DEAD RECKONING

DARK WATERS - BOOK 3

BRUNO MILLER

ABOUT THE BOOK

Navigating through one storm builds courage for the next.

Spencer and his faithful labrador retriever, Finn, continue their quest to reach his girlfriend, Kate, in Stuart, Florida, before she becomes another casualty of the chaos caused by the EMPs that have crippled the eastern seaboard and possibly the country.

Leaving Marathon, Florida, in lawless turmoil behind them, Spencer, and his newly minted crew, consisting of Rob, Natalie, and their daughter Maya, soon realize the open ocean is no safe haven. With the potential for danger lurking behind every wave and conditions rivaling those found on shore, Spencer and the others are forced to fight for their survival on the high seas.

As time runs out for Kate in Stuart, Spencer must overcome the odds that threaten to break his resolve and test his skills as a Coast Guard veteran in a race against the clock where he finds himself the de facto captain of the recently commandeered Black Bird. Success requires more than just a steady hand—it demands a crew bound by trust and a willingness to do whatever it takes to make it through.

Brutal storms, murderous pirates and desperate travelers fleeing the EMP ravaged coast, who seem more than willing to abandon all vestiges of civility, are only the beginnings of the challenges they will face together as a team. Can Spencer find a way to navigate the dangers ahead, bring his crew together, and reach Kate before it’s too late?

Dead Reckoning: Book 3

Copyright © 2024 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.

Artwork by Benjamin Brunori.

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NEWSLETTER

CHAPTER ONE

Spencer held the wheel on course until he was certain the autopilot had engaged while keeping a wary eye on Ciro. The robust, jet-black raven and apparent mascot of the trawler and—its former occupants—was here to stay; that much was obvious. But it would take some effort and a little time before either Spencer or Finn would trust the boisterous animal. Making peace with the raven hardly made Spencer’s list of priorities right now, though. He was still reeling from the loss of his and Kate’s home.

Restless had proven to be more than just a boat; in a short time, it had become the source of cherished memories and unforgettable adventures. Every moment spent alongside Kate and Finn aboard the thirty-one-foot Hunter sailboat seemed to stretch beyond the confines of time, etching itself deeply into their shared history.

Spencer and Rob had meticulously removed all the valuables from Restless that hadn’t been shot to pieces before she succumbed to her wounds and sank into the depths of the deep blue sea—an image Spencer was certain would linger in his dreams until he was old and gray. But old age was something he might never see if he, Rob, Natalie, and their daughter, Maya, ran into any more pirates like the prior occupants of their new ride.

The Black Bird’s former crew of oceangoing bandits wasn’t the only game in town, and in light of the devastation caused by the EMPs, there were bound to be more thieves waiting to pounce on unsuspecting boaters fleeing the mainland. Like sharks to a wounded fish, the nefarious and ill-intentioned would swarm toward the east coast of the wounded continent, looking for easy prey. The reality of the situation was that they were on their own. That wasn’t a new revelation by any stretch of the imagination. Spencer had known that survival was up to him from the moment the bombs went off, if not before. A shiver ran up his spine at the thought of it all, and he did his best to channel his energy toward things he could control.

Ciro hustled across the control panel and made his way to a nearby wall cabinet, where he pulled the door open a few inches with his long, sleek bill. Finn followed along underneath the bird nervously, whining at the raven’s every movement, as he had since joining Spencer on the bridge after his nap with Maya.

“Easy, boy. It’s all right.” Spencer did his best to calm the dog but shared Finn’s uneasiness.

Ciro’s sharp beak appeared more than capable of causing harm, and the bird’s dark, beady eyes seemed devoid of any emotion, as if they were perfectly suited for mischief. Spencer summoned the courage to approach and assisted the bird by opening the cabinet door fully. He’d planned on going through the bridge with a fine-tooth comb to see what was on hand up here. But at the very least, he wanted to locate the ship’s certificate of registry, assuming the previous captain even had the document. Judging by the state of disrepair and general neglect on the vessel, Spencer doubted there was any official paperwork left on board. But he held out hope that his search would prove otherwise.

Ciro had other immediate intentions for Spencer, though, and was only interested in gaining access to the large bag of dried corn and seeds tucked away in the back corner. Spencer opened the bag and scooped out a handful of the feed, piling it into a cup attached to Ciro’s roost. The chewed-up bits of corn and seed shells lining the tray underneath the sandpaper-wrapped perch indicated this was where dinner was served. And if a meal would calm the bird down, it was worth a few seconds of his time.

Ciro settled in on his perch after another animated dash back across the helm station, with Finn hot on his heels. With a short flap of his wings, Ciro made the transition from the helm rail to his perch, narrowly avoiding losing a tail feather or two as Finn attempted to nip at him from below. Ciro all but ignored the half-hearted attack and settled out of reach on his roost, cracking seeds and hulling corn kernels while Spencer turned to more important business.

“Here, Finn, come on. This is your new spot, buddy.” Spencer slapped the tall, cushioned couch behind the helm, encouraging Finn to jump up and get comfortable. They would be up on the bridge all night and well into the day. He’d brought a couple of energy drinks up with him to make sure of it. Spencer wasn’t about to trust the autopilot or any of the other systems on a boat he knew practically nothing about. And he didn’t want to bother Rob and Nat, figuring it was best to let the couple and their daughter get some rest. There’d be plenty for them to do come daylight.

Finn hesitated but eventually made the leap up onto the seat near Ciro’s perch. The dog’s eyes darted back and forth between Spencer and the bird.

“It’s okay, boy.” Spencer tossed the butterscotch-colored dog a well-earned treat from his backpack and hoped he was right.

If they were going to be stuck on this boat together, the sooner they all learned to coexist, the better off they’d be. To hope the two would actually get along was probably asking for too much, but he’d settle for the former if he could get it. Otherwise, the bridge—and the boat, for that matter—was going to get crowded awfully fast.

Finding the certificate of registry was a top priority for Spencer. Finn and Ciro being occupied enough to ignore each other for the time being gave him the chance to snoop around the pilothouse unencumbered.

The registry would list vital specifications about the boat. He was eager to learn the vessel’s specifics, not only to satisfy his own curiosity but to understand the old trawler’s limits and avoid taking any damage or running out of necessities in his efforts to reach Kate. He’d already gone through one boat and didn’t plan on making a habit out of sinking ships, at least not the ones he needed.

The more pertinent information listed on the registry documents would include—but not be limited to—the Black Bird’s draft, true length, breadth, and gross tonnage, all of which were important metrics for navigation, especially through tricky inlets like the St. Lucie Inlet and the Hatteras Inlet in North Carolina. Spencer had some guesses as to how much the steel-hulled trawler should draw, along with some of the other specifications, but without the paperwork, they were just that: guesses.

The way the Black Bird handled reminded him of the 110-foot Island-class cutter he’d been temporarily assigned to out of basic, only slower and less nimble. But with only a single screw propelling the trawler through the water, that much was expected. Now that he was on board and had seen what there was to see of the vessel, he revised his initial estimate of its overall length to somewhere between seventy and eighty feet. The Black Bird wasn’t as large as he initially thought when her ominous form materialized out of the fog, but compared to the Hunter, these new digs were spacious.

Other much-needed information, like how much diesel and potable water the Black Bird held, was equally important. So were any diagrams of shipboard systems. It wouldn’t do Kate or her parents any good if Spencer arrived in Stuart dead in the water. The idea was to swoop into Stuart, grab Kate and her parents, and make a hasty exit. None of that would be possible or worthwhile if they didn’t have the resources to support more people.

Then Spencer had a thought. What if Tom refused to let Kate leave, or what if Tom and Debbie refused to join them? Would Kate be willing to abandon her family? These were possibilities Spencer hadn’t considered. He didn’t know how her parents would react to his rescue efforts, but pulling into Stuart on a boat that looked like it was on its last leg wouldn’t help his cause, nor would it convince Kate’s parents that leaving Stuart on the Black Bird was a sound idea. But he was getting ahead of himself again.

Spencer found the appropriate panel and extinguished the vessel’s running lights, then located the auxiliary light switch for the bridge and threw the lever, bathing him, Finn, and Ciro in a warm red glow. Steaming without running lights was illegal, but in his opinion, that was no longer a relevant mandate. He’d be more than happy to go back to following standard navigational rules just as soon as law and order returned to the seas—or at least the hope of expecting support if he got into trouble. As far as Spencer was concerned, it was up to him and the others on board to do whatever they had to do to survive and reach Kate. Anything required of them to achieve that goal and make Stuart by tomorrow was fair game in his playbook.

The lack of bright cabin light would hinder his search slightly, but it was worth the inconvenience to avoid making the Black Bird a potential target. He’d seen enough action in the last twenty-four hours to last a lifetime. The last thing he wanted to do was invite more trouble. Another advantage of operating under the red lights was that he would maintain his night vision, making any vessels using running lights easier to spot at a distance.

Of course, he had use of the ship’s radar to alert him of any nearby boats, a huge advantage over the instruments available on the Hunter. Still, Spencer was reluctant to trust any of the Black Bird’s systems yet and would probably remain skeptical for some time—or at least until he’d familiarized himself with everything and its functionality.

Spencer finished his search of the lower cabinets and open shelves under the console. Sitting back on his heels, he sighed with disappointment, then pulled himself to his feet.

“Well, nothin’ under there.” Spencer eyed Finn, who’d finished his treat long ago and was hoping for another.

The dog had taken a position at the far end of the padded bench seat, opposite Ciro, who was hunched over on his perch and sound asleep. Whether the red lights or a full belly had triggered the bird’s nap, Spencer wasn’t sure, but he was thankful for the quiet and hoped Ciro would sleep through the night. Finn gave up on his chances at another treat and curled up into a tight ball. He struggled to keep his eyes open while following Spencer around the cabin.

“It’s all right, boy. Get some rest.” Spencer cracked open his first can of liquid motivation, causing Finn’s heavy eyes to widen briefly.

Spencer took a big gulp of the citrus-flavored energy drink and placed it in a cup holder by the helm station. Before resuming his search for the registry, he took a moment to run his hand along Finn’s head and down his back a few times, lulling the dog to sleep. Spencer moved his backpack out of the way and leaned back against the bench seat. He surveyed the console and confirmed the autopilot was holding their course accurately, then let his gaze drift into the blackness of the night outside the bullet-riddled windows.

His eyes settling on the bow and beyond, he envisioned the coast of Florida coming into view tomorrow. Not much had gone according to plan so far, but all things considered, he had no right to complain. Kate would be disappointed about the loss of Restless; there’d be no sugarcoating the news. And as much as he dreaded relaying what had happened to their home and reliving the tragedy through her sadness, Spencer was filled with a strange sense of hope. Sitting behind the wheel of this multi-ton brute of a boat, with the gentle rumble of the diesel engine flowing through his body, Spencer couldn’t help but think fate had left him exactly where he needed to be.

CHAPTER TWO

If there was anything Spencer had an abundance of, it was time. He wished that wasn’t the case, but at ten to twelve knots, give or take, he wouldn’t break any records reaching Stuart. They’d been steaming for a few hours but still hadn’t made up for the miles lost due to the course deviation caused by the faulty compass reading aboard Restless. And no matter how many times Spencer plotted the course to St. Lucie Inlet, the numbers wouldn’t change without the passage of time.

If Spencer’s caffeine-fueled calculations were correct, they still had about eighteen or nineteen hours of travel ahead of them before they could even start looking for land. He might be able to shave an hour or more off their ETA if he could coax a few more knots out of the rusty trawler, but he was fairly confident it was already running at near-maximum speed. The temptation to push the vessel to her limits was very real and a hard impulse to ignore, though, especially when he thought about what Kate might be going through right now.

The only thing keeping Spencer sane at the moment was the logic that it was nighttime and, with any luck, things were quiet and calm in Stuart right now. He knew that line of reasoning was flawed; if anything, Damon’s house had been more dangerous in the dark of night. But he was powerless to do anything more about the situation he was in. He hated the feeling of helplessness that was beginning to infiltrate his every thought. And even if he were to be reckless and push the boat mechanically, they still wouldn’t make Stuart until at least late tomorrow night, if not the following morning. That was plenty of time to obsess over all the terrible things that were or might possibly be happening in Stuart.

Without knowing the specifications of the boat and the ability of the Caterpillar power plant propelling it through the water, he had to be conservative with the throttle. He’d settled on an RPM reading that sounded right to him based on his experience with boats of a similar size. Push too hard and he’d burn too much fuel and maybe damage the engine. Too slow and there was a chance they’d get to Stuart too late. A thought he did his best not to dwell on but one that dogged his troubled mind just the same. Sitting here behind the wheel only added to his misery. It felt like a woefully inadequate way to spend his time while nurturing his impatience.

Spencer resumed his search for ship documents in the upper cabinets, eager to find the paperwork and keep himself busy. He was careful to open and close doors quietly so as not to wake Ciro. Finn was out cold and snoring loudly, his back left leg dangling off the couch. Spencer was jealous. He wished he could go to sleep and wake up in Stuart, the only way he imagined the time passing with any amount of peace and speed.

As Spencer rummaged through the cabinets and pushed aside what amounted to a collection of random items equivalent to what a person might find in the kitchen junk drawer, he was reminded of a saying his mother used in times of hardship.

If you can’t be happy, be helpful. It was a phrase he’d heard more than once, but mostly, it brought to mind the passing of his aunt. His mom took the loss of her sister hard, as expected, but was able to cope with the loss by occupying herself with helping others and keeping busy. There was certainly plenty to do to get the vessel in shape. The neglect and loose living of the pirates was evident everywhere Spencer looked.

He pushed a half-empty bottle of rum to the side and used his flashlight to search the far reaches of the cabinet he had his head inside, but he only found several more bottles of liquor. The former occupants were drunken slobs, among other much worse things. Of that, there was no doubt, nor was it a surprise. Spencer decided then and there that he’d keep himself busy by cleaning the place up. He could do more in the daylight, but that also depended on the instruments working, namely the autopilot. He eyed the chart and then double-checked their bearing against the compass. So far, so good. The autopilot had them tracking dutifully along the plotted course, although he’d continue to monitor the automated system after what happened with the Hunter’s compass, just to be sure. He couldn’t afford another mistake like that, and neither could Kate.

Spencer abandoned his search for the registry for the time being. He’d checked almost every cabinet, shelf, and drawer on the bridge. He was beginning to think the paperwork wasn’t on board, although it was very possible he’d find it in the captain’s stateroom. But that would have to wait for now. There was no way he was leaving the bridge unattended. Aside from monitoring the autopilot, he needed to keep an eye out for other boats. With the running lights off, it was not only smart to avoid anyone else out here; it was also his responsibility. Spencer was willing to shelf his respect for maritime law and the rules of navigation for the sake of survival. But outside the obvious reasons for avoiding other boats, there was always the chance of a collision.

He checked the time on his Omega Seamaster, disappointed that only twenty minutes had passed since his last glance at the timepiece. The overpriced graduation gift reminded him of his parents, and he soon found himself sliding back down the rabbit hole of what-ifs and the wild, life-or-death scenarios that could be unfolding in Buxton. Being alone with his thoughts was something Spencer normally cherished, but not now. Not with all the unanswered questions and concerns he was powerless to address running through his head.

He leaned back against the padded bench seat where Finn was sleeping and took a deep breath, trying to regain control of his runaway imagination. A handful of Finn’s thick neck fur helped ground him as he rubbed his companion. Finn picked his head up, looking at Spencer with dreary eyes, unsure what he’d done to earn the surprise massage.

“It’s gonna be all right. Isn’t it?” Spencer sighed. Finn might be the closest thing to family he had left. “No, no. Everyone’s all right. I know it.” Spencer made the declaration out loud as if that would make the statement irrefutable.

Finn looked at him, oblivious to the mental torment his owner was experiencing, although Spencer was sure that Finn grasped the severity and loss of their boat sinking as they shared the Hunter’s last moments from the rail of the trawler.

Spencer stepped away from the seat and grabbed his drink, forcing a mouthful of the warm beverage down his throat while doing his best to keep it together. If he was going to make it to Stuart and be of any use to Kate or anyone else, he would have to come to terms with reality and accept what he couldn’t change. He didn’t expect to be happy or content by any means, but he needed to pull himself out of this hole of self-pity before digging any deeper. And he needed to do it now.

His gaze drifted to the row of drawers lining the top of the helm at waist height. He hadn’t looked in any of them yet because they were locked, and he’d hoped to find the keys in one of the other cabinets. Maybe they went down with the captain and his center console. That seemed to be a reasonable theory, and Spencer decided to force the drawers open. He hadn’t wanted to break anything to gain access, but looking around at the cracked glass and bullet holes, he decided broken drawers wouldn’t matter. He returned to one of the cabinets with a toolbox inside and fished out a hammer and a large flathead screwdriver. Placing the tip of the screwdriver dead center of the lock on the drawer closest to him, he struck the tool’s handle with the hammer, driving the lock clear through the drawer.

“Well, that was easy.” Spencer resisted the urge to open the drawer right away and instead went down the row, repeating the process with the other two drawers.

Now that they were all open, he could finish his search of the pilothouse. But he was in no hurry. If he wound up empty-handed, there was nowhere left to look up here, other than under the bench-style seat Finn was sleeping on. But Spencer didn’t expect to find much of interest under the large storage compartment, least of all any paperwork.

Spencer cringed at the groan of the first drawer while wrestling it open. The tight fit was made worse by years of constant humidity warping the wood. There was no paperwork, but as someone who appreciated firearms, he was almost as pleased to find a well-taken-care-of, flat-black SIG Saur P226 ZEV complete with a Romeo 1 PRO reflex sight and a threaded barrel. There was no suppressor in the drawer, but there was an empty foam cut out next to the 9mm, indicating there’d been two of them at some point. He deduced that the missing pistol was also likely at the bottom of the ocean with the captain and his keys.

Spencer pulled the firearm from its foam cradle and admired the piece in the dull red glare of the pilothouse light. There were several magazines in the drawer, including one that, at a glance, appeared to be the twenty-round extended version. A few boxes of specialized ammunition sat toward the back of the drawer in the remaining space. Underwood 9mm +P+ Xtreme Defender, according to the label. The external hollow points were an exotic round Spencer had heard of but never actually seen or fired. They packed more punch than a standard 9mm round and, in turn, delivered more recoil than any run-of-the-mill ninety-grain bullet. Spencer dropped the magazine currently in place and, as expected, was rewarded with one of the specialized rounds sitting on top.

He eyed the weird-looking round for a second before returning the stock fifteen-round magazine to its place. He pulled the Smith & Wesson from his concealed holster and tried the SIG in its place, but it didn’t fit, thanks to the reflex sight. Spencer returned the Shield to the holster and the SIG to its place in the stubborn drawer and closed it. He regretted punching the lock through now and realized he had no way of securing the weapon. He’d have to talk with Rob and Nat and make sure they understood the bridge was off-limits to Maya without an adult present. The weapon rack along the far bulkhead was at least lockable, although that wouldn’t keep curious fingers from pulling triggers.

Normally, Spencer wouldn’t have worried about Maya and the guns too much because he wouldn’t have kept any of the weapons on board loaded, but that wasn’t the case anymore. They were playing by a new set of rules now, and that meant adhering to the old Coast Guard motto more than ever: Semper Peratus. And they would have to be ready at all times if they expected to survive out here. That much had been proven already.

CHAPTER THREE

Spencer continued his search of the tough-to-open drawers but only came up with a stack of charts heavily marked with notes and symbols, most of which he couldn’t read, and not because of the language barrier but the lack of neatness. Maybe Nat could decipher the scribbled mess and shed some light on the boat’s history or conquests, although he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know that information. Spencer imagined this was also the place where the captain’s log she’d found was typically kept.

The last drawer he looked in held a box of unlabeled, hand-rolled cigars. But as Spencer pulled the drawer fully open, what he saw next caught him off guard.

“Wow.” He pulled out the large ornate dagger with a dime-sized emerald embedded in the butt of the handle and held it so he could inspect it more closely.

