you going to do?”

Spencer glanced at the couple’s worried faces. “I’m going aboard.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The ghostly silhouette of the trawler sat eerily still as if the fading mist had a grip on the vessel and was holding it in place. The image was less than inviting, but after listening carefully for a few minutes with the Hunter’s engine turned off, Spencer wondered if the boat had been abandoned or broken free from its moorings and drifted out to sea. Both were unlikely scenarios, but the other reasons for an unoccupied trawler to be drifting freely weren’t as pleasant to think about.

“Pan-Pan,” Spencer shouted through cupped hands.

The international maritime call originating from the French language meant “breakdown,” and it was widely used to signify a situation in which the hailer needed help but was not in immediate danger. He waited for a response while scanning the trawler’s deck with his binoculars. The optics didn’t help much, though; the mask of fog still hid much of the boat’s details.

He was going to call out again but decided against it. He wasn’t sure why, but it just didn’t seem like a good idea. Spencer wished the radio worked. He would have pulled up channel sixteen on the VHF. The worldwide distress frequency was easily picked up by any VHF radio and was strictly reserved for emergencies. But that wasn’t an option for communicating with the mysterious trawler.

Spencer’s intuition aligned with the uneasy feeling in his stomach, adding to his suspicions about the vessel. He wasn’t sure why it was empty. Or if it wasn’t, why wouldn’t the crew show themselves when they heard the Hunter’s approach? The Yanmar was small in stature, but the high-torque workhorse of an engine had a loud bark for its size. There was only one way to find out what was going on.

Spencer didn’t want to come alongside the big trawler directly with the Hunter. If there was something duplicitous going on or this was some kind of trap, the skiff would be a whole lot nimbler and make for a quicker getaway. He’d leave Rob and the others here to man the Hunter while he and Finn checked things out.

“So you’re just gonna go over there? That seems dangerous.” Nat was concerned.

“Pretty much. But I’ll take the skiff. If we need to get out of here, I’d rather you guys have a head start. I can go a lot faster in the small boat. Just have the engine running and be ready.” Spencer pulled on his sneakers, then stuffed an extra magazine for the AR and one for the .9mm Shield into the back pocket of his shorts. He hoped he wouldn’t need either weapon, but there was no way he was going over empty-handed. He would treat this just like any other boarding he’d done; the only difference this time was that he was alone, aside from Finn.

“Want me to go with you?” Rob asked.

“Thanks, but I’ll go it alone. Besides, I need you here.” Spencer knew Rob was just being nice and wanted to stay back to protect his wife and child, and it was just as well.

Spencer was interested in stealth over brawn at the moment. And Rob’s six-foot-three frame wasn’t meant for crawling through scuttled holes gracefully.

Finn whined at Spencer; he knew the conversation had something to do with him.

“You ready, boy? Let’s do this.”

Spencer gave the dog a quick pat on the head and dropped down to the lower level of the stern so he could pull the skiff in close. He climbed aboard the Hewes and gave Finn the okay to board. The big dog could be clumsy at times, but he made a clean jump to the skiff’s bow and settled into position on his haunches. Finn was more subdued than normal when he was invited off the boat for a trip in the skiff. Somehow, he understood this wasn’t for pleasure and instead kept a watchful eye on the strange boat.

Spencer looked up to see Rob, Nat, and Maya standing at the Hunter’s rail, looking down at them.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Or signal you to come over.” Spencer untied the bow line and tossed it to Rob.

“Be careful, man. Don’t take any chances,” Rob cautioned.

“Be careful, Spencer. Please,” Nat chimed in.

“Be careful,” Maya parroted, but Spencer got the feeling she was talking to Finn.

As Spencer made his way to the back of the skiff, he heard the diesel start up and idle at neutral. It was a strange feeling, to say the least, leaving Restless behind with someone else at the controls while he headed out across open water toward the trawler. Finn glanced back at him and then at the Hunter. The poor dog was probably wondering why they were leaving their boat behind out here in the middle of nowhere. And as the trawler came into view and the Hunter faded into the mist, Spencer had the same question on his mind.

It would all be worthwhile if he found fuel on board the boat. He straightened his posture and squared his shoulders, bringing the AR-15 into a position with his free hand in a way that would allow him to get behind the weapon in a hurry if he needed to. It was time to put his doubts aside and get down to business. He’d been on plenty of boardings while in the Coast Guard, some not so pleasant. He could handle this; he just needed to have faith in the process and do it by the book. And everything would go just fine.

At this distance, there was no need for binoculars to get a good look at the ominous vessel. Spencer estimated her to be somewhere between seventy and ninety feet. It was hard to tell exactly, but the boat was long enough that some of it seemed to be hidden in the fog at all times. He could see no flag or any other identifying marks; the hull numbers had long since been faded by a combination of weather and lack of maintenance. Flaking blue and black paint covered most of the well-used boat’s surfaces, with long tentacle-like rust stains reaching down to the waterline from the deck scuppers. But what caught Spencer’s eye was the apparent lack of outriggers or any other gear that would have indicated that fishing was the vessel’s main purpose. If he had to guess, he’d say the boat was set up to live aboard.

Spencer began his initial pass around the vessel, inspecting the trawler as he went. He half expected to see someone come out on deck to greet him any second now.

“Hello… anybody on board?” Spencer raised his voice enough to be heard over the outboard but doubted it mattered. If the primitive buzz of the old two-stroke hadn’t brought the crew topside, nothing would.

“Pájaro Negro.” Spencer sounded out the word as he read the dark blue lettering arched across the stern. “Black… Something black. Parrot? No. Bird, maybe. I don’t know, Finn. My Spanish isn’t that great. I’ll go with Black Bird.” Spencer settled on his latter interpretation, although the name didn’t really provide him with any more information about the boat’s origin or purpose.

Black Bird, Black Bird. He repeated it to himself a few times as he pondered the possible meaning behind the name and where the trawler might have hailed from, but he only came up with more questions. The name didn’t exactly have a warm, fuzzy feel to it or make the drifting trawler any less creepy. But they needed fuel.

“I’m just overthinking it, aren’t I, buddy?”

Spencer continued around the stern of the trawler until the Hunter came into view through a veil of fog. He thought about waving but didn’t want Rob to misinterpret the gesture as an invitation to come over. He didn’t like being this far away from his boat, but there was no way he would pull the Hunter alongside this rust bucket unless he found fuel. And even then, only after careful placement of fenders between the two.

Standing up on the rear deck of the skiff, Spencer held the tiller handle between his knees, steering him and Finn adjacent to the port side, one hand on his weapon. The deck was a mess, with clothing, trash, and tools strewn about, among other things he expected to find on a live-aboard vessel. But no fishing gear to speak of outside of the odd rod or two. And still no crew. Not yet, anyway.

Spencer cut the engine and coasted alongside the trawler while making his way up to Finn on the skiff’s bow. He pulled them along by hand the last few feet to the best deck access point he could find, tying the skiff off to a cleat just inside a scupper hole. He finished up by tossing a bumper overboard between them. The rail height difference between the skiff and the trawler was substantial, and Spencer worried he might have to lift Finn up and over the taller rail. He held the skiff as tight to the other boat as he dared and softly slapped the top of the gunnel with his hand, sending a flutter of tiny paint chips into the water. To his amazement, Finn responded by clearing the three-foot difference gracefully, balancing for a moment on the top rail before dropping down to the deck of the trawler.

For the first time since the wind died, Spencer was glad for the mirror-like finish on the water. Boarding a boat with this much difference in gunnel height was difficult enough, but nothing compared to doing it in any kind of swell. He waited for the fresh shower of rust particles to subside, then made his move onto the boat. He gave the skiff a gentle push away from the trawler with his foot as he clambered up and over the side to catch up with his boarding partner. Landing on the quarterdeck of the vessel, he scanned his surroundings and located Finn, who had already started the investigation.

“Finn, this way. Come on.”

Spencer’s assessment of the boat as a fishing trawler was inaccurate. As he got the layout down, he decided that the boat was more akin to what was known as a fast trawler. Fast trawlers were hybrids stuck somewhere between commercial fishing boats and cruisers. This one had started life as a workhorse, but she’d clearly been retrofitted to be a long-range cruiser. That was good news, though, and it put him at ease, albeit only slightly.