The facets of the lime green gemstone glistened in the dim amber glow of the cabin. Catching the light in a mesmerizing display, they cast reflections that seemed to dance across the room. Spencer figured it was fake due to its size but had to admit the blade was hefty and felt genuine in his hand. The sharpened edges were certainly real enough. He eyed the dagger a bit longer, turning it in the light before returning the weapon to its sheath and moving on to a shallow bowl covered with a piece of black cloth.

He removed the velvet-like material and saw an assortment of gold jewelry that nearly filled the bowl. He picked up a few pieces to inspect them in the light but quickly returned them when he realized what he was holding. On closer inspection, he discovered the majority of the items in the bowl consisted of wedding rings and gold bands. There were a couple of diamond necklaces and a bracelet, but he understood what each item represented: a life taken by the former captain and his crew. Spencer felt a wave of nausea wash over him and forced more of his energy drink down to disguise the remorse and disgust brewing in his gut. Throwing the cloth back over the bowl, he wiped his hands on his shorts as if the stolen jewelry and the actions that had put it there were somehow contagious. Spencer leaned into the drawer with his hip and forced it closed with a bang.

“Croooaaak.” Ciro flapped his wings, startled by the clap of the slamming drawer.

Spencer jumped. “Jeez. You scared the crap out of me.”

Finn sprang to life with an excited whine and renewed interest in the bird.

“It’s all right, boy. Sorry about that.” Spencer hadn’t intended to close the drawer that hard, but the gruesome discovery had forced his reaction, and he wanted the ill-gotten items out of sight as fast as possible.

Closing the drawer didn’t change anything, though. The men who ran this boat before him were as bad as he imagined, maybe worse. All the provisions and gear in the forward hold were stolen as well, the previous owners murdered. There was no other explanation for the random assortment of gear, and it was time for Spencer to stop pretending there was. But this was something he could use. The people he’d taken the boat from deserved what they got, and for the first time since seizing the Black Bird, he was able to admit the guilt he felt was unwarranted.

After initially capturing the trawler, he’d told himself that he and the others were justified in taking the vessel, but he was still hung up on the process by which they’d gone about it. Sneaking on board while the captain and crew were away felt dirty, and the brutality of the fight had seared itself into his thoughts. Did this, by definition, make Spencer, Rob, and Nat pirates as well? These were his thoughts immediately after he commandeered the ship, but the bowl of poached jewelry put a human element to it all. Spencer and his crew had done the world a favor. Maybe that was too lofty of a notion, but they’d certainly spared any boaters in the vicinity a run-in with the savages who lived on the trawler before them.

Spencer sensed a burden lifting from his conscience, allowing him to draw in a lungful of invigorating salty air. There was no reason to celebrate, but all things considered, he could no longer rationalize this feeling that they’d done something wrong. It was futile and draining to wallow in self-pity or doubt over their predicament. He was the de facto captain of this ship, and as unqualified as he perceived himself to be, he was the most knowledgeable person on board.

Rob, Nat, and their young daughter were depending on him to not just get them home to Jacksonville but to lead by example. He had to set the tone for his crew, and it had better be a confident one. Otherwise, this whole thing could come unraveled at the seams.

“A crew, Finn.” Spencer shook his head. “We have a crew.” He let a barbed laugh slip past his lips.

As weird as that sounded to him, it was exactly the situation he was in. And if he’d hand-picked two people to make the journey with him to Stuart and beyond, he couldn’t have made a better choice than an electrician and an EMT. Rob’s skills had already proven handy on board Restless, and by the looks of things on the Black Bird, those talents would be needed again.

Nat’s worth was self-evident. Medical care would be a scarce commodity; it already had been back on land. Expertise in first aid was crucial to any long-term deployment, and that’s basically what they were embarking on. Nat was their medic and an indispensable asset out at sea, especially when the people they encountered intended them harm.

Spencer wanted to help. That was his nature and the main reason he’d joined the Coast Guard in the first place. But he had no intention of sticking around inshore any longer than necessary. There would be a time to rebuild and chip in with putting the pieces of a fractured society back together, but that time was not now.

If Spencer had his way, their time in Stuart would be brief at best. His plan to grab Kate and her parents and get back out on the water sounded simple, but the process would be more complicated than that. Stuart wasn’t a large city by any means, but it was much more populated than Marathon, and Spencer expected the chaos to be tenfold what he had seen in the Keys.

The trip upriver from St. Lucie Inlet to Kate’s parents’ house would be a challenge on its own. It would be downright risky if he couldn’t get a solid answer to his question of what this vessel drew. He conservatively figured at least eight feet, but even if his guess was right, other factors would dictate how high or low the Black Bird sat in the water.

The fuel tank read almost three-quarters full, but he had no idea what that really meant since he didn’t know the capacity. And with diesel weighing around seven pounds per gallon, that was definitely something to consider, especially when a boat this size could easily hold several thousand gallons. The same could be said for the potable water situation, although the freshwater tank would be considerably smaller. The gauge showed the onboard water tank to be nearly full as well, but how many gallons were left remained a mystery without the certificate of registry.

It was clear that this boat had been converted from a commercial fishing vessel into what Spencer would call a fast trawler or blue-water cruiser of sorts. But the retrofit had obviously been done many years ago, and although the job looked to be well done and the materials used top notch, the current state of neglect was concerning. Whether or not the rough exterior was more than skin deep remained to be seen. However, he was pleasantly surprised at the tidiness of the engine room, which gave him hope that the vessel’s mechanics were in better shape than the rest of her. The engineer—or whatever you called the position on board a boat of murderous thieves—seemed to have taken more pride in the mechanical spaces than the deck crew had in the common areas. But there was still plenty of reason to be hesitant about trusting the gauges and the readings displayed on the control panel in front of him.

There would be time later for Spencer to give the boat a thorough inspection and make an assessment of the vessel’s functionality and how well the boat would serve his needs. Right now, it didn’t matter because this was all he had, thanks to the pirates shooting the Hunter’s hull full of holes. But the idea of finding another boat in Stuart was one Spencer wouldn’t dismiss. That wouldn’t be easy, though, and he imagined anything and everything that was even remotely seaworthy would be in high demand and fiercely guarded.

With modern vehicles rendered useless by the EMPs, people would be looking for any means of transportation they could find. New boats would be equally worthless, aside from the fact that they’d still float, but there were a lot more old boats than there were old cars, and Spencer imagined fleeing by sea would be a popular escape plan.

Spencer resumed his position at the wheel, and against his better judgment, he nudged the throttle forward just a hair. Every little bit mattered, and arriving in Stuart just a few minutes earlier might make all the difference in the world to Kate and her parents.

CHAPTER FOUR

Spencer searched a few of the junk-packed cabinets a second time just to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything—and because he was bored—but he still found no records or paperwork of any kind. He did find a large woven sack that possibly held rice or some other dry provision at one point and used it to start collecting trash from around the bridge. The chore needed doing, and cleaning up kept him busy for a while until he filled the bag. It was hard not to eye the chartplotter every so often, although it was like waiting for a pot of water to boil. The distance to Stuart was shrinking but at a disappointing rate.

Their progress was frustrating but steady; however, Spencer never lost sight of the fact that they were beyond lucky to have taken possession of a vessel with working electronics. And at least Finn and Ciro had come to a mutual understanding, or so it seemed, and had finally settled in as if they’d accepted the fact that they were stuck on this boat together and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

Spencer slipped out of the pilothouse quietly through the rear door, trying his best not to disturb Finn or the bird. The autopilot was tracking as it should, and although he wouldn’t leave the bridge unattended for any length of time just yet, he felt confident enough to stretch his legs for a minute and get some fresh air while taking in the beginnings of a new day. The hard part of his all-night shift at the helm was over, at least when it came to fighting boredom, although Spencer could feel a dullness settling over him as the caffeine he’d been pumping into his body started to wear off.

Standing watch over the instruments had paid off, though. When they first took control of the trawler, Spencer clocked them at about 230 miles north-northeast of St. Lucie Inlet. Thanks to his vigilance, a steady ten- to twelve-knot cruising speed, and favorable currents, they’d successfully churned through more than eighty miles of the distance they needed to cover. That still meant landfall in Stuart was a solid fourteen or fifteen hours away, but Spencer clung to the accomplishment.

The Black Bird’s pilothouse was surrounded by an exterior walkway that wrapped around the bridge and came together at the rear in a good-sized open deck that overlooked the fantail of the boat. Spencer glanced back at the helm station through the rear window. Finn had rolled onto his side but remained asleep on the couch, and Ciro was still motionless on his perch, head tucked into his feathers. Spencer turned to face the impending dawn with both hands firmly planted on a section of railing that desperately needed paint. If they were to stick with the Black Bird, and they probably would, there was much to do to make the boat respectable again. Her former glory might be lost forever, but there was plenty of room for improvement.

Spencer gazed out at the tranquil black expanse of ocean, where the only noticeable disturbance was the frothy wake trailing behind the boat. The eastern horizon glowed with striking hues of deep orange and crimson highlights among the gathering Cirrus clouds, suggesting that the upcoming day might hold a few surprises. Spencer recognized that such atmospheric phenomena were often indicative of unfavorable weather ahead, but he wasn’t overly concerned. Besides, a hearty downpour might actually benefit the boat, washing away the accumulated dust and grime.

The dawning of the third day since the disaster that turned their lives upside down was a bittersweet event. On the one hand, they were still alive and in pretty decent shape. Better than most, he imagined. They had an operational vessel that doubled as a home, food, water, and their health, for the most part. Conversely, he found it equally discouraging that this much time had passed and he was still this far away from Kate.

Spencer gingerly rubbed at the gash on the back of his arm from the piece of rebar he’d encountered while rescuing Maya from the resort wreckage. The wound on his forearm hurt as well but paled in comparison to the more serious injury. He made a mental note to have Nat take a look at it sometime this morning. It was sore, and as much as he didn’t want to aggravate the laceration further, it needed attention.

He couldn’t complain, though. He did have someone competent on board to tend to the damage he’d done to himself and make sure the wounds didn’t develop into anything worse. Kate would have been happy to know that. He wondered what she was doing at this very moment as he stared off into the budding light of a new morning. There was no way of knowing for sure, but he was certain she was doing as well as could be expected. He felt that in his bones. She was resilient, and she was a fighter when she had to be. But this? Spencer turned in place, eyeing the horizon over the bow of the boat. This was bigger than anything they’d ever faced.

In contrast to his eastern view, the sky over Florida was dark, not yet bathed fully in the colorful glow of the rising sun. It was almost ominous. But it wasn’t just the lack of morning light causing the murky, gray blend of colors to seem as if they were bleeding upward from the water’s surface into the atmosphere. The bombs had changed things. The air was choked with particulate and smoke from the fires. They’d gotten a small taste of it during their escape from the Keys. The magnitude of the fallout from such a catastrophic event on the mainland would be multiplied many times over from what they saw in Marathon.

The foul air wasn’t present way out here off the coast, but Spencer could clearly see it. He’d noticed the abnormal darkness off the bow all night. The lack of stars in the western sky told of the conditions on land. His nostrils burned at the mere thought of it. And they were heading right back into it. Spencer chose instead to focus on the 145 miles that separated him from his objective. Things would get a lot worse before they got any better. The sooner he made peace with that, the more content he would be.

Worrying about what-ifs wouldn’t change anything, and it wouldn’t get him to Stuart any faster. If anything, the constant stress over whether or not he was doing enough—or doing it fast enough or well enough—would tear him apart and likely hinder his progress. And with the dawn of a new day, it was time to put his mother’s advice into practice.

He drew in a thoughtful breath of fresh, salty air and did his best to let go of the anxiety he was harboring as he blew it out. He’d put on a happy face, or at least a pleasant face, for his crew—and especially Maya.

“Positive vibes,” he whispered as he made his way back inside the pilothouse.

Spencer left the door open, latching it in place so it wouldn’t swing with the gentle rocking of the boat. He crammed a few more things into his trash bag and tied a knot at the top, placing it outside on the rear deck and out of his way. The place looked better already, and with the increasing natural light, Spencer could extinguish the pilothouse light. The dim red lamp was good for maintaining low visibility, but too much time spent in it could drive a man crazy.

Woken by the first tentacles of light to find their way inside the cabin, Finn stretched his paws out in front of his body and stuck his butt into the air toward Ciro.

“Good morning.” If Spencer was going to be upbeat today, he might as well start now.

Finn wagged his tail at the sound of Spencer’s voice and walked to the edge of the elevated couch so they were eye to eye.

Spencer leaned into Finn until their foreheads met. “It’s a new day, buddy. We’re going to find Momma.”

Finn pulled his head back in excitement, tilting it to the side, then whined and spun around once completely in his excitement.

Spencer regretted his comment immediately. “It’s gonna be a while, so don’t get too excited yet.” He rubbed the dog’s head roughly. “How about some breakfast?”

Finn stopped panting and his smile dissolved. There were few things the dog took more seriously than an invitation to eat, and that’s what Spencer was counting on.

“Awk… awk.” The activity woke Ciro, who let them know with a couple of throaty calls and some energetic head bobbing.

Spencer didn’t waste any time filling Ciro’s bowl with a handful of seed and corn from the bag.

“You probably want some water, too, huh?” He picked up the empty bowl from the base of the bird’s hanging perch and noticed a brown liquid at the bottom.

One whiff confirmed that Ciro had been consuming rum at some point. Whether it was by choice or as a result of the cruelty inflicted by his previous owner, Spencer couldn’t be sure.

“No wonder you’re so cranky.”

Spencer splashed some water from his bottle into the dish and swirled it around before tossing the contents out the open door. He refilled the bird’s bowl with fresh water and set it back in place. The raven abandoned his feed and migrated swiftly across his perch, drinking nonstop until there was hardly any left.

“That’s better, isn’t it? Maybe you’ll be a little nicer now or at least a little quieter.” Spencer topped the bowl off and backed away, leaving the bird to man the helm.

The autopilot was still performing as it should, and there wasn’t another boat in sight. That wasn’t the case last night and then again early this morning. The sightings amounted to nothing more than distant lights on the horizon and small green blips on the radar, which Spencer used to ensure they kept their distance and avoided contact.

Evading the other boats had cost them some time and required a few temporary course changes, but those were concessions well worth the trouble, in Spencer’s opinion. He aimed to reach Stuart as fast as possible, yet another encounter akin to yesterday’s skirmish with the pirates would negate any gains in time—or cause even bigger problems.

Spencer glassed the horizon once more with his gyro-stabilized binoculars, although he left the gyroscopic function turned off. The rocking of the boat was at a minimum in the following seas. The sub-one-foot wavelets and the four- to six-knot wind at their stern were hardly enough to get the heavy trawler’s attention. But there was another reason to forgo the luxurious feature on his binoculars; Spencer was trying to conserve the batteries. He had more—plenty, in fact—to repower the device several times, but there was no telling when or if he’d be able to find more. He’d committed to treating this situation like a deployment by conserving consumables, and that applied to everything.

“All clear.” Spencer completed his 360-degree scan of the horizon and set the binoculars down on the console. He was glad to see the sunrise even though boats were easier to spot at night. He’d have to rely on the radar for the most part. He thought about putting the optics back in their case but decided not to since he’d be wanting another look as soon as he returned topside. But a few minutes down in the galley wouldn’t hurt, and if he was going to power through the day, he’d need some coffee and something to eat. There’d be time for sleep at some point before Stuart, but with the others waking up soon, there was much to discuss.

CHAPTER FIVE

“She’s all yours, Ciro. Now that’s a scary thought, eh, boy?” Spencer let Finn lead the way down to the main deck rather than risk being passed and possibly knocked over by the anxious dog on the steep, narrow ladder.

His original intentions were to wait until someone came to relieve him before abandoning his helm duties, but his impatience and waning energy had gotten the best of him. Although he remained skeptical of the Black Bird’s equipment, the autopilot was earning his trust, along with some of the other shipboard systems. There was so much to explore and even more to learn about their new home on the water. Spencer felt a mix of emotions ranging from eagerness and excitement to fear and uncertainty.

This was a big boat to run with an electrician and an EMT for a crew. A vessel this size in the Coast Guard might have had a crew of ten to fifteen people assigned to her.

He took the last few steps behind Finn and shook his head. Funny how quickly circumstances had changed. At the onset of their trip, he’d been obsessively worried about housing everyone on the Hunter. The logistics of putting that many people on a thirty-one-foot boat were concerning at best. Just the prospect of adding Kate, her parents, and their semi-spastic black Lab, Roxy, was daunting in itself, and that was only half of it. Sure, they’d be losing Rob, Nat, and Maya eventually. But with any luck, Spencer would add his parents shortly afterward. And of course, he couldn’t forget to include his mom and dad’s new dog.

Just last week, Spencer’s mom sent him a text announcing the most recent addition to the Hayes family with a short video of Finn’s new brother frolicking in the yard. Ollie was a six-month-old Boxer mix who had proven too much to handle for an older couple Spencer’s mom knew. His parents took the dog in on a trial basis, and the rest was history. Based on the video his mom had sent, Spencer anticipated Ollie being an absolute terror on board a small boat. Thank God the trawler was mostly made out of steel.

Spencer found the thought of adding people to the crew comforting now that there was room and he needed the help. On his initial boarding of the Black Bird, he’d sped through the vessel’s interior to clear the boat of any threats and ensure it was safe. But from what he’d seen, there was plenty of room for everyone he hoped to add. He’d counted four staterooms or private cabins and at least two heads. The forward hold was primarily set up for storing extra gear and supplies, but if necessary, the space could easily double as an extra berthing area. His attachment to the Hunter made it difficult to admit, but the old trawler was exactly what they needed.

Spencer stood at the entrance to the galley, imagining how much trouble a young dog could get into in a space this size. The thought was almost enough to make him thankful the Hunter had gone down with dignity rather than becoming an oversized chew toy for a mischievous pup.

Finn sniffed around the main saloon while Spencer found his way around by trial and error, opening bags, all hastily packed and hauled aboard from the Hunter, until he was able to put together what he needed to brew a pot of coffee. It didn’t take long to set up his Jetboil system. The independent, gas-powered coffee-brewing system was an old standby for when he and Kate camped off-boat on remote islands, as they often had. And for use on board, he’d modified the setup with suction cups attached to the legs, a necessity on a rocking boat. The compact setup wasn’t the only method he had for making coffee. He had a traditional French press as well, plus a normal teapot for boiling water on board the Hunter, but the Jetboil was fast, and he could run the compact unit topside without needing to dip into the galley if he didn’t want to leave the helm. In hindsight, he should have brought the whole thing to the bridge with him initially, but coffee was the last thing on his mind at the time. And with the mini gas burner already lit, he decided to finish what he’d started down here.

The galley was as disorganized as it was filthy, with a collection of dirty dishes, pots, and utensils piled high in the sink. Spencer had to push the unruly stack to the side just to fill the pot from the tap, scattering a few flies in the process. He swirled the water around the pot and finished his inspection with a quick sniff. The more he looked around, the more he was disgusted by the level of neglect and filth. Maybe it was best that Kate wasn’t here just yet to see this.

His intentions were to get the place looking tip-top before Kate stepped aboard, but he wasn’t sure that was possible anymore. He definitely wouldn’t have the place looking like he wanted anytime soon, but with the help of the others, they could certainly make a vast improvement to the current state of dereliction.

Spencer reminded himself to go easy on the young family. They might not share his level of ambition when it came to improving their living conditions. They were planning on parting ways in Jacksonville, after all. Spencer would do his best to temper his eagerness and try not to come off as overbearing, but that would be hard when the necessary improvements were this obvious.

“I guess we’ll see what our guests are made of today, eh, Finn?” Spencer grabbed the fifteen-gallon plastic tote of dog food he’d dragged aboard from Restless and began to fill Finn’s bowl.