“She’ll have a big tank, I bet. Maybe even a few spare barrels. I’d be happy with one of those.” Spencer salivated over the prospect of finding diesel and shared his hopes with Finn.

But before Spencer went about the business of locating fuel, they needed to clear the ship or at least confirm there was no one on board. Spencer was desperate, but he was no thief. With the way things were going, however, that wouldn’t be a problem. The boat looked as if the occupants had simply vanished. He and Finn completed their inspection of the exterior main deck, checking every person-sized nook and cranny he could find while being careful to step lightly and make as little sound as possible. They’d already made plenty of noise while getting here, but it felt foolish to go stomping around on a steel deck that sounded like a drum underfoot.

Spencer pulled the lever on the watertight doorway leading to the interior portion of the main deck, releasing all four dogged fittings at the same time. The groan of metal on metal components in serious need of fresh grease made him tense up and instantly regret his actions. He bit his lip and slowly pushed the door open the rest of the way, leading with his rifle tip.

The room was large, unmistakably the main saloon, with an attached galley the crew clearly used for dining and entertainment. In the middle of a rectangular table, among a scattered deck of playing cards, sat an ashtray holding a lit cigarette. The long, smooth corkscrew of rising smoke from the neglected cigarette broke into segments thanks to the interruption of fresh air that had entered the room with them.

Spencer swallowed hard and felt his pulse quicken at the realization that he and Finn were alone. Now he was really disappointed in himself for entering the room so carelessly, but at the same time, he was grateful they hadn’t made any noise outside on the deck.

He flung the AR-15 around to his back and pulled the .9mm from his belt. This was too close-quarters for the rifle to be effective, and he didn’t want his movements to be restricted. He was inclined to call out again but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Nothing had felt right about this boat from the start. But he was in too deep to turn around now.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Finn sniffed his way around a ratty pair of leather work boots discarded in the middle of the room, then moved on to a storage locker while Spencer focused on the companionway at the end of the cabin that led to the lower deck. He was anxious to check out the bridge but figured he’d better investigate the lower deck for any signs of the crew first. Besides, if anyone was in the pilothouse, they would have seen him when he boarded, if not sooner.

The lower deck should consist of berthing areas, a head or two, storage lockers, and an engine room. A boat this size would have a dedicated space for its engine or engines and an accessory generator to run some of the larger equipment, like the single-point boat davit out on the forward main deck. The crew’s living quarters were where Spencer expected to find someone. Maybe the owner of the nearly expired cigarette?

Spencer made a clicking sound with his tongue, the one he used to get Finn’s attention from time to time. The dog emerged from the galley, head cocked, ready for further instruction.

“Come on, let’s go,” Spencer whispered.

He closed the smaller scuttle door and opted instead to make use of the entire hatch; it provided easier access down into the lower level. The bigger opening also allowed more light down into the dank, narrow staircase and hallway beyond. Finn stuck close to him as they made their way from stateroom to stateroom. Spencer eased each door open one at a time, handgun at the ready, cutting the pie, as it was called. The motion triggered memories of times past. He thought his days of clearing boats, compartment by compartment, were over.

There were four decent-sized staterooms, compared to the Hunter, and one larger space all the way forward. It looked like it used to be a fish hold. Suitcases and duffle bags overflowing with clothing and personal effects were piled against the bulkhead. The luggage had been thoroughly rummaged through and left in an unorganized mess.

There was also an assortment of supplies: large bags of rice and dried beans, water, alcohol, fishing tackle, and random nautical gear that looked like it could have outfitted several smaller vessels. A few of the rod and reel setups were easily worth more than a grand each, and he found it odd that they’d be thrown down here in such a haphazard manner. Spencer’s apprehension about the trawler and her current condition grew along with the churning in his gut, but he ignored the feeling, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and moved on.

The whole boat smelled of cigarettes and body odor, or at least that was what the aroma stinging his nose suggested. Spencer pulled his buff back up over his nose and moved aft, passing the staterooms he’d already searched. He found the engine room farthest back, and he was amazed to see the condition of the space. Compared to the rest of the boat, the engine room was tidy and could almost be called clean. The high temperature of the room was almost unbearable, causing any exposed skin to instantly bead up with sweat as if he were in a sauna. He thought it odd for an idle boat but figured it made sense for a space with no ventilation.

Several chests of tools and a small workstation surrounded a bright yellow Caterpillar engine sitting dead center in the compartment, with another smaller diesel that he didn’t recognize just a few feet away. He tried to stay focused on making sure that no one was hiding in here, but all he could think about was the likelihood that a boat this size would have a large fuel tank, maybe upward of ten thousand gallons. Then he saw what he’d been hoping for. Along the port bulkhead were several fifty-five-gallon drums of various colors.

“Diesel.” Spencer glanced at Finn before starting for the drums but stopped as he passed the main engine. He could feel the heat radiating off the block. He moved his hand along the manifold, avoiding contact by just a couple of inches. He was wrong. The engine wasn’t warm; it was hot. This boat had been in use—and not that long ago. Spencer wanted to run for the main deck, but he resisted the urge to panic. What was going on here? And where was the crew?

He checked the drums as his mind raced with possibilities. He was disappointed to see that the two drums he’d hoped held diesel in fact held gasoline, which was a little off; nothing he’d seen ran on gas. The remaining drums were partially filled with engine oil and hydraulic fluid, as far as he could tell. If he was going to get any diesel from this boat, he’d have to figure out how to extract it from the main tank. But other concerns warranted his attention first. Maybe there were some clues about what had happened here up in the wheelhouse.

“Come on, Finn.” Spencer shut the door and pushed the lever down, making the engine compartment watertight once again.

He cautiously made his way back through the interior of the boat, working toward the bridge with his weapon drawn. The cigarette had burned down to the butt and extinguished itself, leaving behind a trail of ash almost the length of the cigarette itself. Whoever lit the thing hadn’t had a chance to smoke very much of it. Finn sneezed at the lingering smoke. Spencer turned to look at Finn wide-eyed, as if the dog was supposed to know they were trying to be as quiet as possible.

Spencer continued toward the bridge, stopping at the bottom of a thin metal staircase that was really more of a ladder. He started up carefully, making sure not to touch anything or make any more noise than they already had. This was it. If no one was up here, the crew’s whereabouts would remain a mystery and he’d move on to procuring fuel for the Hunter. He wasn’t sure where the people were or what had happened here, but he didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to find out. He’d get Rob and Nat to bring the Hunter alongside, and they’d start the fuel transfer as soon as he figured out how they were going to do that.

There were some hand pumps by the drums in the engine room. One of those would do the trick if the hose was long enough to reach the fuel tank through the sounding tube. But he was getting ahead of himself. Maybe the vessel had run out of fuel and the captain and crew had dropped their small boat in the water with the davit and struck out for land, abandoning the trawler. That was what the gas was for. But if that was what had happened, why did they leave so much gear and food behind? None of it made much sense, but he knew it wasn’t that simple.

“Levántate aquí… Levántate aquí.”

Spencer froze. The thumping in his chest would have given him away if it wasn’t already too late for that. The voice was as strange-sounding as it was terrifying. Spencer thought hard. Levántate aquí. “Get up here.” The voice was telling him to “get up here.” He swallowed hard and began taking the rungs of the ladder while his mind raced to come up with a face for the odd voice. Finn hung back, following cautiously. Spencer decided to lower his weapon but kept it out and handy. He was on someone else’s boat, after all.

“I’m coming up. We need fuel. Necesito diesel.” Spencer began a more deliberate ascent of the stairs while the voice repeated the command a couple more times. Peering around a knee wall at the top of the stairs to his left, Spencer got his first look at the bridge and the only crew member aboard. A sizable black raven with a small tuft of white on the back of his neck strutted back and forth over the ship’s wheel like he owned it. The bird’s glossy feathers reflected the light of the setting sun through the pilothouse windows, reminding Spencer that they were running out of daylight.

He stood there for a moment, letting his nerves calm and his heart return to a normal rhythm. “Black bird.” He laughed to himself. This explained the name of the trawler.

“Hola,” the raven answered.

“What do ya think about that, Finn?” Spencer wandered around the bridge, eyeing the equipment, while Finn gave the only apparent remaining crew member a good sniff. Spencer was mainly interested in the vessel’s instruments and whether or not any of them worked, but the weapons rack against the bulkhead caught his attention. There were two well-used AK-47s strapped into place, although there was room for several more in the rack. They were either missing or didn’t exist at all.

“Easy, boy. He might put that beak to use if you get too close,” Spencer warned, his gaze lingering on the rack for a second longer before he moved on.

Finn took in one last, defiant nose full of air near the jet-black bird, then backed away. The raven still had the dog’s interest, but Spencer was busy standing over the control panel, thinking about what this meant. They were alone on this boat; that much he knew. The burning cigarette could be explained by his theory that the crew had run out of fuel and abandoned ship. But that didn’t explain why they’d left weapons behind. How long could an unattended cigarette burn on its own, anyway? Five minutes? Twenty? He had no idea, but it appeared that he’d just missed the boat’s former occupants.

Spencer’s finger lingered over the engine start button. There was one quick way to find out if she had diesel in the tank. The pilot house rattled with vibrations that felt like they ran through the hull and straight to his feet. Several alarms and indicator lights flashed in unison. The Christmas-tree-colored chaos of bulbs and warnings only lasted a few seconds before the big Caterpillar diesel settled into a consistent rumble. So much for the boat being out of fuel. That was both good news and bad, though, because now there was no explanation for the missing crew. Unless… No. Spencer didn’t want to think about it and instead occupied himself with the instruments as they came online.

He fumbled around with the buttons on the chartplotter until he got the display to light up and cooperate. Spencer found the closest piece of land—Islamorada—and selected the target.

“Fifty-seven miles!” Spencer couldn’t believe how far off course they were, but his disappointment was limited by the fact that the boat had working instruments. That and the fact that he knew there was diesel in the fuel tanks. He scrolled north on the map and found Saint Lucie Inlet. Placing the cursor on his destination, he waited for the results. The inlet that would lead him upriver to Stuart was 231 miles north-northeast of his current location.

Spencer shook his head in disgust. They’d wasted the last twenty-four hours or more and were no closer to Kate than when they started yesterday. For the moment, he forgot all about the missing crew or the others waiting aboard Restless and thought about what that mileage meant in terms of how much fuel they’d need if the lack of wind persisted. He jumped back when the hawk-sized bird let out a shrill squawk and hopped its way along the console to a perch in the corner. The commotion got Finn riled up, and Spencer had to hold him back, although the dog seemed more inclined to play with the raven than anything else.

He figured they’d need to top off the Hunter’s tank and take one of the fifty-five-gallon drums full of diesel with them. They wouldn’t need that much fuel to reach Stuart, but why not take what they could while they had the chance? Who knew when the next opportunity for fuel would arise? He still had a ton of questions, but none mattered more than getting back on track. They’d lucked out big time running into this cruising trawler. And it was time to capitalize on the find.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Spencer left the boat running while he stepped onto the balcony overlooking the water and port side of the vessel below. He waved his arms over his head, trying to get Rob and Nat’s attention. It would save him a lot of time and effort if the couple could bring the Hunter to him instead of him having to take the skiff back. The fog had dissipated considerably, but visibility was still poor.

He went back inside and searched the bridge for something he could use to signal the others.

“Gran problema… Gran problema,” the raven taunted, following Spencer around the bridge from perch to perch as he opened drawers and checked cubbies for something he could use to get the couple’s attention.

“There’s gonna be big trouble if you don’t knock that off.” Spencer threatened the noisy bird, whose antics were exacerbating his lingering headache from the blow to his head yesterday. They were also getting Finn worked up.

Spencer found a handheld air horn in a bin under the wheel and returned to the balcony. He was about to signal the others when three blips sounded from the radar screen. He slid his finger from the top of the canned horn and hurried back inside the pilothouse to check the display. The next sweep of the indicator around the screen illuminated three small dots several hundred yards off the boat’s starboard bow. Spencer looked out through the windows surrounding the bridge, but as he expected, he couldn’t see a thing.

He stood over the display for a few more sweeps of the radar band, confirming the targets on-screen were in fact headed toward the trawler. Were the owners of the boat returning? Spencer went back to the bin where he’d found the air horn and retrieved a pair of binoculars he’d noticed earlier. Making his way to the starboard balcony, he scanned the horizon in the direction of the three radar targets. A thinning spot of fog gave him a brief window, allowing him to make out a small boat and two jet skis.

He could see two people in the small boat and two heads per ski. With the cheap binoculars, it was hard to discern much between man and machine at this distance. The poor conditions and fading light didn’t help much, either. But Spencer was able to identify what looked like the missing AK-47s from the weapons rack.

The suspicion he’d been trying to dismiss even before boarding the trawler hit him like a slap to the face, and he knew it was time to admit the obvious. This was a modern-day pirate vessel, and its crew was returning from a hunt. The luggage and gear in the forward hold seemed out of place because it was. The stuff had been stolen from unsuspecting boaters. Thanks to the EMPs, there were more pressing concerns for the Navy and Coast Guard to focus on than a small-time gang of thieves. However, there were more items in the hold than the pirates could have gathered in the last day or so. They’d been at this long before the EMPs wreaked their havoc.

Spencer had to get off the boat. Or did he? There was no way to outrun the pirates in the Hunter, and even if he could manage to get Restless out of sight by the time these seagoing bandits made it back to their boat, the Hunter would be spotted on radar. They were lucky the pirates hadn’t seen them yet, but the pickings must have been good thanks to the recent wave of boaters fleeing land. For all he knew, they’d been spotted and were next on the pirates’ list to capture.

Spencer ran out onto the balcony facing the Hunter and waved his arms. “Hey, guys! Rob, Nat!” he shouted, hoping it was loud enough to get the couple’s attention but not alert the returning pirates. If he could get them aboard this boat, they could all make a stand from this steel-hulled rust bucket. The lightweight fiberglass hull of the Hunter was built for speed, not toughness, not the kind of toughness that would deflect incoming 7.62mm rounds from an AK-47 anyway.

Spencer saw that the Hunter was headed his way, with Rob at the helm. He and Nat must have seen him.

“Hurry up, faster.” He wasn’t sure if they could hear him or not, but he urged them on just the same.

Just as soon as Rob bore down on the throttle and made a full-power beeline for the trawler, Spencer realized what he was asking of a man who had never run a boat before.

“Oh boy! Come on, Finn.” Spencer flew down the stairs to the mess deck, using the metal handrail more than the steps, clearing the entire bottom section. He hit the floor with a boom that echoed through the ship’s structure. By the time he reached the rail, he barely had enough time to get the skiff out of Rob’s way.

“Turn it hard to port now!” Spencer shouted over the running engines.

He’d meant to shut the trawler down but had forgotten in the heat of the moment. It was encouraging, however, to see Nat busy at the starboard rail, tying off one of the big fenders. He secured the skiff toward the stern of the trawler and grabbed a nearby boat hook leaning against a crate to assist Rob with his crash course in docking a boat. So far, so good. Spencer could hardly believe it.

“Now throw it in reverse and spin the wheel the other way, but go easy on the throttle.” Spencer continued feeding Rob instructions, wishing he could jump the eight-foot gap that now separated the two boats and bring Restless alongside the trawler himself. Instead, he used the time to fill Rob and Nat in on the situation at hand, much to their initial disbelief.

They had to be running out of time, although the pirates hadn’t seemed to be in much of a hurry. Based on the radar pings Spencer had observed, the three incoming targets weren’t moving that fast, likely because of the remaining fog and the onset of dusk. As soon as the Hunter was tied off, he’d run up to the bridge and get a fix on them before shutting everything down. It was getting dark fast, and the running lights on the trawler would give them away if nothing else did. Of course, the pirates would notice the Hunter and the skiff tied up alongside the port side of their vessel, but they were approaching from the starboard side, so that would buy them a little more time if they didn’t see the Hunter’s mast. Spencer wished there was time to drop the sail, but there wasn’t if he expected to keep the upper hand, however slight it was.