Finn’s dog food was another resource that wouldn’t last forever. Luckily, Spencer had just topped off the bin with a new bag from Publix, but there was only a couple weeks’ worth of food at best. He held back a little from the normal amount he fed the dog and pulled a fillet of the leftover mahi-mahi from the cooler, crumbling it in his hand and sprinkling it over Finn’s bowl instead. Fish, on the other hand, was a renewable resource, one they would come to rely on heavily, he imagined.

“Sorry about that. I should have fed you first.” Spencer put the bowl down and let Finn have at it while he washed his hands and turned his attention back to the brewing coffee. Watching the thermal sleeve’s indicator reach the top of the cup, he cut the flame off and waited for the coffee to steep. He’d let it sit longer than normal today, as he needed the brew to be bold and strong, although now that he was down here, he felt rushed. It was easier to have confidence in the autopilot while he was standing at the helm.

Finn finished his meal in record time, licking the bowl clean of any fragments he might have missed in his haste. Spencer was hungry, too, but there was no way he could afford that much time away from the bridge, not with a clear conscience, anyway. And the galley was in a state of total chaos, not exactly something he wanted to deal with at the moment.

Spencer pulled the container from the heating element and turned the light off. “Come on, Finn. Let’s get back topside.”

The coffee could finish brewing on the bridge; he’d been absent long enough already, and thanks to the last couple of days, he was more than a little paranoid about leaving the helm unattended. Spencer skipped every other step on his way back to the bridge despite the steaming-hot cup in his hand. Ciro had taken Spencer’s words to heart, apparently, and was standing on the wheel.

“All right, Ciro. I’ve got it now.” Spencer tried to motivate the bird toward his perch with a waved hand.

“Capitán en cubierta,” Ciro squawked and obliged.

Spencer smiled for a moment, but his lips straightened a second later. Hearing the phrase “captain on deck” gave him a sense of pride as much as it gave him cause for concern, even if it was only the acknowledgment of a rum-drinking raven.

Spencer eyed the compass, then the plotter, confirming everything was as he’d left it. This was all on him, a scary and sobering thought that took on a life of its own when other people were counting on him. He still felt out of place at the conn of a vessel this size. That was something he might never get used to, although he found the boat handled much like he’d expected, if not a bit more sluggishly. But anyone could steer a boat in open water. The true test of his abilities would come when they were inshore. And the anticipation of navigating tighter, shallower waters was enough to rekindle the uneasy feeling deep in his gut.

He’d piloted more than a few boats during his short life so far, starting at the age of twelve. A heavily corroded johnboat with an ancient five-horsepower Evinrude was his first delve into boat ownership. He’d bought it with money he’d earned cleaning job sites for his dad’s construction company and some cash from several birthday cards, and he was proud of the dent-pocked, fourteen-foot eyesore. Although the motor proved to be a bigger project than the boat itself, he and his dad brought both up to snuff eventually.

He used the narrow, aluminum skiff for crabbing, pulling redfish from the shallows on a fly, and joyriding the backwaters of Pamlico Sound and its bordering marshes, much to his mother’s disapproval. She came around in the end but only with the help of his father and because Spencer agreed he’d have to pass a boaters’ safety course before going solo on the flimsy craft. The thought of cruising the sound and salt creeks on a glassy, mirror-smooth morning in the small boat brought another smile to his face. At the time, with the meager five-horsepower outboard maxed out, a scant twenty knots felt more like a hundred. The outings on the johnboat by himself were magical. Spencer’s first taste of real freedom and independence, something he’d never forget.

He’d been through his share of craft since those days, working his way up to a twenty-foot Shamrock center console in high school. He’d even briefly stood at the helm of the 110-foot Island-class cutter he was attached to temporarily in the Coast Guard. But there was a safety net of higher-ups and more experienced crewmen standing by. That wasn’t the case here, and no matter how unqualified he felt, there was no one to step in and fix his mistakes or save him from his own ignorance when it came to running a vessel of this size.

This was by far the biggest boat he’d ever been responsible for, and that was something he was having a hard time accepting. Spencer wasn’t sure there would ever come a time when it felt like this vessel belonged to him, but for all intents and purposes, this was his boat now. Or was it theirs? If Rob and Nat wanted a stake in the Black Bird, he’d happily share the responsibility.

He couldn’t have done it without them. But Spencer doubted they wanted anything to do with the seagoing life or this rust-stained steel tub. All the trio was looking for was a ride to Jacksonville. Unless, of course, they had nothing left there. What if they wanted to stay aboard? He couldn’t very well deny them a place on the trawler, nor did he want to. But these were things that didn’t warrant much thought yet. They hadn’t even made it to Stuart, after all.

Spencer always believed that if he possessed a superpower, it would be the ability to worry about events that hadn’t yet occurred. He shook his head and laughed at himself while depressing the plunger on the Jetboil. Finn resumed his position on the padded seat near Ciro, who’d taken Spencer’s hint and settled in on his perch.

Spencer did his best to quiet the noise and unnecessary thoughts in his head. His coffee was ready, and that’s really all he had the capacity to control at this moment in time. It was going to be a long day.

CHAPTER SIX

After swallowing a few gulps of hot coffee, Spencer made sure to glass the horizon in all directions.

“Still alone. Just the way we like it, Finn.” Spencer raised his coffee at the good news.

But the dog was oblivious to the comment, already asleep and snoring quietly in a bright spot of sun beaming in through the window. He wondered if Rob and Nat were still sleeping. Who could blame them if they were? The gentle rocking of the boat against the glossy swells that had gradually built to solid one-footers since sunrise was enough to lull anyone to sleep or keep them in their racks.

Spencer was happy to see the swell and wind working in his favor. He had reason to believe that if the following seas persisted—or, if they were really lucky, increased—they’d shave some time off the trip to St. Lucie Inlet. Spencer glanced at the radio. How nice it would be to get a weather report. Normally, getting an updated forecast would be as easy as tuning into the NOAHH weather broadcast. But not since the EMPs hit.

Spencer turned the radio on and let it scan through station after station of static. He’d turned it off when he first came up on the bridge and realized there was nothing to pick up but noise. A boat the size of the Black Bird was required under maritime law to monitor VHF channels 13 and 16 when operating within U.S. territorial waters. A rule he had no choice but to break.

He spun the knob counterclockwise until it clicked, and the bridge fell into relative silence once more. He didn’t expect to pick up any broadcasts and had given the VHF another try out of sheer boredom more than anything else. There was no room to complain, though. They might have been starved for information, but the fact remained: they’d been incredibly lucky to wind up on the Black Bird. The shipboard systems were functional for the most part, and with each passing mile, Spencer’s confidence in the boat grew.

And thanks to the missing certificate of registry, Spencer still wasn’t sure where the Black Bird hailed from, but apparently, her home was well outside the area affected by the EMPs. Either that or the former captain and crew had conveniently happened to be offshore at just the right time and distance to avoid catastrophic failure of the boat’s electronics and engine. But Spencer imagined the first scenario was the most likely.

He wasn’t sure if any of the Bahamas had been affected by the EMPs. If not, it was very likely the Black Bird had come from that direction. Approximately seven hundred islands and 2400 cays made up the Bahamian archipelago. With only about a third of those being officially inhabited, the cluster of West Atlantic Ocean islands was the ideal place for a band of misfits and murderers to hide out from the law.

Depending on where in the Bahamas the boat was located, the Black Bird could have steamed into position after the bombs went off and been ready to take advantage of fleeing boats from the mainland within hours. At less than a hundred miles from the Florida coast, the Bahamas weren’t far at all. Spencer couldn’t remember the exact distance but knew there was less than sixty miles between Palm Beach and the town of West End on Grand Bahama Island.

He and Kate had made the crossing on Restless more than once, although their destination had been the southern Bahamas. On a boat like this, the trip from shore to shore would take half as much time as it had on the Hunter. Without plotting it out, Spencer guessed they were probably just a few hours from Bimini or Freeport right now.

He thought about the bowl of wedding rings and wondered how much of the stolen property had been acquired recently from people fleeing the country and trying to escape the craziness taking place on land. He could only imagine their surprise when the ocean turned out to be just as dangerous—or, in their case, deadly. Spencer shook the thought from his mind and stepped out onto the balcony from the side access. He took the binoculars with him and glassed the horizon once more. No boats, but he smelled coffee and bacon, which was surprising. He wasn’t sure how that was possible and thought maybe the hunger pangs in his gut were playing tricks on his mind. Then he noticed the galley vent just below his location.

Spencer came back inside to an alert Finn. The dog was mid-stretch with his nose in the air, picking up on the same aroma that had brought Spencer back inside.

“Well, it’s not just me, then. Somebody’s in the galley making breakfast.” Spencer was glad that the couple, or at least one of them, was awake. But as good as breakfast smelled, it brought to mind the need to conserve any and all food on board.

“Come on, boy. Let’s see what’s going on.” Spencer took one last look at the instruments and surrounding ocean before heading down to the main deck. Finn followed, still half asleep but encouraged by the pleasant aroma riding the draft of air up the stairwell.

“Good morning.” Nat trumpeted her greeting in a cheerful manner, throwing Spencer off guard. Maya remained silent, fully engrossed in mixing something in a large bowl, her stuffed turtle sitting next to her on the counter.

“Good morning.” Spencer returned the greeting as he surveyed the galley. The place had been a disaster less than an hour ago when he came down for coffee, but that was no longer the case. There was still work to be done; however, the improvement was immediately recognizable.

“Wow. You guys have been busy,” Spencer complimented the two.

Nat moved a dripping plate from the sink to the drying rack. “We finished up below deck for the most part, and I thought I’d get a jump on the mess up here and make us a little breakfast while we’re at it.”

“Finished up below deck?” Spencer’s brow wrinkled.

“Well, I shouldn’t have said finished, but we cleaned up the best we could. Rob should be up any minute. He was just gathering trash when Maya and I left him.”

Suddenly, Spencer felt guilty and a little lazy. Here he was, worried about getting the others motivated to chip in with cleaning up and they’d been doing just that while he’d been taking it easy on the bridge by comparison.

“I was going to surprise you with breakfast and coffee, but I see you’ve already made some.” Nat eyed the cup in his hand. “Refill?”

“Yes please. And thank you, for the coffee and for cleaning up.” Spencer held out his mug while Nat poured.

“No need for thanks. Just doing our part. Right, Maya? Besides, you’ve been up all night keeping things running. It’s the least we can do, and the place needed it… Still needs it.” Nat smiled and glanced past Spencer at the mess deck.

Spencer made his way to the sink and turned the faucet off, not wanting to spoil the mood by informing Nat that they couldn’t afford to run the water like they could on land.

“Sorry, it’s just that we need to be careful with our water usage,” he said with a shrug.

“Oh, sorry, I guess I wasn’t really thinking about that. I already got it from Rob this morning,” Nat replied.

Spencer noticed that both she and Maya were freshly showered, their hair still wet. The thought of the family taking turns in the shower made him cringe a little, but he held his tongue in hopes that Nat would heed his warning from now on about water usage. They were heading into shore, but Spencer doubted they would have the opportunity to top off the freshwater tank. Or anything else, for that matter.

“Mornin’, Spence.” Rob struggled to clear the open hatch with two large trash bags as he made his way up the ladder from below deck.

Spencer set his cup down and helped Rob up by taking the bags from him.

“Thanks. Man, what a mess down there.” Rob was sweating profusely, and Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d had a shower as well but hoped he hadn’t.

“I appreciate you guys helping out.” Spencer stashed the bags in the far corner of the mess deck and returned to the galley for his coffee.

“Ah, it’s no big deal,” Rob said. “We can’t live like this. The former occupants weren’t big on cleanliness, it seems. There’s more to do, but I think I might be getting a little green down there. Figured I better come up and get some fresh air.”

His comment concerned Spencer slightly. If the man was feeling seasick in these conditions, a real swell would do him in.

Maya finished stirring the bowl of eggs and slid it across the counter toward her mother.

“I’m helping my mom make breakfast.” She grabbed her turtle and climbed down from the crate she was standing on, making her way to Finn.

“I see that. And what a good job you’re doing. How did Lewis sleep last night?” Spencer asked.

“Pretty good.” She laughed, trapping the stuffed animal between her and Finn as she hugged the dog.

“We found the food in the refrigerator. I hope you don’t mind.” Nat flashed him a look of uncertainty.

“That’s fine. We just need to watch what we use. No telling when or where we’ll get more provisions,” Spencer warned.

They had plenty of room aboard the Black Bird for everyone, but not enough food if they kept eating like this. Spencer would have to sit down with the others and go over a few things. He was sure they’d understand, although he was disappointed that conserving resources wasn’t more obvious to the couple. Living aboard a sailboat made these considerations second nature to him. But he had to remember these people weren’t used to living like this. Still, the EMPs and the total deterioration of society should have clued them in.

What was done was done, though, and there was no point in bringing it up now. He’d at least wait until after breakfast. On the bright side, with a meal like this, they wouldn’t need to eat again for a while. There should also be no excuses for a lack of energy today while they tended to the many things that needed doing around the vessel.

Spencer helped Rob clear a spot at the table and also took a couple of minutes to check the horizon for other boats. Soon, they were all sitting down to an impressive spread. Little was said as they ate. They were all too hungry to waste time talking initially, but it didn’t take long for the pace to slow. Maya slipped Finn a piece of bacon under the table, and Spencer pretended not to notice. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have cared, but these were anything but normal circumstances. He’d wanted to wait until after breakfast, but now was as good a time as ever to have the talk.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Spencer did his best to lay out some basic guidelines and rules when it came to using water, food, and any other limited resource on board, and he tried to do it in a way that he hoped didn’t sound too harsh. But the reality of their situation couldn’t be downplayed.

The conversation was awkward at first until Rob and Nat confessed to getting carried away this morning in an attempt to show Spencer their gratitude for getting them and their daughter out of Marathon. They both committed to being more responsible and doing their best to conserve resources on board moving forward.

Spencer also reminded them that just because Jacksonville was the end of the line for them didn’t mean that was the case for everyone. Without the Hunter, this was his and Kate’s new home regardless of what was left on land. They had nothing else and nowhere else to go unless they stayed with her folks or his, and that might not even be possible, depending on the conditions in Stuart and Buxton.

Spencer was dreading the potentially confrontational discussion, but now that it was out in the open and they were all on the same page, he felt a weight lift from his chest and a sense of newfound confidence when it came to the future.

He finished off the rest of his breakfast as quickly as he could without being rude and was about to dismiss himself and get back up to the bridge. Then he noticed Rob’s vision fix on something off the port side as a look of concern passed over his face. Without asking what had Rob’s attention, Spencer turned in his seat to see what he was so interested in.

The recent moment of optimism that had replaced Spencer’s constant state of worry promptly faded at the sight of the big white cruise ship off the port bow. Spencer stood up from the table and swiftly relocated to the windows along the port side of the mess deck for a better view. How had he not seen the ship from the bridge? He checked his watch, confirming that he’d only been down in the galley for about half an hour. Too long away from his post, obviously, but hard to believe the boat had gotten this close in such a short amount of time, unseen. Spencer guessed the distance to be less than a mile, much too close for his liking.

Clearly, the cruise ship had always been there, but maybe he’d mistaken the massive off-white ship for a cloud when glassing the horizon. Staring out at an empty, open sea for hours on end could definitely play tricks on a person’s eyes as well as their mind.

“That’s a big one. Looks like a cruise ship,” Rob said and joined Spencer at the window.

“It is. I want to get a better look at her from the bridge.” Spencer pushed back from the bulkhead to hurry topside, but before he could turn away, he saw a glowing-hot, orange ball of fire shoot skyward from the cruise ship’s upper level, leaving a trail of twisted white smoke in its path.

“Was that a flare?” Nat asked as she and Maya joined them, their noses almost pressed against the glass like Finn’s. Finn pulled back at the sight of the flare and barked his disapproval of the big foreign object looming in the distance. Spencer felt the same about the sighting and needed to get his head wrapped around the situation. The ship had clearly seen them and was asking for help. It was adrift, judging by the angle of the boat and its lazy, deliberate movement to the north. It was hard to tell if it was dead in the water or not, but considering the recent EMPs, he had a feeling it was.

The cruise ship’s massive propellers sitting idle below the surface would act like two giant sea anchors, catching the Gulf Stream’s currents and slowly pulling the vessel northward. Without intervention, the ship would find itself being sucked out to sea as it drifted farther up the coast. Eventually, somewhere around the Outer Banks, the current would shift east toward the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and Bermuda.

Spencer nearly tripped over Finn as he crawled his way up the ladder to the bridge; the narrow, steep set of stairs leading to the upper deck wasn’t big enough for them all to climb at once, and Finn’s manners were nonexistent in his excitement. Eventually, Spencer made it to the helm, grabbing his binoculars from the shelf to get a good look at the vessel.

She was a cruise ship, all right. The multicolored waterslide track weaving its way between the main engine stack and the bright blue climbing wall covering the aft section of the ship was unmistakable. The ship belonged to Carousel Cruise Lines, one of Spencer’s least favorite. Not that he cared for any of the big cruise companies or their practices, but Carousel was known for its flagrant skirting of environmental regulations and had been found guilty and fined several times in the past couple of years alone. In Spencer’s opinion, the amounts levied against the conglomerate consisting of forty ships or more worldwide weren’t enough to keep the cruise line honest. And according to what was available on the web, the company made as much in a week’s time or less, easily offsetting the penalties.

Spencer continued his investigation of the distressed behemoth through his binoculars, identifying the vessel as the Opulence. A fitting handle for a ship that was guilty of overfeeding its guests and violating the environment in the name of profit.

“What are we going to do?” Nat asked from the weather deck just outside the pilothouse. She and Rob were taking turns looking at the big ship with a pair of binoculars Spencer had found earlier while searching the bridge.

“Nothing. I mean… what can we do?” Spencer answered without thinking through his initial reaction.

“But they need help,” Maya said, surprising Spencer with her insight and ability to make him feel immediately guilty about his statement.

Spencer shrugged. “There are thousands of people on that ship. We’ll be overwhelmed. And I’m not sure what we can actually do for them outside of letting the Navy or Coast Guard know about them if we happen to cross paths with either one of them.”

As if the cruise ship had somehow heard his oversimplified explanation, another flare rocketed skyward from the upper deck.

“Spencer’s right,” Rob said. “We can’t do anything for them. They probably have more food and water than we do. And if they’re smart about it, they’ll be fine for a long time.”

Spencer didn’t agree with Rob, at least not all of what he’d said. And he heavily doubted the average cruise goer’s propensity for intelligence, although he knew deep down that wasn’t a fair assessment, just his bias leaking through.

“We can’t just ignore them. Can we at least let them know somehow that we’ll send help?” Nat ran a hand through her tangled hair.

Spencer and Rob eyed each other with the same expression, one that Spencer thought expressed their mutual disbelief in the notion that they could find any help to send. It also expressed their disdain for getting any closer to the ship than necessary. There were thousands of people on board, and those people were no longer on vacation. Instead, they were on a quest to survive by any means necessary.

If things were copesetic aboard the Opulence, there wouldn’t be two flare trails reaching for the clouds. Spencer panned the faces of his crew and considered his next words carefully. Nat and Maya were upset by the situation, but that didn’t change the fact that they’d be overrun by a horde of desperate, greedy passengers looking for a way home or back to land.

Spencer hated to admit that his initial reaction at the sighting of the boat was about the possible windfall of supplies on board. His aspirations for restocking the Black Bird to her gills with supplies were quickly abandoned when he realized they’d be fighting a mob. They couldn’t possibly manage to cram more than a hundred people aboard the trawler without suffering the consequences.

Spencer reminisced about his time in the Coast Guard when they’d intercepted rafts and makeshift boats full of Haitians fleeing their corrupt and violent country. The Black Bird would look no different than those homemade, floundering vessels, overloaded with the potential for disaster. Who was going to stop the onslaught of people trying to get aboard their boat? Good intentions were one thing, but denial of the cruise ship passengers’ desperation could send them to the bottom alongside Restless. The trawler was a capable vessel, but she had her limits, and pushing them meant jeopardizing their mission to reach Kate.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Spencer was trying his best to be tactful in delivering his message to Maya and her mother, but his true focus was aimed at avoiding a collision with the oceangoing titan of a ship. As luck would have it, they were practically on course for an unwanted rendezvous with the Opulence if he didn’t change their heading soon.