Rob crudely maneuvered the Hunter into place, closing the last couple of feet between them a little too fast. One of Nat’s fenders got squeezed up over the rub rail, leaving the Hunter’s aft section of hull vulnerable. The crunch of fiberglass grinding along the rusty trawler was enough to make Spencer sick, and he winced as he thought about the damage being inflicted on his boat. The collision wasn’t serious, but the scars it would leave wouldn’t be pretty. Of course, neither were the ash-stained deck, the bullet hole through the cabin, or the countless other blemishes that had been added recently. It was painful watching the Hunter turn into an eyesore, but it didn’t rank very high on his list of current priorities. Unfortunately, the brown and black abrasion would only get worse because there was no time to reposition the fender.

Spencer tied off the last spring line in an effort to minimize the movement between the two hulls, leaving the rest to Rob and Nat. “Grab the weapons and the green ammo can marked .223, then meet me on the bridge.” Spencer started for the pilothouse but noticed the look of confusion on Nat’s face. “Up there,” he added, pointing.

He skipped every other step on his way up to the bridge, surprising the raven with his sudden appearance. The bird squawked and fluttered its wings, losing a feather in the process of relocating to its perch away from the console. Spencer was happy to see the raven move out of the way; he didn’t trust the bird, and its beak looked like a formidable weapon.

The three blips were a lot closer than before, and Spencer no longer needed binoculars to see the pirates approaching through the diminishing fog. But thanks to the setting sun, they were nothing more than silhouettes against the horizon. And according to the radar’s projected distance, they’d be here any minute now.

He shut the engine down, triggering another round of alarms and flashing lights. Then all was quiet in a matter of seconds. He caught a glimpse of himself in the blank radar screen and barely recognized the wild-eyed stranger staring back at him. He took a deep breath, made himself slow down for a second, and thought. Weapons.

They had the pistols, his AR-15, and the shotgun Rob had seemingly adopted, but nothing other than Spencer’s AR-15 would be very effective at distance against the pirates. And he had no intention of letting them get close enough to board.

“What about these?” Spencer turned to look at the two AK-47s, then at Finn as if he expected the dog to answer.

He made his way over to the weapons rack and plucked one of the AKs from its cradle. He inspected the weapon closely, opening the slide partway to confirm the gun was loaded and operational. To his astonishment, the internals looked well-oiled and inspection-ready clean. That was unexpected due to the exterior condition of the rifle. The gun could have been worse, though, considering the Russian-made relic was likely a few decades older than him. He flipped the gun over and ran the three-way fire-rate selector switch through its positions.

“Full auto, Finn. That’s not something you see every day.” Spencer’s head bobbed in approval.

The fully automatic function was neat and made for great action scenes in the movies, but anything beyond a two- to three-round burst wasn’t very practical in the real world. Spencer left the selector switch on the semiautomatic hashmark and moved on to the second rifle in the rack.

The other weapon was an AK platform as well, but it had been modified down into an ugly little monster. Its barrel had been snubbed, and an accessory rail mounted to the side of the wooden foregrip on the left side sported a canted holographic scope. There was a top accessory rail, too, but the optic was missing, made obvious by the worn spots where something had been mounted.

The missing top sights might explain why the gun had been racked in the first place. The drum magazine must have held fifty rounds of 7.62 mm, and its heft told Spencer it was full. The thing was a beast in weight alone, even though the original wooden stock had been traded out for a collapsible and composite replacement. In its current configuration, the shortened rifle was a spray-and-pray setup.

The whole thing looked like a science project but was probably fantastic at clearing a room or quarterdeck in a hurry. The only thing uniform about the ugly rifle was the level of abuse the frame and added components had suffered.

The iron-sighted AK he’d inspected first seemed like the more reliable option, which was why he was giving it to Rob. Nat could run his AR-15; the lighter, less boisterous firearm wouldn’t be as intimidating as the higher-caliber AK platforms and easier for her to control. He’d miss the reliability of his rifle, but if giving it to Nat meant she’d be more likely to get into the fight, it would be worth it. Lastly, he located several fully loaded spare magazines in the drawer directly under the weapons rack and added them to his loadout.

They had what they needed to make a stand against the pirates. And Spencer liked their odds even better with the new hardware, but the pirates were outfitted with matching equipment or better. He couldn’t imagine these ocean-going bandits leaving their best guns behind. And there were more of them. But Spencer and the others had the advantage of the trawler’s steel bulkheads and a higher-than-sea-level vantage point.

He swallowed hard as he waited impatiently for Rob and his family to join him and tried to prepare himself for what was sure to be the biggest fight of his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Spencer set the rifles on the rear bench seat in the pilothouse and made his way out onto the balcony overlooking the portside deck and the water below. Rob was in the middle of handing Maya to Nat over the gap between the boats. Then he grabbed the ammunition can loaded with .223 and came aboard the trawler himself.

Spencer considered the dangers involved in being topside. “Finn, I think I’d rather you and Maya stay below deck for this one. It’s going to get pretty crazy up here.”

Even with the steel bulkheads for protection, there was no guarantee that either would be safe from incoming bullets or ricocheted rounds. If the pirates managed to make it back aboard, he’d welcome the dog’s help, but for now, there was no point in risking Finn’s safety. And there was absolutely no reason for Maya to be present. Regardless of the inherent danger that went along with a firefight, this wouldn’t be the type of encounter the young girl should witness.

Spencer heard the family’s hollow footsteps on the thin metal stair treads leading up to the bridge and cut them off before they reached the top.

“Change of plans. I want Maya and Finn down below. There’s a few staterooms where they can ride this thing out safely. Come on, Finn. Let’s go.” Spencer made Finn head down to the mess deck.

The dog was reluctant to leave but started wagging his tail when he saw Maya waiting for him. Nat led them both below while Rob joined Spencer on the bridge. The raven squawked at Rob’s arrival, and Spencer was glad to see he wasn’t the only one weary of the intimidating bird.

“Friend of yours?” Rob eyed the raven warily.

“Not quite.” Spencer could tell Rob was nervous, but so was he. “Keep the shotgun handy, but I want you to use this for now.” He handed Rob the mostly stock rifle.

“Is this an AK-47?” Rob studied the weapon like a kid with a new bike on his birthday.

“It’s capable of full auto, but you’ll be more accurate if you leave it on semiauto and spend less ammo.”

Rob’s eyes grew larger at the realization that he was holding an actual machine gun. “I’ve never shot anything like this before.”

“It’s the same as any other rifle. Just take your time and make your shots count,” Spencer instructed.

Rob nodded but remained focused on the weapon in his hands.

Nat returned from below deck and made her way to the top of the stairs, ascending the last two slowly with a disgusted look on her face. “I put them in the first stateroom on the left—I mean port side—and told Maya to stay put until someone came and got her.”

“I know. It’s not very nice down there, but it’s safer.” Spencer apologized for the filthy conditions below deck as if he had something to do with the mess.

“It’s not that.” Nat tossed a book onto the console. “These are very bad people. Murderers, drug runners, thieves…” She shook her head. “And that’s not even the worst of it.” She looked a little green and covered her mouth, unable to say any more.

Neither Spencer nor Rob said anything at first. Spencer picked up the leather-bound logbook and thumbed through it quickly. It was in Spanish and sloppily written. The back was filled with lists of goods and gear he assumed the pirates had taken over the course of who knew how long.

“I can’t make much of it out. My Spanish isn’t that great.” Spencer tossed the book down in a cloud of dust.

“Well, mine is, and trust me, you don’t want to know what’s in there.” Nat’s expression had changed, her revulsion displaced by anger. Spencer knew these guys weren’t exactly Boy Scouts, but apparently, he’d underestimated their level of depravity. But maybe it was a good thing Nat had found the logbook. Maybe knowing the truth about these people would give her the will to fight. And Spencer wanted to capitalize on that energy.

“That’s why I want you to use this. It’ll be a lot more effective than the Glock.” He handed her the AR-15 and proceeded to give her a very basic rundown on the weapon’s functions and how to reload until they were interrupted by the raven.

“Capitán en cubierta… Capitán en cubierta.” The bird jumped perches to one of the open windowsills.

“Captain on deck.” Nat’s brow wrinkled as she translated the raven’s warning. “This must be Ciro.” She pointed out a rough sketch of a raven on the lower corner of the logbook with the name Ciro underneath it.

Just then, the buzz of jet skis and the lean whine of a two-stroke motor drifted in through the pilothouse windows. Spencer looked out over the water to see the pirates no more than a hundred yards from the trawler and closing slowly.

“They’re here. Stay low and don’t shoot until I do. We need to let them get close, but under no circumstances can they get aboard. We’ll divide their fire. You guys should take separate positions on the main deck behind cover. I’ll stay here and go at ’em from above.”

“What do I do?” Nat’s erratic eye contact and flush complexion were reason for concern. They couldn’t afford to have her shut down and hide below like she had at the bridge. Holding their ground against the pirates would take all of them working together. It was a lot to ask of anyone, but there was no alternative.

Spencer handed Nat the spare magazine for the AR. “You get behind something solid and shoot to kill.”

“I’ll be down there with you, babe. We’re gonna be all right. We can do this,” Rob encouraged her.

Spencer put his hand on her shoulder and waited for her to make eye contact with him. “We need you. Maya needs you. These guys mean business, and they won’t stop until we’re dead or until we wish we were. But that’s not going to happen if we all fight. Otherwise, we’ll end up like the people in there.”

He eyed the logbook and stepped back, hoping his and Rob’s words had gotten through to her. He wasn’t trying to scare Nat any more than she already was, but there was no time to be anything but real with her. This was a winner-take-all survival situation, and Spencer wanted to be clear there was no prize for second place.

“We better get moving.” Rob glanced out the window.

“Take this. Keep it somewhere you can get to it without exposing yourself.” Spencer pushed the dark green ammunition crate at Rob, along with a few extra magazines for the AK he was holding. “Remember, don’t shoot until I give the signal. I want them close enough to make our shots count. Good luck.”

He nodded at the couple and watched as they headed down the stairs.

Spencer tried his best to embody the spirit of confidence and fortitude in his impromptu pep talk, as if encountering honest-to-God pirates was just another hiccup along the way to Stuart. But as soon as Rob and Nat were out of sight, his inclination for self-doubt began to creep through the cracks in his resolve.

He shook his head as if physical action could rid him of his fears and somehow clear his mind. What if they couldn’t hold off the pirates? He grabbed the modified AK-47 and several magazines before crouching and making his way out to the starboard-side balcony. He and Rob would be killed, along with Finn. Maya and Nat wouldn’t be so lucky. This was different than the fight at Moser Channel. These pirates were professional killers who murdered for profit and maybe fun. And now it was up to a bartender, a nurse, and an electrician, alone, to save themselves from certain death out here in what was, for all intents and purposes, the middle of the ocean.

Spencer kept track of where Nat and Rob settled in below him. He was worried about the couple. They had no experience with this type of thing, other than what they’d already been through in the last couple of days. And Spencer was no combat veteran, but this wasn’t his first shipboard firefight or his first time dealing with pirates. If anything happened to the family of three, he’d blame himself. They were out here because of his promise to get them home. And what if something happened to both of them? How would he explain that to Maya? The answer was simple: he couldn’t let that happen.

He pictured Kate standing on her parents’ dock, smiling as he pulled up in the skiff. They could do this; they had the upper hand and plenty of ammunition. He’d spend every last round fighting the pirates if that was what it took to reach Stuart. Nothing else mattered at this moment.

He watched from behind cover as the small boat and two jet skis approached the trawler in a V formation, with the skis flanking the panga-style center console on either side. The cradles on the trawler’s quarterdeck made sense now. They used the hydraulic davit to deploy and retrieve the center console panga and skis, reaching out from Black Bird to inflict their sinister brand of terror on innocent travelers. But all that was going to change today.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The pirates slowed their approach even further, causing Spencer to wonder if they’d already spotted the Hunter’s rigged sail on the opposite side of the trawler. He was hoping what remained of the fog would be enough to camouflage their presence on the foreign vessel until the pirates drew close enough to shoot. Had he made a mistake not taking the time to drop the sail? It wasn’t like he could do anything about the mast anyway. At this point, he was of the mindset that it was what it was. Nothing they could have done would have spared them an encounter with the pirates.

Spencer edged along the starboard balcony rail until he had a clear view of the bow and forward deck. Rob had taken a position behind the anchor windlass, giving him an elevated and commanding view of the water around the raised bow section and forward quarter of the boat. Nat wasn’t far enough away from her husband for Spencer’s liking. But at least she was present and looked ready for action, tucked away neatly behind a solid section of rail midship.

The pilothouse balcony extended behind the bridge far enough for Spencer to cover the stern. From his vantage point, he could see all the way around the trawler. And thanks to the angle of the setting sun, he hoped the pirates would remain oblivious to what was waiting for them until it was too late.

The center console panga and its two armed occupants held back, letting the skis plow ahead through the silky-smooth water. The jet skis were older models that sounded mean, cackling with eagerness at every twist of the throttle. Spencer assumed both had been modified beyond just the blue and gray camouflage rattle-can paint job that adorned their shrouds. And he was worried they were as fast and nimble as they looked.

Each rider carried one of the AK-47s from the rack. The drivers had rifles at their disposal as well but kept them stowed for quick retrieval in makeshift scabbards attached to the skis’ fairing. Spencer wasn’t worried so much about the drivers; the men riding passenger presented the most danger, although he imagined it would be just as hard to shoot proficiently from a moving ski as it would be to hit someone riding on one. Of course, these guys looked like they had lots of practice doing just that.

Spencer jumped, ducking his head instinctually as Ciro exploded in a flurry of feathers and flew out from the pilothouse window, letting loose a series of raucous caws. With a few pumps of its wings, the bird was out over the water, gliding silently for a moment before taking a nosedive down to the panga, where it took roost on the console by the pilot.

Spencer pegged the man running the panga as the captain of the trawler and the leader of this filthy bunch. His curled-at-the-edge straw hat and sun buff left only a thin sliver of his face exposed, and that was covered mostly by sunglasses. He wore a bandolier-style utility belt that sagged under the weight of a large knife and holstered pistol he carried opposite each other. Spencer kept his eye on him as he lit the stub of a cigar dangling from the corner of his lips and gave the raven a few short strokes to the neck.

“El capitán,” Spencer mumbled under his breath.

The panga idled farther out past the skis, but Spencer decided to make the captain his first target. And now he questioned his decision to let Nat have his AR-15 with the better optic. If he could eliminate the man in charge, it might shake the others’ confidence or at the least hamper their ability to organize and develop a cohesive strategy to get their ship back. He hit the switch on the banged-up holographic sight and was as pleased as he was surprised to see a floating green crosshair.

Spencer wished he had a way to communicate with Rob and Nat. He wanted them to concentrate on the skis when he made his move on the panga. He duckwalked back to the starboard edge of the balcony and found Nat below.

“Hey… Nat, can you hear me? Nat.” Spencer raised his voice slightly while keeping track of the skis.

She glanced up. “Yeah?”

“Go for the skis first.” He watched the two jet skis break left toward the bow. Then one of the men driving shouted something Spencer couldn’t translate.

Nat glanced back up at Spencer with a look that told him she could understand what the pirates were saying, and it wasn’t good. “They saw the boat. They know we’re here.”

No sooner had Nat spoken her warning than the air filled with the scream of the jet skis’ modified exhaust. Both nearly launched out of the water, heading around the bow to the port side of the trawler, where the skiff and Hunter were tied up.

They’d been made. It was now or never.

Spencer threw the snub-nosed AK-47 up on the rail and rolled it on its side slightly to utilize the canted sight. Pushing the fire rate selector switch up to the middle position, he abandoned his earlier notion of restricting the fire rate to semiautomatic in favor of volume. At this distance and with this sight, he had no way of knowing whether or not the gun was zeroed in. Then a terrifying thought crossed his mind. What if the gun didn’t work at all? He always had the .9mm to fall back on, although at this range, he’d have to concentrate on the closer skis.