Distances at sea had a way of evaporating quickly, especially when it came to crossing paths with other vessels or avoiding collisions. Even though the cruise ship was dead in the water, Spencer recognized it was too close for comfort. It was time to take action and navigate around the ship. Switching off the autopilot, Spencer took the wheel and held the Black Bird on course for a moment longer before veering east and aiming for a point well out of the cruise ship’s path.

He’d learned his lesson as a kid when he and his buddies found themselves offshore in a small boat facing the route of a cargo ship. His friend Jay had a twenty-one-foot Mako side console with a relic of a motor—a crusty two-stroke Johnson 115, to be precise.

The day started out innocently enough: just Spencer, his girlfriend at the time, and two of his good friends heading offshore a few miles to try their luck at landing some tuna. But the expedition ultimately escalated into something they would all later look back on and admit was extremely foolish.

As the hours passed and the tuna failed to materialize, they kept heading for deeper and deeper water, hoping to find fish. The seas were calm, and conditions were similar to today’s, emboldening them to push the small boat farther than they should have. Eventually, they came to their senses, but not before ending up in the deep waters near Hatteras Canyon, some forty-plus miles offshore. A foolish feat in a boat that size to begin with, but downright irresponsible with a single-engine two-stroke of that age and mechanical reliability. They made it home all right, but not without a good scare courtesy of a close call with a cargo ship.

The feeble two-stroke screamed as they tried to outrun the impossibly long vessel, realizing that the distance they thought they had to clear the freighter’s path was insufficient. The smiles and laughter aboard their small boat were soon replaced with stern looks and worried faces. His buddy ended up backing down on the throttle and passing behind the ship, where they got their butts handed to them from the tumultuous wake. The beating they endured in the cargo ship’s frothy aftermath was an eye-opening experience, bringing to light just how small and insignificant they were.

The trawler was far from small or insignificant, although compared to the cruise ship, they might as well be in a rowboat. Spencer had no desire to test the Black Bird or the resolve of the cruise ship’s passengers to escape their predicament. And he definitely had no intention of letting the Black Bird get any closer.

Nat clearly wasn’t happy about Spencer’s decision to avoid the ship and forsake the needy passengers. The most recent flare sent up from the drifting vessel didn’t help matters any. Spencer remained at the helm while Rob, Nat, and Maya moved farther out onto the extended weather deck surrounding the bridge. He could hear Rob going into greater detail about why they couldn’t risk pulling up next to the cruise ship and offering help. They weren’t avoiding the Opulence because Spencer didn’t want to help the cruisers but because he didn’t want to fall victim to an unruly crowd.

There was no doubt in Spencer’s mind about what the conditions on board the ship would be like, and although he tried not to think about it, his imagination had already painted some pretty grim pictures of the situation. Without power, the tiny staterooms would become unlivable in the summer heat, at least the inboard rooms that lacked balconies or windows for fresh air, but that would be the least concerning issue plaguing the passengers. No power meant food would spoil, leaving only dry goods or canned items. How long would that last a couple thousand people?

Adding to the dire conditions would be the ship’s inability to run the desalination system and make fresh water. They’d also have no way to deal with sewage or gray water. Desperation and self-preservation would be the order on deck. Spencer didn’t hold cruisers in high regard, but he wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone. He couldn’t think of anything worse than being confined on board a ship with dwindling resources and crowds of people who likely valued their lives over remaining civil to one another.

Unfortunately, it was becoming obvious that unless Spencer backtracked, he would pass by the aimless ship much closer than he’d hoped. At least the cruise ship hadn’t launched any more flares. Every time one of the bright orange distress signals shot skyward, Spencer’s guilt thickened. The looks he was getting from Nat as the couple continued their passionate debate outside the pilothouse weren’t making him feel any better about what they had to do, but there was no other way. Pulling up alongside the Opulence would be suicide.

Spencer recalled the broken bottles and pieces of debris raining down on them from the bridge when they shot through Moser Channel on the Hunter. The frenzied crowd that had tried to stop them from getting out of Marathon would make the people on board the cruise ship look tame by comparison. The passengers and crew stuck on the Opulence would have nothing to lose, and that made them dangerous. And with the Black Bird lacking room for more than a fraction of the people seeking escape from the dying ship, there could only be one outcome, and it would be disastrous for all of them, Spencer and his new friends included.

Nat’s and Maya’s expressions didn’t make doing what was necessary easy. Not that Spencer enjoyed turning his back on the ship, but as he took a more aggressive course and steered the Black Bird farther to the east, trying to widen the gap between it and the cruise ship, he reassured himself that they were doing the right thing—the only thing they could reasonably do.

Rob came in from the balcony first, wide-eyed and forcing a tight-lipped smile. Nat was behind him, with Maya in tow.

“I understand what we have to do. It doesn’t mean I’m okay with it, but if it has to be done like this…” Nat struggled to find the words, so she gave up instead.

Rob shook his head. “Hard decisions, and it won’t be the last.”

“They’d sink us for sure,” Spencer added.

Nat nodded in agreement and took Maya by the hand, leading her down the ladder. “We’ll keep working on tidying up below deck.” She sighed, glancing at Rob. “Let me know when we’ve passed, please. There’s no reason to be up here for this.”

Rob nodded at Nat and watched his wife and daughter disappear. Finn followed the girls, and Spencer let him go. Maybe the dog would bolster their spirits and occupy Maya’s attention. It wasn’t until this moment that Spencer noticed Ciro was missing. The bird was hardly a priority, but it was odd that he’d disappeared.

“I thought there was a bird up here?” Rob noticed him looking at Ciro’s perch.

“There was. No idea where he went, but I have a feeling he’ll be back.”

Spencer scanned the surrounding skies before turning his attention to the drifting cruise ship. He had bigger things to concern himself with than being surprised by Ciro whenever the bird decided to return and make a grand entrance the way he had in the past.

“Do you really think they’ll get help?” Rob stood with one foot in the pilothouse and one outside on the balcony, keeping a watchful eye on the ship.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure they can survive each other,” Spencer noted.

“Yeah, I bet it’s pretty nuts on that boat right now. Nat and I took a cruise once. I think it was with Carousel, if I’m not mistaken, although I can’t remember the name of the boat. Looked a lot like that one, though.” Rob held the binoculars up to his face again.

“Never been, never will,” Spencer stated.

“Not a fan, huh?” Rob moved all the way outside, stopping at the rail.

“You could say that,” Spencer answered.

“Honestly, I thought our three-day cruise was almost too long. It felt a little claustrophobic to me, and we had an outside cabin with a balcony. I can’t imagine being stuck on one of those for any length of time.” Rob shook his head. “And definitely not like this.”

“I wish we could do more for them, but pulling up alongside that ship would be the end for us.” Spencer reiterated his misgivings about getting involved.

“Well, based on the people we saw at the buffets during our cruise, I’d have to agree. We saw two women get into a shoving match over the last two crab legs. I can’t imagine what would happen if we pulled up alongside and said we could only take x amount of people with us. It’d be pandemonium. I could see things getting ugly real fast.” Rob exhaled loudly through pursed lips.

“That’s what I keep telling myself, hoping it’ll make me feel better about what we’re doing, but it’s not working,” Spencer admitted.

Leaving the drifting ship and its passengers to their own devices wouldn’t be something he could be proud of, and it would be an event he’d leave out of any stories he told Kate, although he liked to think that if she was here, she’d agree with his decision.

They were a little more than the Opulence’s length away from the ship itself, which equated to probably around seven or eight hundred feet. Spencer hadn’t planned on passing this close, but here they were. Far enough to avoid any attempts made by passengers or crew to reach the Black Bird, but not so far that they couldn’t see the people lined up at the rails, watching them, waving their arms, and shouting indiscernibly.

The ship hadn’t launched any more flares, and although giving the stranded tourists false hope wasn’t his intention, Spencer couldn’t help but think, for a short moment, that some of the people on board the Opulence probably thought the trawler was coming to their rescue. While Spencer and the others were already grappling with their difficult decision, inadvertently raising the passengers’ expectations only exacerbated Spencer’s moral dilemma. But as Rob had stated previously, this was a hard decision forced on them by circumstance, and it wouldn’t be the last.

CHAPTER NINE

Spencer could hear the cries and screams of the cruise ship passengers long after the Black Bird had passed the drifting vessel. Rob shouted to the passengers as they steamed by in the trawler, promising they would send help, but Spencer doubted the cruisers heard him over the jeers of their shipmates.

He kept one eye on the lower access doors near the waterline, which were typically used to facilitate the transfer of passengers to the tenders for ports with insufficient dockage to handle the massive vessel.

Some of the people looked close to jumping from the upper levels, but fortunately, they remained aboard. Leaving the ship behind was one thing, but Spencer wasn’t sure he had the resolve or the stomach to ignore people in the water. This cold feeling in his gut was almost too much of a burden to bear; his decision to avoid the cruise ship flew in the face of every instinct and core value he held. But his hands were tied on this one. He kept telling himself that any other action would be their demise, but no matter how many times he tried to convince himself of the obvious, he found himself coming up far short of absolution on the matter.

For Nat and Maya’s sake, Spencer hoped the pleadings and wails from the masses gathered at the rails of the Opulence didn’t carry below deck. He blamed himself for the close encounter, though, and swore never to leave the bridge for that long again. At the very least, he should have spotted the cruise ship on the radar, if not with binoculars, and although he was fresh off an all-nighter, that was no excuse. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes like that. What if the ship hadn’t been dead in the water, and what if it had been another gang of bandits looking for prey? They’d gotten extremely lucky, although the rotten feeling in his gut certainly suggested otherwise.

Spencer turned his back on the fading ship for the last time and vowed to remain focused on the instruments and open water ahead. Rob stayed planted on the weather deck behind the bridge for a while longer with his binoculars, although for the life of him, Spencer couldn’t imagine why. The blip on the radar screen was reminder enough of what had taken place, and he’d be glad when the cruise ship was out of range. It would take much longer to fade from his memory, though. If it ever did.

Of course, they would send help if they could. But the intention hardly made Spencer feel better, especially since the likelihood of finding anyone capable of rescuing the cruise ship was extremely slim. Under normal circumstances, thousands of lives adrift and helpless at sea would be cause for a major mobilization, but it paled in comparison to the needs on land. Even if there were assets nearby, the authorities’ priority would be inshore.

Spencer wondered about the current state of the Navy and Coast Guard. He imagined any and all functional vessels would be assigned to secure the coast and inner waterways from further attack and to assist with rescue and recovery operations. Whoever had launched the EMPs might try to follow the despicable act with an invasion. But the longer he thought about the possibility of foreign boots on U.S. soil, the more he doubted that was a legitimate concern, not yet anyway.

Spencer was anxious to learn more about what was happening when they reached Stuart. He wasn’t sure they would find out anything new or that any amount of information would make much of a difference. Maybe the EMPs were isolated to Florida or the East Coast, although that didn’t make any sense, and he knew better than to think this was anything but an attack on the entire country. If anyone had information about what was going on, it would be Tom.

Kate’s dad was tied in pretty well with the local community of veterans in his area. Maybe he could shed some light on the events that had sent them into darkness. But based on the look of the sky that night, Spencer was afraid he already knew all there was to know—or all that mattered.

“That was pretty rough.” Rob made his way back inside and slid the binoculars onto the console with a look that indicated he was feeling about as damaged as Spencer.

“I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Spencer promised. “I hope Nat and Maya are okay.”

“They’ll be all right. Nat’s got a big heart. She once camped out in a lawn chair overnight in our backyard, trying to lure a stray kitten out from under the shed. She was convinced the cat had been abandoned and would starve without help. She’s pretty resilient, but she has to be for her job.”

“Well, that’s good, because I’m thinking we’ll see much worse when we get to Stuart. I’m not trying to be a downer, but I don’t imagine things will look any better there than they did in Marathon.” Spencer thought about the people they’d left behind on the ash-covered beach of the Turtle Bay Resort.

Rob sighed. “Yeah, probably not.”

The surviving tourists who were lucky enough to get out of their rooms before the resort buildings were enveloped in flames were really no better off than the people aboard the cruise ship. They were on land, but the cruisers had more resources at their disposal. Of course, that all depended on how well they managed the supplies on board the ship. Based on the hysterical people crowding the rails of the stranded ship, Spencer had little faith that the passengers would excel in that task.

He wondered if the tourists stuck on the beach had broken into the Fat Snook yet. There was nothing he could do about that now, not that he could have if he was even still there to try. Just a few hours into this tragedy and civility had faded fast. The man with the gun demanding more food, the close call at his truck, the firefight at Damon’s. No, being ashore for this catastrophe was no safe bet.

Spencer wasn’t sure who had drawn the short straw in this situation: the cruisers or the resort survivors. He was just thankful he wasn’t in either group’s shoes and that he and the others had the means to escape when they could.

Spencer grabbed his mug of coffee and drained the last few cold drops. He was about to ask Rob if he could watch things for a minute while he shot down to the galley for a refill.

“Spencer, I think we’ve got company.” Rob had wandered out onto the aft weather deck again but was now retreating back into the pilothouse. Spencer set his mug down on the console and followed Rob’s pointed finger. Spencer was hoping Rob’s eyes were playing tricks on him, but he saw it, too: a small orange and white shape that reminded Spencer of the small boat he used to deploy from the Coast Guard cutter he’d been stationed on.

The incoming vessel was directly in line with the cruise ship, which was now nothing more than a white dot on the horizon to their east. Spencer’s instinct was to glass the boat with his binoculars, but he went to the radar display screen instead and turned up the gain control knob. The consistent alarm sounding with each full rotation of the antenna as it picked up the fading cruise ship was too much to bear, along with the guilt over what he’d done. Spencer wasn’t familiar with the radar and its multitude of knobs, switches, and buttons, but he did figure out how to lower the unit’s sensitivity after passing the cruise ship. And he did exactly that in an attempt to get a little peace of mind, although it failed to help.

“How far out are they? Are they coming this way?” Rob asked.

“Hang on.” Spencer watched with bated breath as the antenna reported its findings and the green bar swept around the screen once more.

Just one mark showed up, and it was the cruise ship. This was an older radar unit, but it still had a range scale of twenty-four miles. Although they could barely make out the big white ship, it was the only one showing up on the display. Spencer fumbled with the controls, adjusting gain and reducing the range scale, hoping to pick up the small boat, but he had no luck. He wasn’t even sure if he was operating the system correctly. Probably not. He was a gunner’s mate, after all, not a boatswain.

He watched in frustration as the screen cycled through another rotation, failing to pick up the new vessel on the display.

“Well?” Rob was back to looking through his binoculars and growing impatient with Spencer’s silence.

“Nothing but the cruise ship’s showing. That can only mean one thing. The other boat must be made out of rubber, like a zodiac, or I guess it could be fiberglass and just lacks enough metal to register.” Spencer was hoping to get a fix on the recently discovered vessel and track its heading to see if the small craft was in fact coming their way. But he really didn’t need a radar system to tell him what he already knew.

He brought the Black Bird back around to their original heading, toward Saint Lucie Inlet, and engaged the autopilot before heading out onto the balcony with Rob. He took his good binoculars with him, choosing to switch on the gyroscopic feature, partly to counter the increasing swell size but mostly because he considered sizing up the approaching craft to be worth a little battery life.

“It’s from the cruise ship, isn’t it?” Rob asked.

Spencer waited to answer until he had the orange and white craft in sight, but he already knew what it was. They were too far from shore for a boat this size to be out here alone. Given the current conditions on land, though, anything was possible.

The boat looked like a tender from the Opulence, and it was. “Yep, that’s exactly what it is, and they’re headed this way.”

“They? How many of them?” Rob put his binoculars down and hung on as a larger swell rolled the trawler to the port side, tipping them toward the water. Not only had the swell risen in the last hour or so, but the seas had changed direction and were now running south against the current. These weren’t the ideal conditions Spencer was hoping would expedite the trip, but there were bigger things to worry about now.

“I count five. Could be more. The tender has a small cabin, but…” Spencer paused.

“But what?” Rob pushed him to finish.

“You should go make sure Maya and Nat stay below deck until we tell them otherwise. Just in case. I see weapons.” Spencer lowered his binoculars with a disappointed sigh.

The decision to leave the passengers and crew of the cruise ship to fend for themselves would cost them more than a heavy conscience after all.

CHAPTER TEN

While Rob was below deck, relaying the bad news to his wife and daughter, Spencer prepared for the worst. He’d added his 12-gauge Benelli Supernova and AR-15 to the weapons rack on the bridge and chose his carbine for the inevitable encounter with the cruise ship’s tender. He couldn’t imagine the crew aboard the tender being much in the mood to negotiate. The discourse between them might start out innocent enough, but Spencer was under no illusion that this was anything other than a life-and-death situation from the approaching cruiser’s perspective.

The tender and her crew had undoubtedly been sent to gain access to the trawler and circle back to the cruise ship to rescue the others. The mission was flawed from the start, though, and would only serve to ruin the chances of survival for all of them. If the people on board the tender somehow managed to seize control of the Black Bird, they would suffer the same fate as Spencer and the others would have if they’d responded to the flares with a rescue attempt of their own.

But Spencer was determined not to let that happen. He couldn’t, if he expected to ever see Kate again. He lifted the seat that Finn had claimed as his own to access the storage underneath. He grabbed a few loaded magazines for his rifle and stuffed one in each back pocket of his shorts, using the third to arm the carbine.

Spencer heard Rob’s ascent to the bridge long before the man appeared, his heavy footsteps ringing each metal stair tread like an ancient gong.

“They’ll stay below. Finn too. I figured you’d want him out of the way as well. Nat’s not too happy about it, but she promised.” Rob stopped, his face revealing his surprise about the rifle in Spencer’s hands. “You’re not expecting this to go very well, I take it?”

“Are you?” Spencer answered his question with one of his own.

“No. Not really.” Rob swung his head from side to side.

Spencer yanked the modified AK-47 with the cumbersome drum magazine from the rack and pushed it into Rob’s arms. He’d reloaded the salt-tarnished metal drum last night in his infinite boredom and was glad now that he had. The weapon wasn’t very accurate—he knew that from experience—but what it lacked in precision, the snubbed machine gun made up for in volume and intimidation. And that was exactly what they were going to need if they intended to discourage a boatload of frantic, armed people who saw the trawler as their only chance at survival.

Failure to capture the Black Bird meant sure death in their minds, a notion that might very well prove true if they were left to their fates aboard the crippled cruise ship. Spencer didn’t think their situation necessarily had to turn out so grim, but that would have required cooperation and civility among the trapped passengers aboard the Opulence. And those were attributes that he failed to see as he passed by the ship.

Rob eyed the weapon as if he were a chef with a prized recipe in hand, eager to experiment with its potential. “Is this the one you used yesterday?”

“Yeah. Same as the one you had, except you’ve got fifty rounds to get the point across. The sight works but puts you high and to the left, so you know,” Spencer explained.

“Got it.” Rob’s gaze remained fixed on the weapon in his hands, a slight grin creasing the left corner of his mouth.

“Ready to find out what these guys want? Although I’m sure I already know.” Spencer stepped out onto the rear weather deck and made his way to the aft rail overlooking the Black Bird’s stern.

He positioned himself behind a solid section of the railing dead center of the weather deck and watched as the cruise tender approached. Rob joined him, with his weapon in hand and ready but held low across his midsection. Spencer opted to let his carbine hang freely from the tactical single-point sling for now, keeping one hand free to take action if need be. The last thing he wanted to do was needlessly escalate the situation. He was sure that would happen organically on its own.

“They won’t take no for an answer. You know that, right?” Rob stated.

Spencer knew Rob was right but didn’t answer his new friend right away.

“They’ve got nothing to lose,” Rob added as he watched the small boat draw closer through the Black Bird’s wake.

The tender was still several hundred yards away, but with each passing second, the crew and their intentions became clearer. A bustle of activity appeared on the small boat’s deck as people moved about and readied themselves for the encounter. If Spencer had to guess, he’d wager they were preparing to board, but he and Rob couldn’t let that happen.

He initially thought there were only about five people on board the tender but could now clearly count at least seven, all armed from what he could see. Some had pistols tucked into their belts, and a few had AR-15-style rifles. A vessel the size of the Opulence would have the means to protect itself in case of an emergency—or at least the means to hold trouble at bay until the proper authorities arrived. Most people probably didn’t realize that almost all cruise ships had some sort of armory and holding facility on board to deal with unruly passengers or, in some cases, criminals. And these people coming toward the Black Bird weren’t just random cruisers who’d taken matters into their own hands.

Some of them were wearing crew uniforms, so this was a sanctioned attempt to commandeer the trawler for the cruiser’s needs. Spencer knew for a fact that some of the security personnel on these cruise ships were highly trained individuals well-versed in dealing with pirates and proficient in tactical measures. And he had to assume the other members of the group in civilian clothes had probably been chosen for this boarding party for a reason as well. He and Rob needed to stay on their toes and be ready for anything.

“So what’s our move here?” Rob adjusted his stance against the rocking boat, with one hand on his weapon and the other clinging to the railing.

“We’ve got to maintain the upper hand. Under no circumstances can we let them board. I feel bad about all of this, but it won’t help anything to let them aboard. You saw those people on the ship when we passed. The mob mentality has taken over.”

“I’m with you, no matter what,” Rob assured him.

Spencer instinctually slid his hand down onto the pistol grip of his rifle. His intentions had been to approach the situation from a neutral position, but when a boatful of armed people were approaching, that was a hard sentiment to maintain. He thought it better to show the tender and her crew that they meant business as well, and that meant using their weapons, if it came to that. Spencer still hoped against reason that this would remain a civil interaction, though.

These were people, after all, fellow Americans who had fallen on hard luck. And there was no question they deserved help. It just so happened that Spencer wasn’t in a position to offer anything other than a promise to send help, and that’s what he intended on telling them when they were close enough. He’d already considered offering to tow the massive vessel but dismissed the idea almost as fast as it had come to him. The trawler lacked the power needed to move the cruise ship with any proficiency. It wasn’t even a matter of moving slowly; rather, he worried about their ability to break free of the Gulf Stream’s currents. And he wasn’t about to blow the Black Bird’s engine and leave them to the same fate as the cruise ship.

The tender was closing in on them now, almost in shouting range. As tensions rose, Spencer found himself unable to resist holding his rifle with both hands at the high-ready position in spite of the rocking boat. He widened his stance to counter the building seas and braced himself for what was sure to be an unpleasant exchange of harsh truths. It wasn’t his intention to appear unreceptive right out of the gate, but a swift change of heart was the only logical response to the threatening manner in which the tender’s crew were conducting themselves.

“Did you notice that? They’re not here to talk, Spencer.” Rob was having a hard time staying on his feet while maintaining a firm grip on his mutant 7.62mm Kalashnikov assault rifle. The gun had been shortened by snubbing the barrel, and the body lightened with aftermarket furniture, but the fifty-round drum magazine and remaining original steel and wooden parts made for a cumbersome platform compared to Spencer’s modern hardware.

“Yeah, I see.” Spencer acknowledged Rob’s concern as the tender crew appeared to be preparing for more than just conversation. Those on board the bright orange craft with AR-15s were racking their weapons’ charging handles, and the crew members who brandished handguns followed their shipmates’ lead by pulling the weapons from their belts.

The only thing Spencer needed to do to prepare for the encounter was flip his safety off and figure out what he was going to say once he thought they were close enough to hear him. He wished the boat had an external loudspeaker, but it didn’t have a ship-wide PA system from what he had seen. He would have preferred to give his warning from a greater distance, but that wasn’t an option.

“You’re good to go, by the way. Just throw the safety off.” Spencer noticed Rob fumbling around with his weapon. He’d left all the weapons in the rack loaded and the safeties engaged. After yesterday, he didn’t want to be caught off guard or unprepared. Although he might have to rethink that strategy with Maya on board, it was something he could worry about later.

If there was a later.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Spencer released his rifle for a moment, letting the weapon dangle from the single-point sling, and cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’ll send help when we make land.”

He wasn’t sure if they could hear him over the earnest chug of the diesel and the churning water rising up from the transom, but he was anxious to get this over with. There was much to do today on board their new home, and the discovery of a cruise ship in their path had already taken up too much of their morning. But there was another reason Spencer wanted to hurry this encounter along.

He’d noticed several large clusters of interference on the radar screen when he was adjusting the gain control earlier. He’d been trying to pinpoint the exact distance of the tender when Rob first spotted it and inadvertently managed to locate a sizable weather system to their north. Spencer wasn’t overly concerned about the distant storm, but if the building swell was any indication of things to come, he predicted they were due for some bad weather and even rougher seas in the near future.

They’d taken the Black Bird in a hail of bullets and been forced to immediately give their attention to the sinking Hunter. In their fevered rush to extract everything of value from Restless and familiarize themselves with the trawler, there hadn’t been any time to make sure the Black Bird was ready for inclement weather or anything more challenging than the current swell they were riding. Spencer had made a quick sweep below deck when initially boarding but hadn’t paid attention to the boat’s seaworthiness at the time. Clearing the trawler of any immediate threats and locating fuel had been his top priorities.

Spencer realized his call had gone unanswered and was about to shout the message once more, but Rob beat him to it.

“We’ll send help. We can’t take you aboard.” Rob was almost twice Spencer’s size in girth alone and had a thunderous voice that matched his sturdy frame.

His attempt at communication seemed more effective than Spencer’s. The resonant depth of his voice conveyed a seriousness that Spencer had aimed for in his call but, in his own opinion, had failed to achieve. The message should have been clear and unmistakable to those aboard the tender, or so Spencer imagined.

He had his answer soon enough when one of the men holding an AR-15 shouted back, “We just want to talk. Permission to board?”

The tender picked up speed before the man finished speaking and cut toward the Black Bird, taking a more direct line through the wake and aiming for their starboard side.

“We can’t let you do that,” Rob shouted back, glancing at Spencer briefly as if to check for his approval of the message. “We’ll send help when we reach land.”

“We’ve got a ship full of people. You have to help us,” the man pleaded as the tender continued its advance in spite of Rob’s answer.

Spencer studied the boat; there was something off about the situation, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The RHIB (rigid hull inflatable boat) had a small weather-resistant pilothouse, but otherwise, the rubber-pontoon-sided tender was wide open, exposing suitcases, duffle bags, food items, several cases of water, and other miscellaneous personal belongings. The pile of gear and supplies seemed out of place for a boat that had supposedly come seeking help for the rest of the people on board the cruise ship. And they definitely weren’t bringing provisions to share. Spencer didn’t like it, and judging by Rob’s wrinkled brow and clenched jaw, neither did he.

The tender slowed its speed and maneuvered directly behind the Black Bird as the crew talked among themselves, visibly deciding their next move after being denied access to the trawler. They were at a stalemate. The tender’s crew was obviously not ready to give up that easily, but with the construction of their boat, they were wise to tread lightly. Spencer and Rob could render the RHIB worthless in a matter of seconds with a few rounds to the inflatable pontoons keeping the boat on top of the water. The fiberglass hull underneath might or might not keep them afloat on its own, but Spencer surmised that it would not, especially with the added weight of the twin 150 Yamaha outboards hanging off the back.

But what the tender lacked in durability, the RHIB almost made up for with its ability to outmaneuver the trawler. The craft had approached cautiously, but Spencer was certain the lightweight, twenty-plus-foot hybrid vessel could run circles around the trawler with that kind of horsepower. The Diligence, Spencer’s last duty station cutter, carried a similar RHIB on her port side. They used the deployable small boat to carry out tactical law enforcement operations and search-and-rescue missions.

The Diligence was fresh out of dry dock, so after the initial sea trials at Norfolk, they steamed for Bermuda on their first official outing. It was a good chance to put the freshly refurbished cutter through her paces, and thanks to the storm they encountered, they did just that. But once they reached Bermuda in one piece, save for a few dents and some missing hull paint, the officers and anyone who hadn’t pulled watch duty took the opportunity to enjoy shore leave.

As luck would have it, Spencer was stuck on board the first two days they were in port, but it wasn’t all bad. The newly delivered RHIB they’d picked up in Norfolk needed to have the engines broken in. Thanks to the rough seas and nasty weather, they hadn’t been able to run the small boat behind the cutter on the way there as planned. It was all about accumulating hours with the sporty little boat, and that’s exactly what Spencer and a few other deckhands did. He must have logged twenty hours behind the wheel of the nimble little boat that looked a lot like the one trailing them now, and he had a good appreciation for the tender’s capabilities.

Those were good times, but this was not, and Spencer was losing patience with the tender’s crew. The last thing he wanted to worry about was a boat full of armed, desperate people following the Black Bird and waiting for the right moment to shoot their shot at commandeering the trawler.

The RHIB couldn’t hold that much fuel, not enough to reach land, anyway. The small boat would run out eventually, and the crew would have no choice but to head back to the cruise ship. Or try to board the trawler. If they weren’t armed, Spencer would have gone back inside and ignored the tender for the most part. But given the current situation, that would have been foolish and dangerous.

“So what do we do?” Rob was growing tired, and understandably so.

The mid-morning sun was starting to take its toll on Spencer as well. He was already struggling with exhaustion and wasn’t exactly running on all cylinders after the all-nighter he’d pulled at the helm. The heat rising off the dark-colored, Awlgrip-covered deck through his lightweight running shoes made it feel like he was standing on a warming pan. It was time to force the crew aboard the tender to make a choice—and the right one at that. That meant persuading them to choose wisely, through force if necessary.

“We should tell them to back off or we’ll be forced to protect ourselves. No, wait.” Spencer had better think about his words carefully. He didn’t want to escalate the situation unnecessarily, but he also didn’t want to appear weak or unwilling to use force. Throwing out an ultimatum would paint him and Rob into a corner. He glanced around, making sure there were still no other boats in sight. It felt like they’d been at this for hours, but the minute hand on his watch said otherwise.

But before Spencer could decide on his next move, and much to his surprise, Rob leaned into the rail and fired a short volley of rounds into the air. The repetitive crack of a half dozen rounds being spent echoed off the water and got the attention of everyone on board the tender in a hurry. The pilot backed off the throttle, and the small boat began to lose ground, falling back from the transom.

Rob kept the business end of his rifle pointed at the tender. “No more games. Next time, I won’t miss. I suggest you turn around and head on back.”

Spencer was initially shocked that Rob had taken things to the next level so casually and without warning, but everybody had their limits, and with a wife and small child hiding below deck, Rob had reached his. The decisive action worried Spencer to some degree, but in the moment, his concerns were soon forgotten. A spike of adrenaline charged through him, overpowering any feelings of sluggishness caused by the lack of sleep.

He was emboldened by Rob’s impromptu display of grit with the would-be boarding party. Rather than question the man’s actions, Spencer brought his carbine up to his shoulder and aimed at the tender in solidarity with Rob. Whether he agreed with Rob’s tactic or not, his bullets and words had sent a clear message that couldn’t possibly be misinterpreted by the tender’s crew any longer.

Some of the men with AR-15s raised their weapons partially as if they were going to return fire. Spencer and Rob ducked down, partially hiding behind the solid section of steel railing.

“I’d think long and hard about what you do next,” Rob shouted before the crew of the tender could reply to his first admonition. “If that doesn’t get them off our tail, I don’t know what will.” He shot Spencer an abbreviated grin as if they were playing some sort of game of game, then went back to peering down the barrel of his gun at the tender.

“They’re not going back to the cruise ship. They never were.” Spencer remained crouched down behind the section of modified railing. The quarter-inch-thick, welded-in-place steel plate that nearly spanned the entirety of the rear weather deck was useful beyond displaying the trawler’s name on the outside. Spencer had to assume the heavy steel plate had been put here for just this reason, considering the occupational hazards of the former crew.

“All that gear,” Rob snarled.

“Yep. That’s their stuff. They don’t want the Black Bird so they can go back for the other passengers on the cruise ship.”

Rob’s eyes narrowed as Spencer’s revelation about the tender crew’s intentions sank in. “I knew it… What a bunch of…” His voice trailed off through a clenched jaw.

“They need this boat; they can’t make it to shore in that thing.” Spencer peered over the steel plate.

“Well, that can’t happen.” Rob joined him in watching the boat from the safety of cover.

“The cruise ship is still an option for them. Maybe they’ll decide we’re too much trouble and head back?” Even before he finished, Spencer recognized that what he was saying was unlikely.

Rob caught a bead of sweat headed down his face with his shirt sleeve. “I don’t see that happening.”

A split second later, they had their answer as the RHIB’s twin outboards roared to life. Spencer and Rob both watched as the tender picked up speed, leaving a dual trail of spiraling cavitation in the clear blue water behind them. For a brief moment, Spencer thought the crew had finally come to their senses, but that glimmer of hope quickly faded when the small boat turned, cutting toward the Black Bird’s port side in a wide arc with clear intentions of flanking the larger boat.

So much for things going better today.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“They’re trying to come alongside to get a better angle.” Rob followed the speeding boat with the barrel of his rifle, and as it got up on plane, he squeezed off several rounds.

Spencer was beginning to recognize the AK’s distinctive bark. The short, sharp, repeating bangs that sounded like someone beating a steel drum with a pipe, combined with the rattle of metal parts on metal parts. But in spite of the weapon’s impressive performance, the bullets fell short of the craft, splashing down several yards high and to the left.

Spencer took aim but abandoned his position to take cover with Rob just as a barrage of bullets ricocheted off the steel plating they were hiding behind. Spencer felt the transfer of energy from the spent rounds through the barrier while wondering if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. But there was no time for that kind of thinking, and even if there was, it was far too late to do anything about it now but fight back.

As the vibrations traveled through his body with the clank of each new impact, Spencer prepared to return fire. As soon as there was a break in the action, he’d make his move. He and Rob couldn’t wait much longer or the RHIB would have a clear shot at them from the side. If he could get to the trawler’s controls, Spencer could keep the tender at their helm and at least have some degree of protection. He glanced at the pilothouse, then noticed Rob looking at him.

“I got you. Hang on.” Rob chanced a peek over the railing between incoming rounds and gave Spencer a nod. “Get ready.”

Spencer braced himself against the rocking boat, placing a foot at the base of the railing for leverage and moving his AR-15 around to his back for the short sprint.

“Now!” Rob yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the rhythmic clamor of his weapon.

Spencer pushed off and covered the ten-foot gap in three exaggerated strides, slamming into the side of the doorway on his way through the opening, thanks to the motion of the trawler in the building waves. The misstep and consequent collision with the doorframe left Spencer on the deck, staring up at the helm station. A little dazed, he scrambled to his feet while spinning the wheel hard to starboard.

Rob was still on his trigger, pumping round after round toward their pursuers. Hopefully some found their way into the bright orange pontoons adorning the RHIB’s hull. Spencer would rather they end this thing by disabling the boat but understood a solution by any means necessary was in order.

The Black Bird leaned hard as Spencer cranked the wheel. He disengaged the autopilot so the system wouldn’t fight his evasive maneuvers. They’d get back on course after all this was over. The important thing right now was to keep the tender behind their stern for as long as he could. Spencer pushed the throttle forward as far as he dared, sending the needle dangerously close to the red zone of the gauge.

This was a lot of boat to move, but Spencer was pleasantly surprised by a noticeable surge of power and additional forward momentum as the turbo kicked in, giving them a couple of extra knots and enough of an edge to foil the RHIB’s immediate plans to flank them.

“Get down!” Rob shouted through a puff of black diesel smoke. A few seconds later, a series of bullets zipped past outside, with one finding the corner of an already broken window.

Spencer cowered against the flying glass fragments, keeping his eyes shut until the small, jagged pieces of material stopped stinging his skin. When he opened his eyes, the RHIB had changed directions and was attempting to move to the inside of their current turn and cut them off. Spencer turned the wheel in the opposite direction and countered the tender’s maneuver, adding another twist to the trail of foam in the water behind them.

“I think I hit one of the pontoons!” Rob shouted over the high-pitched whine of the diesel. The RHIB’s speed seemed unaffected, but the portside pontoon was showing wrinkles in the otherwise taut, heavy-duty vinyl membrane.

“When they hit that wake, run for the bridge!” Spencer shouted back.

The tender’s bow was headed straight for the Black Bird’s wake, thanks to Spencer’s extreme maneuvering and willingness to push the big boat’s limits. The chop produced by the erratic turns had combined with the current swell conditions, making for a localized mix of whitecaps and four- to six-foot seas.

Spencer waited and watched as the RHIB headed bow-first into the turbulent mix at full throttle. The pilot was still focused on outmaneuvering the Black Bird in an attempt to board. But the tender’s coxswain should have been more concerned with the conditions and the readiness of his crew to handle the sizable slop generated by the two boats zigzagging through the water in their high-stakes game of cat and mouse.

“Now, come on, Rob. Run!” Spencer encouraged Rob to make the transition from the weather deck to the pilothouse.

The tender hadn’t yet reached the rougher water, but her crew had taken notice of the mess they were heading into, albeit too late.

Rob headed for Spencer’s location and the relative safety of the enclosed pilothouse, but not before a loud smacking sound cut through the engine noise. The tender’s fiberglass hull made contact with the first big wave at a speed that made Spencer wince in appreciation of the forces at play and the bone-jarring, abrupt jolt he knew the RHIB’s crew were experiencing.

“Come on.” He did his best to coax Rob along, but it was too hard to look away from the imminent disaster.

And who could blame him? The RHIB’s nose busted through the first foamy peak with an explosion of spray and shouts from the crew. The small boat launched at least thirty feet into the air as the entire underside of the tender’s slick gray hull became visible, flying high above the water. A few moments later, gravity overpowered the boat’s momentum, and the tender fell flatly into the trough between swells with another loud smack.

The entire crew lost their footing and ended up sprawled out across the deck, a mess of gear, people, and weapons being washed about by a surge of water that had made it over the tender’s deflating pontoon on the port side. The captain and one other with him in the pilothouse didn’t fare much better than those out on the open deck and were forced to their knees by the overpowering g-forces at work, despite having ample points to hang on to inside the tiny cabin.

One of the men who had been standing near the bow wound up pinned against the punctured pontoon. No longer rigid due to the loss of air, the port section of inflatable hull gave way under the strain. A second rush of salt water poured over the deflating pontoon, flushing the boat of almost all the loose gear and the man who had been pinned against the heavily creased section of the damaged pontoon.

One of the other crew had the presence of mind to try and save his friend, but there was no chance of rescue with the pilot still running the boat at full tilt. Spencer couldn’t believe the RHIB’s captain hadn’t backed off the throttle after the beating they’d just taken. He chalked it up to inexperience and panic and maybe shock at what these people had brought on themselves.

Unfortunately for the man overboard, the worst of his troubles had just begun. The twin Yamahas, still wound up at full throttle, pushed the tender forward through the impossible chop, running him over. The foam behind the RHIB turned a pale pink color as the engines bucked on their mounts and made chum out of the unlucky cruiser.

“Oh man.” Rob’s face contorted as he watched the grisly event. Then he pulled himself the rest of the way into the pilothouse.

“He’s gonna get them all killed if he doesn’t get control of that boat.” Spencer had intended on laying down cover fire for Rob’s dash to the bridge, but there was no need with the inexperienced pilot at the tender’s wheel.

The remaining crew gathered themselves as best they could, but before more than a few made it back to their feet, another wave swamped the boat, pushing them all backward against the tiny cabin.

Once again, the crew began to pick themselves up off the flooded deck, but the tender shot over another peak, leaving them all weightless for a second and helplessly suspended a couple of feet in the air. As it slammed down hard again, gravity brought them all to the deck abruptly with a melody of thuds and groans that Spencer and Rob could hear from the Black Bird.