He got behind his weapon, letting the luminous green crosshair settle on the captain’s chest as he drew in a deep, steady breath. As soon as the pirates on the skis crested the bow to the port side, he’d be ready to open up on the center console.

Spencer could see a little of Rob’s Fat Snook T-shirt through a hole in the rail and noticed he’d moved to the port side to intercept the skis. With any luck, Nat would do the same and they could hit the pirates hard and fast, ending this quickly.

“Now, shoot!” Spencer shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the steady chug of the machine gun as he squeezed off a four-round volley of shots at the panga. He heard Rob shooting below, followed by the AR-15. The almost immediate ping of metal and the whiz of ricocheting rounds filled the air as the pirates started returning fire.

“I got one of them,” Rob announced between shots.

Spencer cheered the couple on. “Don’t let up.”

His first attempt at the center console had failed miserably, with only two of the four shots making contact. It seemed the holographic sight was indeed off—high and to the left, from what he saw. The stray rounds splashed into the water to the left of the panga. The other two took chunks out of the small boat’s starboard rail.

Spencer released another barrage of bullets at the panga. This time, he started lower and walked the fully automatic weapon’s barrel across the boat like it was the .50-cal mounted to the deck of the Diligence. Several of the rounds chewed into the fiberglass and the captain’s gunman, who had his rifle trained on Spencer.

Spencer ducked below the solid rail, bracing for the worst as the incoming bullets pelted the rusty steel on the other side of his cover. Flakes of paint and metal fell to the deck around him in a cloud of orange dust, leaving dimpled sheet metal behind. He crawled to a different spot farther aft before he dared peek over and attempt to return fire. The panga was moving fast now. The raven was airborne, and the captain was brandishing the pistol from his bandolier while trying to control the boat with one hand. The man who’d peppered the rail with bullets was no longer standing but slumped over the leaning post, bloodied and dead. Spencer led the panga by several feet, but before he could take his shot, one of the jet skis came flying around the stern below him.

He spun to face the new and closer threat but struggled to get a bead on the ski due to the awkward angle. It was too close to the trawler’s hull, the driver no doubt looking for an opportunity to get back on board.

“Look out! We’ve got two trying to board us on the starboard side,” Spencer shouted, but judging by the steady stream of gunfire coming from the other side of the boat, Rob and Nat already had their hands full.

Spencer prepared to head down to the main deck and deal with these two on his own but was forced to hit the deck as a stream of bullets riddled the pilothouse, cracking several windows in the process. He was starting to feel like a fish in a barrel up here, and it was time to move before the next hail of incoming 7.62mm did him in.

Crawling on his hands and knees while dragging the AK-47 along with him, Spencer made his way back inside the pilothouse and down the stairwell to the mess deck. A few of the windows down here had bullet holes in them as well, and he was glad Finn and Maya were below deck. He was eager to check on Rob and Nat, but the ski on the starboard side had to be dealt with before this gunfight devolved into hand-to-hand combat. Spencer was worried about the Hunter as well. With all the shooting on the port side, he was afraid his boat was taking damage, not to mention the skiff. But there was no time to do anything about that now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Spencer made his way out onto the starboard-side deck but couldn’t find the jet ski he’d seen from above. It must have gone around the other side or been so close to the trawler’s hull he couldn’t see it anymore. He headed forward toward the deck access, where there was a cutout in the rail—a likely place for the pirates to try and board. But before he could get there, a set of hands grabbed either side of the opening.

The Benelli shotgun Rob had brought aboard lay across a tangled mess of line on the deck, and he grabbed it. The familiar weapon felt good in his hands and gave him a renewed sense of confidence in his abilities.

Spencer spun around and let the 12-gauge sing.

Boom.

The double-aught buckshot ripped into the man’s chest violently as he attempted to pull himself onto the deck. His body jolted backward and disappeared over the side. Spencer anticipated a splash but didn’t hear one. He moved to the opening cautiously while pumping another shell into the chamber of the Benelli. Peeking over the rail to the side of the access point, he saw that the man had landed on his friend below.

While the driver of the jet ski struggled to rid himself of the body and pull his rifle free from the scabbard, Spencer took advantage of the situation and unloaded the freshly chambered shell. At just a couple of yards away, the driver was killed instantly, and if his friend had still been alive, he wasn’t anymore. The double-aught buckshot tore through the men and the thin fiberglass jet ski as if it were made of paper.

Spencer attempted to pump another round into place but came up empty this time. Rob must not have reloaded after the bridge encounter. He tossed the weapon back onto the pile of rope, regrettably exchanging it for the snub-nosed AK-47 once more.

Frantically searching for the panga, Spencer tried to locate the captain. How could he lose a twenty-foot center console out here in the open? But the boat was nowhere to be seen, so Spencer ran to the port side, joining Rob and Nat, who were no longer shooting. The couple stood quietly, staring down at the remnants of a partially submerged jet ski and two bodies floating face-down in the water. The cloud of bloody water dissipated as it mixed with the ocean and spread outward.

“Is that all of them?” Rob asked blankly.

“No, the boat. There’s still one of them left,” Spencer answered.

Just then, the panga came flying around the bow of the trawler as if it had materialized out of thin air. The remaining pirate, the one Spencer assumed was in charge, had holstered his pistol in favor of his dead passenger’s AK-47.

“Get down!” Spencer grabbed Rob and Nat, yanking them to the deck as a torrent of bullets ricocheted off the side of the trawler in a deluge of pings and clanks. Spencer waited until he heard the two-stroke roar past their position before popping up. He was fairly confident the captain had spent his entire thirty-round magazine on that pass. The man would have to reload before he made another pass on the trawler, but Spencer had no intention of letting that happen.

He’d had enough of these pirates, and this was his opportunity to end the encounter.

“Reload the shotgun and get ready for another pass.” He wanted Rob to be ready with the Benelli if his plan failed and the panga managed another close drive-by. The spreading double-aught buckshot would be more likely to hit a moving target.

Sprinting for the trawler’s fantail, Spencer chased the fleeing panga until he ran out of deck. Then he braced his weapon on the stern rail. He pinned the trigger to the back of the guard and held on, doing his best to counter the unrefined mechanical kick of the machine gun. The consistent, deliberate rattle and pop of the machine gun burning through the remainder of its fifty-round drum filled his ears as he hung on to the jackhammer of a weapon and listened to the loose tolerance of metal parts rattle away until it all abruptly stopped.

The ringing in his ears and the vibrations in his arms, however, continued long after the last round was spent. Half dazed, he peered through the smoke drifting from the barrel. The captain was leaning over the panga’s gunnel, his head dipping in and out of the water with the pitch of the boat. The center console’s engine hadn’t fared much better; it sputtered and choked, clinging to life, barely able to propel the boat forward. The panga’s engine shroud displayed a handful of holes from Spencer’s effort, as did the stern of the boat. The craft wouldn’t be afloat too much longer.

He pulled his weapon off the rail, careful not to touch the piping-hot barrel. They’d done it. At first, he couldn’t believe that it was over, but reality began to sink in with each new breath. Celebrating their victory was the last thing on his mind, though; it didn’t feel appropriate. Spencer was just happy they’d made it through unscathed. He turned to look at Rob and Nat, who appeared to be just as stunned as him.

Nat’s posture straightened, and she handed the AR-15 to Rob. “Maya!”

She bolted for the interior, leaving Rob and Spencer to take in the carnage they’d caused.

“I’m sure Maya and Finn are fine. She doesn’t look like much, but she’s built well.” Spencer bounced his knuckles along the metal rail of the trawler.

“I’ll be right back. You good up here for a minute?” Rob asked, but he was already well on his way through the mess deck door.

Spencer turned his attention to the Hunter as his pulse slowed. The aft spring line holding the sailboat in place had been severed, allowing the wake from the circling jet skis and center console to jostle the boats around. The skiff had slipped between the Hunter and the trawler, which was great for the skiff’s sake but bad news for the sailboat.