Most of the tender’s crew tried to regain their footing, except for two of them who remained all but motionless on the deck. The sloshing water inside the tender moved their limbs about involuntarily, but otherwise, Spencer assumed they’d been knocked unconscious by the irresponsible driving of the coxswain, who had just now regained control of the vessel. It was hard to tell if the bloody water inside the boat was a result of the man who’d fallen overboard being churned up in the props or if the remaining crew had sustained serious injuries from being tossed around and slammed into the hard parts of the boat every few seconds. But it didn’t really matter as long as the chase was over. If the tender’s captain and crew were smart, they’d lick their wounds and head back to the cruise ship, which was just barely visible.

Spencer eyed the small white speck on the horizon, a dot that he could cover with his thumb if he held it up at arm’s length. Could they even make it back to the cruise ship, considering the damage to the pontoon? And who knew what the hull looked like; Spencer envisioned a web of fractures running rampant through the gel coat from the mishandling of the craft. There was a good chance the RHIB was taking on water into the fiberglass portion of the hull, although Spencer was also aware that those types of boats could take a good beating and soldier on.

He and his shipmates used to catch air all the time in rough seas during boardings or search-and-rescue operations. The difference was that they were prepared and braced for impact. That made all the difference in the world when dealing with big swells. Of course, having an experienced coxswain at the helm was a key factor in successfully navigating the high seas. And that was something the RHIB definitely lacked.

“I think they got a little more than they bargained for, eh?” Rob relaxed his grip on the weapon in his hands and joined Spencer at the row of windows along the bulkhead.

“Let’s not take any chances.”

Spencer jumped to the helm station and backed off on the throttle, but only enough to back the needle out of the red zone. The tender was wounded, but he wanted to make sure its crew was down for the count. He’d already asked too much of the old trawler and knew he was pushing his luck at this speed, but now wasn’t the time to let up on his efforts to thwart a boarding.

The pilot of the RHIB was back behind the wheel and evidently not convinced that he, his crew, or the tender had had enough yet. The choppy waters surrounding the tender were causing it to bob around wildly like a top-heavy cork while the captain and crew regained their composure, but those conditions wouldn’t last unless Spencer did something about it.

“Hang on.” He held his breath as he prepared to push the Black Bird’s steering and mechanical capabilities to the limit by performing a back and fill, or at least something like that. The maneuver was also known as goosing, but Spencer had never attempted any such thing, let alone in a boat this size. The hot-dog method of switching directions in a hurry was more rotation than turn, and if done right, it could spin the vessel around 180 degrees in less than a couple of boat lengths.

The move required quick hands, working both the wheel and throttle to manipulate the vessel through the harsh stunt. Without further delay, Spencer spun the wheel hard to his port side, cutting a sharp turn through the water while simultaneously pulling the throttle back to naught.

“Whoa.” Rob grabbed the handrail that spanned the length of the console and braced himself as the bridge tilted forward severely.

Spencer had seen this type of trick done at some of the docking competitions held for the fishing boats at the commercial harbor near his parents’ house. He understood the concept, but this wasn’t a game. If he screwed this up, they were done for, especially if he damaged the Black Bird in the process. There was no time to second-guess his decision now, though. He just needed to trust his instincts and follow through, hoping the trawler held together long enough to get them out of this mess.

It was time. Spencer threw the boat in reverse, sending the bow down and the stern up and over while he kept the wheel pinned. The stern continued its unnatural migration around to starboard as the trawler creaked and groaned in defiance of the abrupt commands. Once the Black Bird had come far enough around, Spencer threw the boat into forward gear and goosed the throttle, pushing the old diesel back into the danger zone and forcing another cloud of black smoke from the exhaust.

He hadn’t found any official documents containing the Black Bird’s specifications, but after running the trawler for this long, he’d settled on a guess for her length at between seventy-two and seventy-six feet. He knew what a 110-foot Island-class Coast Guard cutter was capable of, but the trawler surprised him with its agility, and in a matter of seconds, it was bearing down on the floundering RHIB.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Now who’s in trouble?” Rob shouted with excitement as if the people on board the RHIB could hear him.

And while Spencer was sure their pursuers couldn’t hear Rob’s taunts, he was certain they could see them. The Black Bird was only a hundred yards from the tender, and with the throttle pushed to a full-forward stop, the tender’s crew found themselves staring down the bow of a vessel aimed directly at them.

“Are you going to run them over?” Rob asked.

Spencer didn’t answer right away, mostly because he wasn’t sure. The part of him that was angry about the tender costing him time, and about the shots that were fired at him and Rob, was hard to deny. As he held the wheel tightly and watched the distance between the two boats erode, he grappled with the moral dilemma before him. The crew and captain of the RHIB deserved no quarter for what they’d done, yet now that the roles were reversed, Spencer found that he’d lost the taste for revenge.

“No, I… I can’t do it.” Spencer eased his grip on the wheel.

Rob didn’t respond, but the look on his face indicated he was at least a little disappointed in Spencer’s decision to take the high road.

Spencer turned the wheel as the still-floundering RHIB struggled to break free from the turbulence created by the trawler’s wild maneuver and resulting wake. He wondered if the man who had fallen overboard and been run over had somehow damaged the outboard’s props. Maybe his weapon, or something else that had been swept overboard by the swamping waves, had fouled the screws. There was plenty of gear and at least two lines floating near the craft.

Spencer’s plan to buzz the tender as close as he could with the trawler in an effort to create more chaos for the boat’s crew changed when he realized that something could potentially get caught in the Black Bird’s propellor as well. He turned the wheel farther to the port and left a ship’s length between the two vessels as they passed one another, settling instead to play it safe. The deflating pontoon had lost a considerable amount of air since Spencer last laid eyes on it, and as a result, the tender was listing precariously toward the water on the damaged side.

Rob readied his weapon and prepared to head back out onto the weather deck as they passed, but Spencer stopped him and shook his head.

“Let them go. They’ll be lucky to make it in the shape that boat’s in.”

“Really? I mean, they were trying to kill us just a minute ago,” Rob argued.

“I can’t do it. It’s not right.” Spencer didn’t want any more blood on his hands, and not this way. There was no honor in kicking a man when he was down, and doing so went against everything he believed in. Even if the tender’s crew deserved retribution, Spencer would leave their fate to the sea and their own ability to mend their boat and limp back to the cruise ship.

No one on board the RHIB was holding a weapon anymore; the crew had swapped guns for buckets and cupped hands as they struggled to keep the ocean outside their boat. Spencer had no idea if they’d make it or not, but he was sure of one thing: the tender no longer presented a threat to him and his own crew on board the Black Bird.

He cut the wheel back to starboard until the bow aligned with the proper compass heading and reengaged the autopilot, setting a course for Saint Lucie Inlet. Leaving the tender crippled and miles from help seemed like a cruel enough punishment and more than enough payback for what the crew of the ill-fated boat had attempted to do. The fading calls for help from the disabled tender were proof enough of that.

The pleading for help continued, but Spencer refused so much as a look in the troubled RHIB’s direction. It was hard to turn his back on the situation, and doing so challenged his core values. He’d been trained extensively in SAR (search and rescue), and although the predicament was self-made by the tender’s crew, choosing to be so callous felt like a betrayal of his oath. He was just glad Maya and Nat weren’t topside to witness the cold yet necessary decision.

Rob, on the other hand, chose to watch the RHIB until neither the small orange boat nor the cruise ship was visible on the horizon. Spencer tried to occupy himself with his latest concern outside the possible threat of inclement weather, which was the functionality of the radar.

The fiberglass and rubber composition of the RHIB was probably the reason he hadn’t picked up a radar signature of the tender, but with the two big outboards and structure of the small, two-man pilothouse sitting atop the deck, there was room for concern when it came to the radar’s reliability. The cruise ship had seemingly materialized out of nowhere as well. Spencer could still accept that he’d missed a ship that size with his own eyes or with the radar system, yet he’d been able to pick up the jet skis and small center console the pirates had attacked in.

He eyed the monitor and adjusted the gain control in an effort to pick up the storm system to their north but had no luck. If the weather was bad enough or the rain was heavy enough, storms would sometimes show as static—or snow, as he’d heard it referred to. The lack of anything on the display indicated either the storm was outside the radar’s reach or the radar was malfunctioning. He repeatedly tapped the zoom key on the panel, making sure the range scale was set to maximum, but it made no difference.

Rob had finally abandoned his watch of the tender and turned his binoculars toward the dark clouds on the distant horizon. The waves had increased in size since their encounter with the tender, and Spencer couldn’t stop one more fleeting thought about the RHIB crew and how much more difficult bad weather would make it for them to reunite with the cruise ship.

Not my problem. Spencer tried to convince himself one more time.

“That looks bad.” Rob braced himself as a rolling four-footer broke against the starboard side of the Black Bird, sending a shudder through the steel hull.

The man was already looking a little under the weather. Spencer hated to be the bearer of bad news, but he didn’t need a functional radar to tell him this was only the beginning of things to come. The rapidly deteriorating conditions left little room for optimism. The ominous clouds, once confined to the north, had swiftly spread east and west, extending the weather system’s reach and all but guaranteeing an impending encounter with the full force of the squall.

“That’s because it is bad. We need to make sure everything is tied down or secured before it gets any worse. There’s no outrunning that.” Spencer’s mind was suddenly inundated with a list of things to do before the waves and weather intensified further. But for starters, he was going to need Rob to stay put while he tended to his biggest priority: the Hewes.

The sixteen-and-a-half-foot flats boat wasn’t much to look at, but if push came to shove and something happened to the trawler, the Hewes was their only way back to shore. When they’d brought the skiff aboard the Black Bird with the single-point davit, Spencer had rushed through the process of getting the boat situated in the cradle on the forward deck. The spot, made for the previous captain’s center console, which had gone to the bottom of the ocean along with the Hunter, wasn’t exactly a perfect fit for the smaller skiff, and Spencer wanted to make sure the small boat was lashed down sufficiently to ride out the storm without taking damage.

Rob had run below deck to let Nat know they were all right after the firefight and to warn his wife and daughter of the impending weather, but he promised to hurry back to the bridge so he and Spencer could prepare for the storm. When he arrived back at the pilothouse, Finn led the way and made himself comfortable on the bench seat without hesitation, even though the sporadic motion of the boat made it challenging. The waves had increased in both size and frequency, becoming a disorganized mess in the short time Rob was below deck.

“Oh man. It’s getting bad, huh?” Rob was still looking pale, but Spencer was impressed with his ability to push past the discomfort of sea sickness. After Spencer had done what he considered crucial to prepare for the weather, he’d send Rob back down to a lower deck, where it would be more comfortable to ride this mess out. The bridge was no place for someone struggling with motion sickness. The highest part of the vessel would be tossed around the most in the turbulent water, like an upside-down pendulum. And if Rob was going to keep breakfast down, he’d have the best chance of doing so in the galley, where the rocking would be the least noticeable and he could keep his eyes on the horizon between sets. All the more reason for Spencer to move quickly.

“Rob, I’m gonna need you to take the helm for just a few minutes while I check on a couple things.”

“What? I’m not really…” Rob stopped talking and sucked in a deep breath, then blew it out through his mouth loudly as he surveyed the vast array of buttons and switches before him.

“You’ll be all right. Just keep us on that heading as best you can,” Spencer explained.

“What about the autopilot?” Rob asked.

“I turned it off. The waves are too rough, and I don’t want to risk damaging the system.” Spencer headed down the ladder as Rob was clearly trying to come up with another reason as to why he shouldn’t be left alone, but there was no time for it.

“I’ll be right back. Hang in there, buddy.” Spencer did his best to encourage the man as he descended into the galley, with Finn hot on his heels.

He was tempted to head below deck and make sure things were battened down but caught sight of Nat and Maya rushing about the main passageway.

Spencer paused at the large hatch outside the galley that led below deck. “Just make sure all the doors are closed and secured. Don’t worry about anything else, and then you should both get up to the galley. It’s going to be all right but a little rough until we get through this storm. The best place to ride it out will be up here on the main deck toward the stern.”

Spencer had barely finished talking when a rogue swell pounded the hull, causing the boat to shudder and Spencer to almost lose his footing.

Maya let out a whimper and pulled her stuffed turtle, Lewis, close to her chest while clinging to Nat with her other hand.

Then another wave hit them broadside, causing an assortment of boxes to slide across the mess deck floor. Spencer stopped at the top of the ladder leading to the lower deck.

“It’s okay, Maya. We’re going to be okay.” Spencer steadied himself and did his best to sound confident, but he had his own doubts.

He released the stay on the big lid-like hatch and lowered the heavy steel door into place, dogging it down as fast as he could.

Then he immediately spun the wheel on the smaller access in the center of the bigger hatch and secured it in the open position.

Spencer poked his head through the smaller hatch when he was done. “Close everything you can down there, then get up here and close this behind you.”

Nat nodded, but the look of concern in her eyes was evident.

Spencer had seen worse conditions. Much worse, actually. But the fact that they were on their own, should anything go wrong, made the storm’s threat more substantive. Compartmentalizing the trawler was not only a good way to ensure that no one was hurt by one of the heavy steel doorways flailing about in heavy seas, but it was also a way to mitigate damage to the vessel and stay afloat if they did take on any water. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but with no one to answer a distress call and without the ability to send one other than by flare, in his opinion, there was no precaution worth overlooking, especially on an unvetted boat.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Spencer had noticed the well-weathered EPIRB device fastened to the exterior of the pilothouse while out on the weather deck behind the bridge. But even if the emergency position indicating the radio beacon worked—which he doubted, based on how it looked—who would answer? No one. A chilling thought as he braced himself in anticipation of the elements he was about to battle.

“Stay here, boy. I’ll be right back. It’s too rough out there for you.” Spencer held his hand out, stopping Finn from following him.

Finn looked disappointed, but it was for his own good. The last thing Spencer needed to deal with right now was a man—or, in this case, a dog—overboard. Finn’s nails scraped against the slick floor of the mess deck as he struggled to counter the rocking boat and stay put.

“On the bed. Go on. Go.” Spencer pointed to the cushioned seating along the far bulkhead. The reluctant dog complied and half-walked, half-skidded to the couch, hopping up onto the seat where he would at least be able to see Spencer through the window. Hopefully the dog would be content with his assignment, at least until the girls joined him topside.

Spencer cracked open the door leading outside from the galley and nearly lost his grip as a blast of wind threatened to rip the heavy steel panel from his hands. Timing his movements as best he could against the relentless, heaving swell, Spencer dogged the galley door behind him and turned to face the angry sea, only to be greeted with a bucket’s worth of salt water to the face.

The warmth of the ocean stood in stark contrast to the cool, stinging rain that beat against his skin. He licked the briny liquid from his lips, cleared the remaining water from his face, and pressed onward against the downpour. Using the handrail running the length of the main cabin, Spencer clung to the rust-speckled lifeline, trying to time his steps with the rise and fall of the vessel.

The bad weather had only gotten worse in the short time since he’d left Rob on the bridge; the waves were now easily pushing a steady six feet, with the occasional larger swell reminding Spencer of the Black Bird’s insignificance, like a toy boat in a child’s bathtub. Spencer laid eyes on the skiff sitting in the cradle on the foredeck. The bright-yellow single-point boat davit used for deploying and collecting the smaller boat had too much slack in the main cable, allowing the half-inch braided-steel cable to swing wildly in the ripping gusts of the storm.

There was no doubt in Spencer’s mind they were experiencing gale-force conditions according to the Beaufort scale. The whistling rigging and the cresting swells breaking off into the spindrift, leaving well-marked veins of foam across the water’s surface, were undeniable and telltale signs that this front was well beyond the magnitude of a common summer squall. The Black Bird lacked an ensign designating the vessel’s home country, but if there were a flag, Spencer was sure it would have been standing out straight.

He’d considered donning some of the foul-weather gear hanging in the galley but decided against it. With gusts pushing forty knots or more, the rain gear would only hinder his progress, inflating in the strong wind and possibly dragging him around the deck like a parachute. The least enjoyable but safest option was to suck it up and embrace the wetness, moving as freely and as swiftly as he could.

At the end of the rail, where the structure of the trawler’s main cabin offered limited protection from the wind, Spencer waited for the right moment. His first priority would be to get the steel cable wrangled in by taking the slack out with the davit’s hydraulic windlass. He set his sights on the lever he needed to reach and prepared to lunge for the davit and make a new anchor point for himself. If left unchecked, the cable could very easily damage the Hewes, although if his timing was off, the thick, braided wire whipping about could potentially do worse to him.

As the boat rose to the top of the next swell, Spencer got ready.

Ready, set, go.

He pushed off from the bulkhead with everything he had, covering the twenty-foot gap between himself and the davit. The last few strides were exaggerated by the temporary loss of footing as the Black Bird slipped into the trough between waves, causing the deck to drop out from under him. Spencer’s somewhat anticipated flight didn’t last long, though, and in a matter of seconds, he felt the deck rise up beneath him with a fury that forced his knees to buckle. He covered the last several feet on his knees, sliding through the remnants of the last wave to sweep the deck.

“Umph.” The impact with the davit forced the air from his lungs, along with an unintentional grunt.

The collision with the bright-yellow miniature crane hurt almost as much as sliding across the roughly textured Awlgrip deck on his knees. But at least he’d made it on the first attempt and was well below the reach of the thrashing cable. Spencer relaxed his bear hug on the base of the davit and used the next swell to facilitate his climb up to the controls. He found the appropriate lever and reeled in the slack while hanging on tightly with his other hand.

No sooner had he finished tightening up the davit cable than the largest swell he’d seen yet produced by this storm swamped the deck with a crash of white water and enough force to shove anything that wasn’t lashed down across the surface to the starboard side. Spencer needed to wrap things up—and fast. If he left Rob at the helm much longer, he’d sink the boat. Spencer thought closing the main watertight hatch to the lower deck was a good idea, but he was beginning to think it was necessary.

The tempest’s crescendo was building by multiples, well beyond what he expected from the original dark spot on the horizon less than an hour ago. This thing was getting serious, and Spencer now regretted telling Rob to hold their original course. He glanced up at the pilothouse.

“Forget the compass. Steer us into the waves!” Spencer shouted but was sure Rob couldn’t possibly hear him over the battering waves and buffeting wind and rain.

He would have abandoned the Hewes and called his efforts thus far sufficient if the lightweight flats boat wasn’t rocking loosely in the cradle. He couldn’t risk letting the hull get damaged. The Hewes was his ticket up the Saint Lucie River if the waterway to Kate’s parents’ house proved too shallow to accommodate the Black Bird. He had to get this resolved—and quickly.

The ratchet-style straps they’d used to lash the boat into place, combined with a boat cradle that was less than a perfect fit for the Hewes, was a recipe for disaster in rough seas. The soaking-wet nylon straps had stretched against the strain of the bucking trawler, and with each rise and fall of the Black Bird’s hull, Spencer’s skiff was slammed back into place on the wooden rack with a gut-wrenching crunch. What had, at the time, looked like a decent job of securing the skiff in place during calmer weather was now obviously and woefully inadequate.

Spencer wasn’t sure he could get the ratchet straps tight enough to make a difference in these conditions, but he had to try. His plan was interrupted, though, as another monster of a wave bore down on the portside hull, causing the boat to lean to the starboard side abruptly and without warning. Spencer hung on to the davit for dear life. Being washed overboard would be a death sentence with Rob at the wheel. The man would be more likely to run him over with the trawler than rescue him if the churning sea didn’t swallow him first.

Spencer clung fast, eyes closed all but a crack, as the energy of the rogue wave blasted its way through the scuppers along the gunwale with a force equivalent to that of a firehose. The salty spray tore at his skin before the wave crested the rail and flooded the deck. Spencer found himself kneeling in several inches of water, with half a dozen life vests floating his way. There was a mesh bag secured to the rail of the main cabin, and the recent blast of water from the wave had broken it free, spilling the sun-faded PFDs from their bag.

Spencer didn’t care if they lost them all—he’d brought the life jackets and safety gear from the Hunter aboard—but the loose PFDs did give him an idea. He grabbed the closest one as it floated by and tucked it under his arm. As the boat tilted back to port, he used the momentum to his advantage and made his way to the cradle. Placing his back against the hull of the Hewes, Spencer planted his feet firmly, wedging himself between the skiff and the trawler. With the next wave and roll to starboard, he leveraged the shift in weight and lifted with everything he had, pinning the skiff against the opposite side of the cradle. He filled the resulting gap with the life jacket, wrapping it around the part of the cradle that came into contact with the Hewes and securing it with the belt on the vest, all while being pelted in the face with stinging rain and trying to take a breath without swallowing a mouthful of water.

Spencer got out of the way when the boat shifted with the rolling seas and was pleased with his idea when the skiff settled into the foam of the life jacket, cushioning the contact point between the small boat and the cradle.

This will work. He glanced around, locating the rest of the floating life vests, and counted four still on deck and one partially sucked out a starboard scupper. He’d need to work fast, and not just because he wanted to get to the bridge and take control of the helm. Another couple of waves like the last one and the collection of once bright orange vests would be washed away. Spencer readied himself for the next break between swells, although nothing he’d experienced since the worst of the storm had caught the Black Bird could reasonably be called a lull.

Spencer wished he’d told Rob to steer into the waves so they could have taken the worst of it from front to back, using the bow to smash their way through the breaking ten- to twelve-footers. But he wasn’t sure that was possible anymore due to the erratic nature of the storm. The waves appeared to be coming from all directions now, with rain falling so heavily that visibility had been reduced to little more than a ship’s length in any direction. There was a constant flow of water across the deck thanks to the downpour, and whitecaps broke over the gunwale as they were broadsided by incoming swells.

This might not have been the worst weather Spencer had ever experienced at sea, but it was the worst he’d seen in a boat this small. The thirty- to forty-foot waves he’d encountered running to Bermuda had been weathered on a 210-foot cutter with a crew of competent sailors. That wasn’t the situation on board the Black Bird, a fact that made him feel all the more vulnerable out here on deck by himself without backup. No one would notice if he was swept overboard in the midst of this madness. Not being able to send a distress call was one thing, but in this moment, the realization that it was him against Mother Nature, with no chance for outside intervention or help, turned the warm salt water running down his back ice cold. Saving the skiff from being battered to pieces was up to him and him alone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Spencer used the troughs between the inconsistent swells as best he could, eventually managing to put four of the life jackets to use while only losing two overboard. That was enough, he thought, to evenly distribute the weight of the skiff to four points and, more importantly, prevent direct contact between the skiff’s hull and the cradle. But either way, it was a vast improvement over the terrible sounds coming from the inadequate setup he’d found when he arrived. He finished up by tightening the nylon ratchet straps as much as he dared while trying to hang on and avoid being swept into the ocean like the last two life jackets.

He was exhausted. And he hadn’t made it anywhere else on the boat yet to make sure they weren’t taking damage. He’d hoped to tend to the skiff before things got too bad and then deal with securing the interior spaces, but he’d missed that window of opportunity by a mile thanks to the fast-moving weather system. Spencer clung to the hope that the storm system wouldn’t last for too long and that it would move out as quickly as it had come up on them. He also hoped that Nat had been able to secure the lower deck staterooms with some degree of proficiency before seeking shelter with Maya in the galley.

Spencer could only imagine what the forward hold looked like right now, and here he’d wanted to clean the boat up before Kate had a chance to see it. Now he’d settle for making it to Stuart in one piece. At least the exterior was getting a thorough rinse; after this chaos subsided, there’d be nothing left up here that wasn’t attached or tied down, and he was powerless to do anything about it.

Spencer decided to cut his losses and call it a win; he’d at least saved the Hewes from certain damage. His top priority was getting back to the helm and relieving Rob. He pushed off the davit, riding the energy of the last wave to heave the boat so he could reach the rail running along the front of the main cabin. He tried to look inside the galley to see if Nat and Maya had made it topside yet, but the rain was hitting the dirt-smudged windows with such ferocity that the backsplash was blinding.

Hand over hand, Spencer worked his way around the outside of the cabin, trying his best not to get slammed up against the abrasive steel exterior of the trawler. Too much more of this and he’d need a tetanus shot. He was mere feet from the galley door and about to reach for the lever when another big breaker slammed into the boat, only this time, the surge of water came over the bow in an inky-blue torrent as the Black Bird’s entire foredeck was completely engulfed by the massive wave.

Rob must have been off course, or the swell direction had changed. Either way, Spencer was glad they hadn’t taken this wave broadside; the ratchet straps holding the skiff in place did have limits, after all. Any sense of relief he felt quickly faded, though, as he faced a new challenge that would surely test his resolve.

Spencer wrapped his arms around the railing and got as low as he could, pressing himself tightly against the bulkhead in an effort to streamline his body against the incoming surge. The several-thousand-gallon deluge of knee-deep seawater rushing over the deck in his direction confirmed that closing the main hatch inside before heading out to deal with the skiff had been a good use of his time. With any luck, Nat had remembered to close the smaller hatch after she and Maya had come through. He was sure she’d followed his instructions; she was smart, and so was Rob. They’d be all right without him on the trawler, wouldn’t they?

Spencer held his breath, anticipating full submersion by the volume of heavy water approaching. But no matter how much he braced himself, nothing prepared him for the sheer weight against his limbs as the wave threatened to break his grip on the rail. His arms strained against the load, but he focused instead on keeping his interlocked fingers clenched together and did his best to ignore the pain of the rail’s rusty patches biting into his skin. He felt his legs wash out from underneath his body, adding to the already unbearable strain on his arms.

Visions of Kate and Finn and then his parents flashed through his mind. He wished he’d had a chance to tell them all just one more time how much he loved them. His grip was failing, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt the roughness of the grab rail slipping from his arms. The salt water forcing its way into his sinus cavity burned his throat and made him choke and cough. He tried not to swallow, but his will was fading as fast as his remaining strength. He couldn’t hang on any longer.

Spencer imagined himself being swept over the stern into the churning warmth of the ocean, the propeller sucking him under initially, where he might be minced to pieces or simply drown. But then he felt a large, firm hand grab hold of his wrist. The touch of another person sent a bolt of energy through Spencer’s failing muscles, and he was able to force his head up against the torrent of water to see Rob staring down at him from a partially opened doorway at the rear of the main cabin. Spencer had been washed all the way back to the stern without even realizing it.

“I got you, man. Hang in there!” Rob shouted.

Spencer used his remaining strength to grab Rob’s arm and get at least one foot planted on something firm.

Spencer pushed, and slowly but surely, Rob managed to haul him inside the galley, where they both collapsed in a heaving, wet mess on the deck.

Spencer’s head was spinning. The salt water trapped in his sinus cavity felt like acid burning from the inside out. He did his best not to vomit what he’d swallowed already as he coughed up what looked like a gallon of seawater. He tried to roll over onto his back, his arms lacking the strength to hold his own weight off the deck, but something was stopping him.

It was Rob. “Easy. You’re all right now. Nat said to keep you face-down at first.”

Spencer didn’t need much encouragement as he coughed out another half bucket’s worth of salt water. He had no idea he’d ingested that much.

“Who’s… who’s…” Spencer couldn’t get it out thanks to another round of involuntary choking and coughing.

“Nat’s got it, although I’m not sure if it matters.” Rob slicked his hair back and cleared the water from his eyes in one move.

“What do you mean?” Spencer was still dazed by the recent close call and wasn’t comprehending what Rob was telling him.

“She can’t do any worse than me up there. I mean, this is crazy. We’re getting the crap beat out of us.” Rob’s eyes were wide with excitement, fear, and a healthy dose of adrenaline from his recent heroics.

There was no room for argument about leaving Nat alone at the helm, and after what the man had just done for him, Spencer had no right to complain about the decision. Spencer would be forever grateful to Rob for what surely amounted to saving his life, but there’d be time to thank him properly later, when they weren’t getting flung across the smooth vinyl flooring in the galley from one bulkhead to the other. Right now, all he could manage was a simple thanks as they both did their best to hang on to a support stanchion in the middle of the cabin.

Rob nodded without a word. They were both still sucking wind.

Spencer was sure that, with very little effort, he could get more water out of his system, but there was no time to lick his wounds. He had to reach the bridge and get the Black Bird under control or at least attempt to mitigate what was quickly turning into a disaster. Too many more waves like that last one and getting sick would be the least of his concerns.

The sounds of dishes smashing in the galley, followed by the tolling of pots and pans against the deck, the ones Nat had washed this morning and left out to dry, were all Spencer needed to snap into gear. He and Rob got up at the same time, remembering only then that they were being watched by Maya and Finn, both of whom were hunkered down on the built-in couch along the rear bulkhead. Finn looked more concerned about the wild conditions than Spencer had ever seen him before, but this was, without a doubt, the worst the dog had ever seen. Spencer had never put Finn or Kate through anything like this in the Hunter before.

Spencer used the support column in the middle of the mess deck to pull himself the rest of the way to his feet and stay there against the rocking boat. Rob did the same but slid to the couch next to his daughter the first chance he got. Maya had her face buried in Finn’s neck, peeking out occasionally to gawk at the unbelievable show outside with a mix of terror and curiosity. Finn was quivering and elected not to look beyond the mess deck by keeping his head below the backrest, with his tail firmly tucked under his body. He leaned into Maya as much as she was pulling him toward her. It was hard to tell who was comforting whom. But they were both in the best place they could be for this situation. It was time to get to the bridge.

Rob whispered a few words to his daughter and gave her a kiss on the forehead before joining Spencer back at the column.

“I’ll send Mom down right away. I promise,” Rob added.

Spencer was already on his way to the ladder. “I’ve seen much worse, Maya. We’re gonna be okay. I promise. The Black Bird can take it.” Spencer forced a smile and fought off the urge to cough again, then turned for the bridge before his uncertainty about the trawler’s capabilities showed through.

He was going to order Finn to stay put, but there was no need. He doubted the dog could make it across the slick floor even if he wanted to. The sounds of Rob bouncing off the bulkhead of the narrow passageway while he worked his way up the ladder behind Spencer let him know he wasn’t alone in taking a beating.

“Spencer!” Nat cheered his arrival, her pale face showing a weak smile that soon disappeared as the pilothouse tilted a solid twenty degrees to port, forcing them all to one side.

Ciro squawked from his perch in the corner, startling Spencer, who’d been pushed too close for comfort by the last swell.

“Whoa.” Rob grabbed Nat and tried to hold them in place while Spencer clawed his way into position behind the wheel. “Forgot to tell you the bird came back.”

But Spencer had bigger concerns than an untrustworthy raven. He grabbed the spoked wood and brass wheel, spinning it to port and then starboard as he tried to surf the face of a large wave and counter the rough seas, but the ocean had other plans for the trawler; it plunged her through another foaming peak and swamped the deck below.

Spencer was forced to reassess his earlier estimate of wave height and storm rating, admitting he was looking at fifteen- to twenty-foot swells. There were breakers in every direction now, and it was getting hard to tell the difference between the driving rain and the windborne spray swept from the crests of the tumbling swells as they crashed on top of each other.

Spencer glanced at his gauges; the vessel’s anemometer was clocking storm gusts at over fifty knots. That didn’t surprise him, based on what he was looking at and the sound of the whistling wind shooting through the bullet holes in the tempered glass windows. One of the windows had been shot out completely in the firefight yesterday, the one Ciro had been taking advantage of to come and go as he pleased, and Spencer was afraid the water blowing in through the opening would short out the instrument panel. Rob read his face, and despite sporting the complexion of a ghost, the man sprang into action and started working on a solution.

Spencer continued wrestling the wheel, trying his best to soften the blows they were taking to the hull by countering the wild seas, but it was impossible to react to the washing-machine-like conditions. They were way off their bearing, but that was hardly important at the moment. And for the first time since Marathon, Spencer’s goal of reaching Stuart, Florida, fell to second place on his list of priorities, right behind keeping them all alive.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Spencer had the handles of the ship’s wheel to hold himself steady, but Rob and Nat had no such luxury as they struggled to get the shot-out window covered with an old towel and a piece of cordage. Nat was able to tie the cord around the protruding frame of the window while Rob held the towel in place. The result stopped the driving rain from reaching the instruments and cut down their intake of water to a thin trickle running down the bulkhead. The solution wasn’t permanent, but it would suffice for now and keep the electronics from getting fried.

“You two should get below with Maya and Finn. There’s nothing more you can do up here.” Spencer’s voice shook in step with the shuddering hull.

Nat and Rob both looked like they were on the verge of getting sick, and Spencer didn’t want to deal with that in addition to his current troubles. There would already be enough to clean up after this was over.

Nat nodded and headed down the ladder, anxious to check on Maya, but Rob protested despite looking ill. “I should stay and give you a hand.”

“With what?” Spencer braced himself against the wheel as another twenty-footer did its best to capsize the trawler. “If I get tired, I’ll call you. Now go be with your family. I’ve got it under control.”

Rob nodded and started down the ladder.

“Hey, Rob. Thanks again… for before,” Spencer added.

Rob nodded back and did his best to force a smile. “Hey, we’re in this together, right?”

“Right,” Spencer agreed.

Rob looked like he wanted to say more, but a quick hand thrown over his mouth and his rapid descent down the ladder ended their conversation. At least Rob hadn’t gotten sick up on the bridge, and it was just as well the man was gone and Spencer was alone. He needed to concentrate on keeping the Black Bird upright while not allowing the boat to get pushed too far off course, if he could help it. His aspirations for spending the day organizing and cleaning his new home were the first casualty of the storm. And with any luck, time would be the worst thing he lost.

Spencer braced himself yet again as he tried to hold the wheel toward the starboard side while another big swell threatened to redefine their current route. He turned into the wave after it rolled under them and surfed the one behind it, making sure to keep their stern just ahead of the crashing white water as it chased them down the twenty-foot-plus face of the wave.

He tried to imagine what it would be like for them if they were still running the Hunter right now. The Hewes would have been swamped at the start of the bigger swell. If not, the rain would have filled her up just the same. Spencer had no doubt that he would have had to cut the skiff loose long ago. The little boat would have acted like an anchor, dragging Restless south with the storm. Spencer would have been forced to weather the worst of this out in the cockpit of the Hunter while Rob and his family were relentlessly battered below deck. They were lucky in more ways than one to have found the Black Bird, and if he tried hard enough, he almost believed it.

He hoped Rob would give in and let himself get sick, not because he wanted to see the man suffer but because sometimes that was the best relief for someone with motion sickness. If Rob could get it out of his system and start feeling better, Spencer could put him to work. His arms were starting to tire from the constant battle with the ship’s rudder. After what Rob had done for him, though, Spencer would be okay with the man taking it easy for the rest of his time aboard, if he so desired.

Spencer had sent them both below deck because he wanted Nat to be able to comfort Maya and wanted to avoid a mess up here, but if this storm persisted much longer, he might have to call at least one of them back up for help. Spencer wasn’t sure he had the strength to outlast the strong currents and raging seas. He hadn’t anticipated how physically demanding outwitting the storm would be; he was already exhausted from a long night at the helm. Not to mention, his scraped-up arms still felt like wet noodles from the close call outside.

Ciro squawked as a smaller but no less ferocious wave crashed into the starboard side, causing the trawler to shake and the instruments to rattle in their cabinets. Spencer wasn’t sure how much more the boat could take, but he was starting to see more organization in the swell pattern. He was reluctant to accept the change in weather or let his guard down, but conditions were improving and the dropping wind speed displayed on the monitor was undeniable.

Spencer held the wheel tightly, punching through another cresting swell in their path with the bow. A wave of green foam swept the lower deck once more, but the rush of water quickly dissipated, flowing out through the scuppers along the railing as intended. The storm was finally showing signs of letting up. A sliver of lighter gray sky appeared off the port bow, and it was then that Spencer knew he’d seen the worst of it. He’d told the others they’d be fine earlier when they were in the thick of the squall, but only now could he bring himself to truly believe it.

He slowly but surely defied the prevailing current and remnants of the storm by bringing the boat back around to its original heading. The rain no longer clawed at the glass outside the pilothouse, like fingers trying to scratch their way inside. Instead, the rain fell lazily to the deck between gusts. Spencer eased his grip on the wheel and let the muscles in his arms relax for the first time since he took the helm from Nat. His whole body was sore, but he wasn’t sure how much of the pain in his limbs was due to him trying to keep his balance against the raging waves or how much of it was from getting thrashed around the deck like one of the lost life jackets and almost suffering the same fate.

Spencer thought about the close call he’d had less than half an hour ago and just how close he’d come to what would have been his death for certain. What he’d done was foolish, and he knew it, but if he hadn’t secured the boat, they would have lost the Hewes. He glanced down at the foredeck, eyeing the skiff still snuggly strapped into its cradle, and shook his head at what he’d done. The whole thing felt surreal, especially with the skies clearing and the rain tapering off to a light drizzle, although his bruises and skinned knees were very real.

He looked back over the stern and watched the dark clouds and hellish conditions continue southeast. Turning his attention to the instruments, Spencer tried to ascertain just how far off course they’d been pushed but was surprised to see that they were actually much closer to Saint Lucie Inlet than he’d expected, especially after what they’d just been through. Spencer played with the settings on the chartplotter, but his efforts yielded the same results every time. They were only eighty miles from their destination. He wasn’t sure how they’d made better time than he’d anticipated against the storm, but they had. A more plausible explanation for their record-breaking travel time was that the chartplotter was just as untrustworthy as the radar. Spencer was beginning to believe that everything on this boat was about as reliable as it looked, save for the trusty Caterpillar diesel that pushed them along steadily. Spencer ran his hand over the glossy finish of the wooden console.

Thank God the prior engineer had more sense than the rest of the savages on this boat.

Spencer would have believed the chartplotter was wrong despite his recalculations, but the horizon to the west was unmistakably polluted with smog and air laden with fire-borne particulate matter rather than storm clouds. It was like the smokey haze they’d witnessed hanging over Marathon once they were offshore a few miles, the remnants of countless fires and lost lives. There was no question: they were a lot closer to land than they were this morning at first light.

The darkened horizon forced Spencer to consider what life on shore was like right now and how Kate was being affected. The last couple of days had been a blur of challenges for him and his greenhorn crew, but the chaos they left behind felt more like something he’d dreamt up after a few bad oysters and too many beers. Kate and her parents were stuck unless Tom had taken them away in his boat, but the outboards were newish and probably didn’t run. Spencer had seen too many examples of that in Marathon, millions of dollars’ worth of boats sitting idle as he sailed away.

Spencer had no qualms about leaving land and all of its associated worries behind. He’d done it often, and he felt a sense of empowerment—or maybe it was freedom—every time he watched the chain of sand and limestone islands fade from view. The most recent departure from Marathon, though, felt anything but empowering. In fact, it was about as enjoyable as trying to clear the remaining salt water from his sinuses.

The troubles that burdened the average land dweller—or ALDs, as Spencer jokingly referred to the typical bar clientele—would always continue to challenge his notion of sensibility. Spencer couldn’t imagine having a mortgage and living in a house in the same place for years on end. The concept seemed boring and more like a prison sentence than an aspiration. The disconnect from mainstream society that he worked hard at cultivating in his personal life had its limits, though, and no matter how much he and Kate tried to distance themselves from an ordinary, land-based life, there was no true escape. They were attached to Marathon and Stuart and Buxton and, in some small way, Jacksonville now, thanks to his new friends. And what was happening currently had only strengthened the bonds they had with the places they knew and the people they cared about.