Spencer pushed the skiff back, pulled the Hunter in, and jumped the gap between the trawler and his boat. When he landed on the deck, he felt the difference in the give of the hull—or the lack thereof—and his heart sank. Making his way over to the opposite rail, he inspected the outside of the hull. He counted at least a dozen bullet holes in a zigzag pattern along the fiberglass, several of them below the waterline, which was significantly higher than it should have been.

“No… no… no… no!” Spencer’s frustration and desperation built with every word until he shouted one last, “No!”

He took a few deep breaths and got his rage under control. “Think, think.”

He flew over the cabin to the companionway, skipping the steps altogether, landing with both feet in the galley. The compartmentalized floor sections were beginning to float freely and bump around within their frames. The bilge pump wasn’t working. At least he didn’t hear it. But even if it was, he wasn’t sure it mattered.

Spencer clawed his way back out to the helm station in a panic and tried to start the engine, but he got nothing.

“Oh, come on. Not now. Please,” Spencer pleaded, but he eventually stopped trying to coax the Yanmar to life. He sat back on the cushion, panting and defeated as he let the gravity of the situation wash over him. Restless was sinking, and there was nothing he could do about it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Spencer sat still, staring down into the saloon of the Hunter as water continued to infiltrate the compromised hull and jostle the floor panels about to the rhythm of the rocking boat. He was still in shock, but reality was slowly sinking in. Restless was going down. He gave the boat an hour tops before she succumbed to the damage and was lost under the waves forever. That was a hard thing to admit and even harder to stomach.

Finn appeared at the cutout in the trawler’s rail, tail wagging and tongue bouncing as he panted heavily.

Spencer shook his head at him. “It’s over, buddy. She’s finished.”

Finn’s tail fell limp between his hind legs, and he closed his mouth long enough to shoot Spencer a look of bewilderment. Rob joined Finn at the rail and stood quietly, eyeing the Hunter from bow to stern.

“Oh man. That’s not good.” Rob stated the obvious.

Spencer fought the urge to snap at the man over his casual tone of voice but kept his composure thanks to the numbness settling over him.

“How’s Maya?” He knew the answer but didn’t want Rob to say anything else about the state of his home right now.

“She’s good. Her and Nat are inside. I think she’s going to stay put until things clear out a little. No need for her to see all this.” Rob stared at the floating bodies nearby.

“No, I suppose not.” Spencer forced himself to his feet and tried to shake off the massive amount of self-pity that was clouding his thoughts. Nothing was going to change unless he got off his butt and took action, and there was really only one thing left to do: commandeer the Pájaro Negro. The trawler had working instruments and plenty of fuel—if the gauges were accurate. Most importantly, she wasn’t sinking.

Spencer sighed loudly and looked at Rob. “We need to get everything we can carry off the Hunter and move it aboard the trawler—and fast. She’s going down, and we don’t have much time.”

To add to their dilemma, they were losing daylight fast. Then Spencer had an idea that could buy them some time if the single-point hydraulic davit was up to the task. He explained his plan to Rob, and the two of them swung into action at a fevered pitch. There was no time to lose.

Spencer started the trawler’s engine, energizing the secondary systems, including the hydraulics. While Rob familiarized himself with the operation of the mini crane on the forward deck, Spencer prepped the Hunter.

Sloshing around in calf-deep water, Spencer used a sledgehammer he found on the trawler’s deck to bust out the Hunter’s port and starboard cabin windows. Rob fed him the slack cable from the single-point davit until Spencer had it run in through the busted-out windows and back out over the cabin, where he hooked the cable to itself.

Spencer moved the skiff out of the way for the time being, then jumped back aboard the trawler. He wanted to be clear of the steel cable just in case it didn’t hold up under the massive weight of the sinking sailboat.

“All right, let’s see what happens.” Spencer signaled Rob, who was standing ready at the davit controls, to start taking in slack. The cable tightened to the high-pitched whine of the hydraulics, biting into the fiberglass deeply. At first, Spencer didn’t think it was going to work. He expected the cable to slice through the cabin completely, but it didn’t, and slowly but surely, Restless began to lift from the water. The trawler listed heavily toward the port side, but the big steel boat was heavy enough to take the weight.

“All right, stop.” Spencer didn’t want to push their luck with the straining hydraulic unit. The Hunter was too heavy to lift all the way out of the water, but that was never the plan. He just wanted to prevent the boat from sinking until they were done. Rob shut the davit down, and together, they used some of the thicker mooring lines on board the trawler to support the Hunter and take some of the tension off the davit cable.

Spencer didn’t want to risk damaging the little single-point boat davit because they were going to need it later to bring the skiff aboard and set it into the cradle formerly occupied by the panga. He stepped back onto the Hunter, which was now tight up against the trawler’s hull since he’d removed the fenders. He stood still for a minute as the fiberglass crackled and threatened to give way.

“I think it’ll hold. It’s just settling in. The ropes are carrying most of the weight,” Rob stated.

Spencer bounced up and down a few times on the balls of his feet, testing the rigging further. “Yeah, I think we’re good.”

With the Hunter temporarily trussed up alongside the trawler, it was time to get to work stripping their former home of everything they could grab. Spencer didn’t really want to turn on the trawler’s deck lights, but there was too much to get done in total darkness. And he wasn’t sure how long the fiberglass structure of the Hunter’s cabin could tolerate the stress.

Rob, Nat, and Spencer worked through the night and well into the early-morning hours, stripping the Hunter of anything of value and transferring it to the trawler. Spencer cleaned out his and Kate’s stateroom, throwing everything into a couple of large duffle bags. He’d organize their things later. Right now, he just wanted to get this over with. Rob and Nat did their best to hide their excitement about the move to the trawler, but there was no denying that they’d have a lot more room on the bigger boat.

They were extremely fortunate to have the trawler at their disposal, even though he didn’t feel very lucky as he cleared out the boat that he, Kate, and Finn called home. Things certainly could have turned out much worse; they could have been stranded at sea on the skiff—or worse.

Spencer retrieved a hand pump from the trawler’s engine room and transferred the remaining diesel from the Hunter to the port tank of their new boat. He debated on whether or not to waste time salvaging the few gallons left on board the Hunter, but the uncertainty of available resources made taking whatever they could critical to their success. At least that was how Spencer saw it. He had no idea how fast the trawler would burn fuel, but why take chances?

He tried to dwell on the positives, like how they could probably cruise at around eight to ten knots, far faster than they could move in the Hunter. And they could maintain that pace with or without wind, which meant they could get to Stuart a whole lot faster, barring any mechanical issues. However, none of these things could rid him of the sick feeling in his stomach.

He mustered the strength to climb aboard the Hunter one final time and untie the trawler’s heavy lines, which they’d used to hold the sailboat above water. Rob manned the davit and lowered the Hunter under Spencer’s direction until the cable was slack enough to unhook. Spencer fed the wire lead through the windows and tossed it back at the trawler so Rob could take it in. He lingered in the Hunter’s cabin for longer than he should have and took one more look around as the ocean claimed the vessel. He waded through the saloon and climbed out into the cockpit, jumping the growing gap between the two boats as Restless drifted away from the trawler in silence. Rob, Nat, and Maya stood nearby to pay their respects to the boat that had gotten them out of Marathon safely.

The Hunter only lasted twenty minutes without the trawler holding her up, and it was just as well. Spencer stared in disbelief as Restless slipped below the surface. All the blood, sweat, and tears that went into making the boat his and Kate’s home meant nothing now. The white of the hull faded to blue, disappearing forever into the depths of the Atlantic.

Spencer choked back the thickening lump in his throat and squatted to wrap his arm around Finn, who mourned the loss with a quiet but nervous whimper. The poor dog had no idea why they’d just allowed their home for the past year or so to sink to the bottom of the ocean. On some level, Spencer felt like he’d failed Kate and Finn, and he couldn’t help but think a part of himself had gone down with the Hunter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Spencer turned away from the heart-wrenching scene. There was nothing left to see anyway. Restless was gone now, and there was a lot to do before they could get underway in the trawler. Wallowing in self-pity, would-haves, should-haves, and could-haves wasn’t getting him any closer to Kate.

He faced the disappearing sun and did his best to focus on what lay ahead: a faster trip to Stuart and new equipment to figure out. It was no small miracle that the trawler’s instruments worked at all. When the attack happened, the pirates must have been outside the zone affected by the EMPs. Then they came looking for easy targets, like vultures to a carcass.

The pirates had gotten what they deserved, and now it was time for Spencer, Rob, and Nat to put the spoils of battle to good use. But first, they needed to get the skiff on board, assuming they hadn’t busted the davit while they used it to keep the Hunter above water a little longer.

It would take Spencer a while to heal from this loss, but even if he could have somehow patched the dozens of bullet holes in the hull, Restless was a lost cause. While stripping the Hunter of gear, he identified the reason he couldn’t get the engine to turn over. A fuel filter hit by a stray bullet and a shredded fuse panel had done the boat in, none of which he had the means to repair out here. The pirates’ bullets had solidified the Hunter’s fate in more ways than one.

Spencer enlisted Rob’s help with line handling while Natalie and Maya worked on creating some sense of organization on board their new home. Getting the transferred supplies stowed properly and the cabins cleaned up so that they were less disgusting and more livable would take some time, but it was a good excuse to keep Maya inside.

Any usable daylight had long since faded, but a few quick pans of Spencer’s dive light confirmed the splashing he heard nearby was exactly what he thought it was. Sharks. A handful of oceanic whitetips were greedily helping themselves to a free meal. The opportunistic pelagic predators had followed the scent of blood into the floating bodies like a pack of wolves, their curiosity quickly evolving into an all-out feeding frenzy.

Fortunately, the cradle the pirates used to hold the panga was a close fit for the Hewes and required very little modification to hold the skiff securely. As he strapped the skiff down, he felt his attitude shift about how things had turned out. All things considered, he had no right to feel defeated or discouraged. They’d gotten lucky with the trawler, and while discovering the Black Bird had introduced them to a brand of danger he’d hoped to avoid, the whole thing might have been a blessing in disguise.

Ever since they’d strayed off course, the lack of fuel had been at the forefront of his mind—or, more precisely, navigating Saint Lucie Inlet without power. Thanks to the trawler, that was no longer a concern. That wasn’t to say the new boat didn’t present its own challenges in navigation, but barring a breakdown, he was pretty sure they would see Stuart by tomorrow night. And that was enough to quell some of his anxiety about the transition to the new boat.

Spencer hadn’t had time yet, but he was eager to find the trawler’s certificate of registry. The document, if it was still on board, would tell Spencer the particulars of the vessel. He doubted the ragtag crew of bandits would have much of the vessel’s original documentation on board, but that wouldn’t stop him from looking. He wanted to know how much fuel she held, what her draft was, and anything else that would help him determine whether or not it would be a good idea to try and run the Black Bird up the river when they reached Stuart. Otherwise, he’d drop the skiff overboard and make the run to Kate’s parents in the smaller boat. The fact that he had a choice was a luxury not lost on him, and he appreciated that.

Of course, the skiff was always an option, albeit not a very practical one. Kate and her parents would fit, but not with any weapons or supplies. He wasn’t sure Tom would want to leave their home behind, but he definitely wouldn’t be going anywhere without his guns or supplies. And Spencer wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d have to study his charts, but he knew from picking up the Hunter that Saint Lucie Inlet was plenty deep to at least bring the trawler into the mouth of the river. There were lots of shoals and sandbars to watch out for at low tide, but having the Black Bird as close as he could to Tom and Debbie’s would mean quicker runs in the Hewes if the situation required it.

With the skiff on board and secured, Spencer thanked Rob and headed for the pilothouse. He was indebted to the man for fighting alongside him. Both Rob and Nat had stepped up today, and he couldn’t have asked for a better crew. But that didn’t mean he felt much like talking at the moment. He was tired and sore, but nothing mattered more than getting underway. Maybe later, when they were well on their way, he’d let one of the others take the trawler’s helm. For right now, though, he’d man the helm until he was certain everything was running properly.

Spencer grabbed an energy drink from one of the crudely filled crates they’d used to empty the Hunter. The hot, overly sweet beverage stung his dry throat, but he wasn’t drinking it because he was thirsty; there was plenty of water for that. He just wanted to make sure he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. The trawler was equipped with autopilot, which made covering miles a no-brainer but also boring.

“All finished out there?” Nat startled him as she climbed the ladder into the crew’s mess from below deck.

“Oh, hey. Yeah, we’re ready to head for Stuart. Here, we can make this a lot easier.” Spencer undogged the main hatch and made sure to lock it in the open position this time, exposing the stairwell. He felt bad that Maya and her mom had been moving gear through the smaller scuttle opening.

“Thanks, that sure beats crawling through the little hole, although I think Maya enjoys it.” Nat smiled.

“How’s she doing?” Spencer resumed choking down the warm energy drink.

“She’ll be okay.” Nat’s smile quickly faded. “Her and Finn are passed out on one of the beds.”

“She’s a good kid,” Spencer remarked. And he wasn’t just being kind; Maya really was a spot of sunshine on a cloudy day. Her innocence and ability to look beyond their current state of affairs were contagious.

“Thanks.” Nat was busy eyeing the galley. It was spacious in comparison to what the Hunter offered. “We sure do have a lot more room now. Below deck, too.” She turned to look at Spencer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Spencer forced a smile. “It’s okay. The Hunter was crowded. It’s the truth.”

“But that was your home. I know this must be hard for you.”

“Yeah, well, everything worked out in the end.” He started for the bridge, anxious to be alone with his thoughts.

“Thank you again,” she said.

“We’re all in this together.” Spencer nodded with a smile and headed up the narrow metal stairway.

He meant it, too. They were in this together. It was a strange feeling, putting his life in the hands of someone who’d been a total stranger just a couple of days ago. But having gone through so much together in such a short amount of time had created an undeniable bond between them. He’d questioned the decision to bring them along more than once that first day, but now he couldn’t imagine making the trip without them.

Spencer dragged himself, battered but not beaten, up the last few steps and flung his backpack on the bench seat behind the wheel, settling in behind the instruments. He took a few seconds to study the smattering of bullet holes all around him in the pilothouse’s windows. He was fortunate to be alive. They all were.

He put the cursor over Saint Lucie Inlet and locked in the coordinates before easing the throttle forward and manually steering into the heading. The big boat groaned a little, then settled into a predictable hum. The sound of water breaking along the hull was music to Spencer’s ears.

Since the first detonation lit up the sky, he’d been battling a terrifying seed of doubt: that he’d never see Kate again. But thanks to a little help from his new friends and a lot of luck, he could keep those insecurities at bay for a little bit longer.

There was still a lot of water between them and Stuart, but they were finally moving in the right direction and no longer at the mercy of the wind or the small eighteen-horsepower Yanmar. The conditions hadn’t changed much since they became disoriented in the fog and found the trawler. And Spencer shuddered to think of the pace they’d be setting in the Hunter. He had to start thinking of reasons they were better off without the sailboat. Otherwise, the guilt would eat him alive.

“What the…” Spencer reeled backward a couple of steps as Ciro reappeared outside the bridge. The bird tucked its wings and slipped inside through an open window, cutting directly across the helm station.

He’d forgotten all about the bird. “Switching teams, are we? Didn’t expect to see you again, although I guess you didn’t have much choice.” Spencer huffed and regained his composure, thankful no one else had seen his reaction to Ciro’s sudden entrance.

The bird tilted its head and hopped along the console until it was close enough to make one final leap to its perch in the corner of the bridge. “Aquí vamos.”

Spencer looked out over the bow and pushed the throttle forward a little more. “That’s right, Ciro. Here we go.”

* * *

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bruno Miller is the author of the Dark Road series. He’s a military vet who likes to spend his downtime hanging out with his wife and kids, or getting in some range time. He believes in being prepared for any situation.

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The Dark Waters Series:

Zero Hour

Dead Calm

The Dark Road series:

Breakdown

Escape

Resistance

Fallout

Extraction

Reckoning

Deception

Restitution

Desperation

Forsaken

Redemption

Dissension

Resignation

Sanctuary

Cloverdale series:

Impact

Survival

Endurance

Confrontation