If it weren’t for Kate and their families, he could have sailed off into the sunset. Spencer shook his head and let out a cynical snort almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind. He knew that was a lie. He wanted life to be simple but it wasn’t, and the older he got, the more complicated things would become; that much he’d anticipated. He’d just never imagined a life as complicated as this. He and Kate had talked about living off-grid, bouncing from one tropical paradise to the next, exploring areas of the world that appealed to them and were within reach of their meager thirty-one-foot sailboat and limited budget. And with how things looked right now, they might get their wish, minus the paradise part.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

With the swell dying down, Spencer could relax a little and finally reengage the autopilot. He was anxious to get below deck and survey the damage but hoped if anything major had happened because of the storm, Rob or Nat would let him know. But more than that, he remained hesitant to leave the bridge unattended after the run-in with the cruise ship.

He swore to do his best to avoid any other traffic out here but understood that would become more difficult as they neared land. He’d have to check the boat out at some point, though. Maybe after Rob and Nat were feeling a little better. They were all currently benefiting from following seas once again, just like they were before the storm. The nonbreaking three- to four-foot rolling swells were moving under them with little effect on the Black Bird and were a welcome change to the breaking, erratic fifteen- to twenty-footers they’d just endured. The lingering, steely-gray sheen on the water’s surface and the grim sky off their stern were the only visible remnants of the hell they’d just been through.

Spencer couldn’t help but wonder if the storm had somehow been conjured up by the EMPs and whatever effect the detonations had on the atmosphere, if any. It was early June, and the conditions they’d encountered were rare for this time of year, although not unheard of. The severity and intensity of the short-lived disturbance were almost unbelievable if not for the fact that he’d nearly died, not to mention the lingering burn of salt in his throat. There was nothing unbelievable about the storm at the height of its fury. Unlike the dents and holes left by numerous bullets striking the trawler, the storm left no evidence other than shattered dishes in the galley and a new collection of bruises.

But up here on the bridge, there was no time to think, only react to the onslaught of powerful waves. Another story for his logbook for sure, although he’d been neglecting his daily entries while at sea. Putting off the next entry wasn’t accidental or because he’d been busy learning the nuances of the Black Bird. Rather, it was a symptom of his own doubts and hang-ups. The next log entry would be a tough one, forcing him to acknowledge failure and tragedy.

He’d lost Restless. To some, the thirty-one-foot, rough-around-the-edges Hunter was just another sailboat bobbing idly in the water behind the Fat Snook, but it was so much more than that to him and Kate. Yes, they’d dreamed of someday owning a larger boat with more capabilities, but they were perfectly content with Restless and the memories they’d made in the small but cozy sloop.

Spencer eyed his backpack, the logbook inside calling out his guilt. He’d meant to add it to one of the drawers on the bridge but hadn’t done so due to the fact that the Black Bird didn’t feel like it was his—or theirs, for that matter. That sentiment was slowly shifting, though, mostly because he had nothing else to his name after losing the Hunter. But outmaneuvering the cruise ship tender and surviving the recent squall had given Spencer confidence in his abilities, something he was quick to question due to his lack of experience with running a vessel this size.

He’d also developed a newfound respect and appreciation for the paint-flaked trawler in the process of outwitting the RHIB and the squall. In spite of her looks, the Black Bird had proven herself in his opinion, even if the instruments on board were a bit temperamental. The boat did the important things well, like run and float, and that was really all he required of the boat in order to reach Stuart.

As much as he resisted, there was no disputing the bond that Spencer was beginning to feel with the Black Bird. It had unwillingly started after he watched the first puff of black diesel smoke rise from the stack, and so far, the boat hadn’t let him down when he’d needed her most. Spencer felt a twinge of guilt over his shifting affections. They’d once belonged exclusively to Restless, which now rested on the bottom of the Atlantic.

He hated to think about the Hunter, all alone on the ocean floor. Spencer pictured the dim eeriness of the quiet depths and the cold embrace of the ocean hundreds of fathoms below the surface. The image sent a chill down his spine, although he took a small degree of satisfaction in knowing some deep-sea creatures had almost certainly taken advantage of the scuttled structure for a habitat already. The oil and diesel seeping from the wreckage was less comforting to think about, but compared to the destruction and environmental devastation taking place inshore, the minute amount of toxic fluids leaking from the Hunter were mere drops in the bucket.

Spencer cheered himself up by checking the chartplotter once more, confirming the updated distance of seventy-four miles to Saint Lucie Inlet. He still wasn’t sure how they’d covered so much distance. Faulty radar or an incredibly fast-moving undercurrent caused by the recent weather were the only explanations he was willing to accept, but it didn’t matter much as long as the mileage was accurate. If he could maintain the steady ten- to twelve-knot speed, they’d be in Stuart by early evening—with any luck, before sunset.

Getting to Stuart and finding Kate had always been his top priority, but with the prospect of landfall in the near future, Spencer’s concerns about what he’d find when they arrived were becoming more pronounced. Of course, Kate’s welfare had been at the forefront of his thoughts ever since the first detonation, but there had been plenty of distractions along the way for the most part. Being offshore hadn’t exactly proven a good insulator against trouble, and things weren’t going to get any better as they drew closer to land.

Spencer couldn’t rightfully expect to find anything better than what they’d left behind in the Keys, but he clung to the possibility that he was wrong. He could make his hopeful logic make sense if he thought about how many more resources the mainland would have compared to the isolated town of Marathon and the rest of the Florida Keys. Maybe things were under control in Stuart? There were more first responders and a larger military presence, and access to emergency supplies was readily available.

There were plenty of big box stores filled with food, water, and other essentials for survival in Stuart. Spencer remembered gathering supplies for his and Kate’s return south after closing the deal on the Hunter. The Walmart down the street from Kate’s parents’ house was massive, larger than some of the small settlements dotting the Caribbean, which Spencer and Kate preferred to patronize.

The supplies in Stuart would last for weeks if resources were doled out with some sense of order and responsibility. There should be plenty of goods on hand; hurricane season had just officially kicked off in Florida, and although it should have been too early for any real action, retailers were stocked up and ready.

Of course, all the resources in the world wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans without the retention of law and order. Spencer had seen firsthand just how long it had taken for civility to be cast aside in favor of greed and self-preservation in Marathon. He’d had higher expectations for the small community and blamed the town’s quick demise on the tourist population, although he knew that wasn’t a completely fair or accurate excuse for the depravity he’d witnessed.

Spencer’s thoughts were interrupted by the clamor of nails on metal climbing the ladder to the bridge. He turned to see Finn’s pink tongue leading the way up from the dimly lit stairwell. The dog was alone, and Spencer was glad for that. He didn’t much feel like entertaining Maya or conversing with anyone. And now that the autopilot had them fixed on the proper heading and they had nothing but miles of open water to cover, he could relax and join Finn on the couch.

Ciro was present but had been unusually quiet. Spencer wasn’t sure at what point the raven had shown up during the storm, but the beads of water dotting his wind-ruffled feathers suggested he’d been outside for at least some of the storm, enough to wear him out. He’d been asleep on his perch since the waves subsided, head tucked, swinging in rhythm with the rocking of the boat.

Spencer had big plans for the day until the cruise ship and the storm got in the way, but there’d be time for that later. Besides, the storm had rearranged the trawler’s contents in such a way that made getting her tip-top before Stuart was most likely beyond their capabilities. And right now, cleaning up seemed a lot less important than it had this morning. All he needed was a little cat nap. Then he could trade places with Rob or Nat and get something done.

He’d managed to catch some shuteye on the Hunter when soloing, and he could get away with it here. Spencer glassed their surroundings once more and came up with the same result as last time. He was no longer willing to leave the bridge unmanned, but taking a nap in place seemed like an excusable sin, given the circumstances.

“Nothing out there.” Spencer kept the binoculars with him and slid up onto the couch next to Finn. He leaned back against the bulkhead, using Finn as an armrest, and closed his eyes. Spencer could feel himself drifting off with the gentle movement of the boat and the hum of the engine as it sent dull vibrations through the pilothouse. He clung to his optimism about the conditions in Stuart as best he could. He’d know for sure tonight, although he was sure the somber, murky horizon off the bow held his answer.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Spencer… Spencer! We’ve got another boat off our, ah… port side,” Rob exclaimed while making his way through the bridge.

Spencer jolted upright and nearly fell off the seat as he tried to understand what was happening. Still far from being fully awake, he checked the time, squinting to make sure he was reading his watch accurately. The fact that he’d been asleep for nearly four hours was enough to chase the remaining fog from his brain. Spencer focused on Rob, who was halfway out the door, holding a pair of binoculars up to his face.

“I saw them on the radar first.” His voice rang with the pride of a child who’d found the prize in the bottom of a cereal box. “I think they’re about four or five miles out if I’m reading that thing properly.”

Spencer realized that he was still holding his binoculars and joined Rob, who had moved to the railing. He didn’t need the radar to tell him that the boat was closer to their coordinates than Rob had estimated. Spencer’s heart was already thumping away in his chest thanks to the abrupt wakeup, but now his veins were pumping with adrenaline and a little fear. So far, their encounters with other boats at sea hadn’t gone very well. And this new boat was already too close for Spencer’s comfort. After the latest incident, he wasn’t taking any chances, regardless of the sport fisher’s intentions.

Spencer made it back to the helm station in a couple of strides and began taking action. The boat was a sport fisher, an old Bertram or something like that, from what he could tell. He couldn’t make out much detail at this range, and he’d just assume to keep it that way. Spencer had no desire or need to know anything about the vessel off their port side. It was afloat and under power, so there was no one in distress, unless he counted the distress everyone was in.

Unlike with the cruise ship, Spencer and the others were in a position to help the crew aboard the sport fisher if they needed rescuing, but it was obvious they didn’t. And Spencer didn’t need anything from them. The temptation to approach the vessel for information was very real but very dangerous, so he quickly dismissed the idea as foolish and far too risky for what might be gained. They’d all find out what conditions were like on land soon enough. And there was nothing the crew of the other boat could relay to him that would make him change his plans. Spencer was going ashore, and come hell or high water, he intended to reach Kate’s parents’ house before this day was over, even if he had to swim the rest of the way.

He set them on a new course that would avoid the sport fishing vessel without sending them too far out of their way. Any deviation from their direct route to Saint Lucie Inlet was too much, in Spencer’s opinion, but the inconsequential amount of distance and time added to their trip was well worth the effort if it meant avoiding the other boat. Whoever was on it, Spencer was sure they were doing their best to avoid the aftermath of the EMPs and the ensuing chaos. The sport fisher was headed east, and he thought it was very possible the boat was making for the Bahamas.

Spencer kept one eye on the old fishing boat while he unrolled one of the charts he’d brought aboard from Restless. He was still having a hard time accepting that he’d slept for nearly four hours. Not only was falling asleep for that long irresponsible, but it was a little scary to think about what could have happened. He also felt like he’d let Rob and his family down by not being alert at the wheel. It was time to put a little trust in the man and let him take a turn at the wheel.

“So what’s the plan?” Rob kept his eyes fixed on the other boat. “Oh, sorry about not coming up to relieve you sooner.” He shrugged. “I guess we all needed some rest after that storm.”

“It’s fine.” Spencer was embarrassed that Rob had caught him sleeping, and it wasn’t fine. Leaving their fate to chance for almost four hours was unacceptable, and Spencer vowed never to do that again.

“So what’s the plan?” Rob asked.

“We’ll go around. Just keep an eye on them, if you would, and let me know if they change course. They don’t need our help, and we don’t need theirs,” Spencer reasoned.

He had to admit his words sounded cold when spoken out loud, but it was the truth, and he was in no mood to soften the facts as he saw them. The headache he’d woken up with wasn’t helping his current outlook, either.

Rob nodded in agreement. “Yep. I’m with you there.”

“Tok… tok… tok.” Ciro rocked back and forth before flexing his wings and shooting out the open door like a feathered bullet. The shiny black bird sailed along the air currents effortlessly, keeping pace with the trawler several feet from the pilothouse until eventually gliding into position atop the single-point boat davit on the foredeck.

Spencer went back to examining the chart, opting to leave the boat’s instruments untouched while he satisfied his curiosity in determining where the boat might hail from. The sport fisher could have been from anywhere. But when Spencer transferred the bearing measurement generated by the radar to his laminated chart, he made an educated guess that the boat off their port side had originated from the West Palm Beach area.

The sport fisher had seen them by now, for sure. A boat the size of the Black Bird would be hard to miss out here in these relatively calm waters. Spencer abandoned his chart, letting the laminated map roll itself back up as he returned to the trawler’s chartplotter. They’d covered another forty-three miles, according to the ship’s instruments, and they were still making just above ten knots.

Nat’s voice rose up from the galley below. “Rob, can you give me a hand?”

Spencer nodded at Rob. “Go ahead. I’m good, but I do want to take a look around below deck before we get there.”

“I’ll be right back.” Rob started for the ladder, then stopped, glancing back over his shoulder at Spencer. “When do you think we’ll get to Stuart?”

Spencer tilted his head toward the chartplotter. “If that’s accurate, right around seven. Depends how many more boats we have to avoid.”

“I’m sure they’ll want to know.” Rob’s response was less enthusiastic than Spencer had expected, but it dawned on him in that moment what landfall meant for the man and his family. The trio had nothing to gain from reaching Stuart and possibly everything to lose if Marathon was any indication of what they should expect at their next port. They needed to get to Jacksonville. Anything additional was pure risk for them.

As Spencer watched Rob disappear below deck, he made a decision right then and there not to include Rob or Nat in his efforts to reach Kate and her parents any more than absolutely necessary. That meant leaving the family behind on the trawler if conditions forced him to navigate the Saint Lucie River in the skiff. He couldn’t ask the couple to risk their lives going ashore when they had Maya to take care of. Of course, staying behind on the trawler while she was anchored outside the inlet was no safe bet, either. Rob and Nat would have to stay alert and be ready to defend the boat.

With all this time on his hands, Spencer couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about this scenario yet, but if he did run the river to Hoggs Cove in the skiff by himself, that meant leaving the others on the trawler alone. His concern was unwarranted, wasn’t it? Rob had saved his life, after all. But Spencer barely knew them. He was inclined to trust Rob and Nat, and his gut told him he could. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit the thought of the couple taking the trawler and heading to Jacksonville on their own hadn’t crossed his mind.

“That’s crazy.” Spencer rubbed Finn’s head and forced the ridiculous idea and unwarranted fear from his thoughts.

He was being paranoid. The sleep he’d managed to grab was needed, but obviously not enough to help him think clearly. After the cruise ship debacle, however, he was pretty sure Nat wasn’t exactly his biggest fan.

“Looks like they’re holding their course,” Rob said as he climbed the ladder. “I’ve been keeping an eye on them from the galley.”

Spencer felt a wave of heaviness pass over him as he wondered if Nat had been cooking again.

“Sorry about that. I promised Nat I’d help her haul some trash up through the hatch. She’s been keeping us all busy down there ever since we woke up. Oh, here. She sent this up for you.” Rob handed Spencer a bottle of cool water and a water-stained manilla envelope.

“Thanks.” Spencer felt bad for automatically assuming the worst, especially now that he knew the others had been cleaning up below deck while he was up here sleeping instead of keeping an eye out for other boats.

Rob glanced at the envelope. “She said you’d probably want to see that.”

Spencer took a drink, then set the bottle down on the console so he could unwind the string holding the envelope closed. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Hopefully it wasn’t more proof of how terrible the former captain and crew were. Spencer didn’t care to learn any more about the former occupants. As far as he was concerned, he already knew more than he wanted to. But as he slid the papers out of the envelope, a smile crept over his face.

“What is it?” Rob asked.

“It’s the certificate of registry.” Spencer didn’t waste any time emptying the contents of the musty envelope and spreading the documents out on the console.

“And what is that, exactly?” Rob’s tilted head reminded Spencer of Finn.

“This should tell us everything we need to know about the Black Bird. All the specs for the boat should be listed here. Look.” Spencer ran his fingers over the paper, starting at the top. “She’s a 1991 Robinson modified monk trawler, seventy-four feet long, with a fifteen-foot beam. Ha, I was close.” Spencer continued reading the specs to himself, glossing over most of the information quickly in his search for the most important detail.

“What’s a monk trawler?” Rob asked, but Spencer was too busy to answer at the moment.

“There it is—draft. Seven feet five inches.” Spencer repeated the measurement under his breath a few times while returning to his laminated chart.

“Is that good?” Rob moved to the console, taking Spencer’s spot, and began perusing the paperwork for himself.

“Well, it’s not bad. It’s going to be tight through a couple spots, but overall good news, I think. It means we can take this rust bucket through the inlet and most of the way to Kate’s parents’ house.”

“That is good news,” Rob agreed.

Spencer dragged his finger along the channel on the laminated chart from the mouth of the inlet to Hoggs Cove, noting the depth readings along the way. Saying the route would be tight was a bit of an understatement, but considering the alternative, it was a risk Spencer was willing to take, trust issues aside.

They’d have to anchor in the channel but could motor to her parents’ dock in the skiff without losing sight of the trawler. Spencer wanted to keep Rob and Nat out of harm’s way as much as possible, and now that he knew he could take the trawler all but a few hundred yards from their destination, it put his mind at ease a tiny bit. There’d be some thin spots going up the river in a boat that drew nearly eight feet, and there’d be absolutely no room for error when it came to keeping the seventy-four-foot trawler between the navigational buoys and the dead center of the channel, but he preferred that risk to the other option.

Leaving the Black Bird anchored outside the mouth of Saint Lucie Inlet seemed like an open invitation for trouble, something he hoped to avoid but certainly wouldn’t count on. And whatever challenges they encountered, they could face them together.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Spencer abandoned the charts and stepped to the radar, where he checked the sport fishing boat’s position against the Black Bird’s. The smaller vessel was maintaining its course, as Rob had stated, and appeared to have no interest in them whatsoever. Good. Spencer eyed the paper strewn out across the console. He was eager to learn all he could about the Black Bird, but for the moment, he was busy imagining the route upriver to Tom and Debbie’s house. He’d only navigated the river once before in the Hunter, and that experience would hardly compare to this one. Restless drew just over four feet with her fixed, twin keels; the Black Bird’s draft was almost twice that. There was no question they’d be pushing the limits of the upriver channel in some areas.

Spencer hated to consider further delays, but they just might have to wait until high tide, if they could. They’d departed Marathon on an outgoing tide, but even if he wasn’t too mentally exhausted to do the math, it wouldn’t have yielded an accurate answer on what tide they should expect this evening at the inlet. And without access to one of the weather channels on the radio, he’d just have to wait and see what the conditions looked like when they got there. Thankfully, they’d have an hour or two of daylight left, although he wouldn’t count on having great visibility.

The air was already thickening as they neared the coast. Even at over thirty miles from shore, Spencer was beginning to pick up hints of soot and charred debris in the air. The toxic smell they’d left in Marathon was slowly returning, and with it came the realization of what they were willfully exposing themselves to by heading back into a situation most people were trying to escape. It was a lot easier to discount the impending danger, or at least ignore it, when they were farther out to sea. But now that they could smell the fires burning and see the undeniable increase of airborne pollutants, the reality of what lay ahead struck home.

Spencer wished they were there now, not just because he was anxious to reach Kate but because there was too much time to dwell on what they’d find in Stuart. He could busy himself with prepping for the rescue mission—which, at this point, was exactly what they’d be attempting. He wasn’t taking Tom’s skills as a former Marine for granted, but Spencer couldn’t shake the images of destruction and civil unrest that had been seared into his mind.

Tom was a capable man but no longer the young, go-hard Marine he used to be. He was fit for his age, and he and Debbie were both active, so Spencer had no doubts they were capable of surviving just about anything. But this was something different; these EMPs had brought their worst nightmares to life.

“Wow, this really tells you everything about the boat. Forty-eight hundred gallons of diesel? That’s a lot of fuel,” Rob remarked.

“Yeah, that’s pretty typical for a monk trawler. Single-screw, fuel-efficient, long-range yachts, capable of ocean voyaging. I imagine she can travel quite a ways on a full tank,” Spencer reasoned.

Rob continued reading the documents. “Built in 1991, but it says here in an addendum she was retrofitted in 2010, whatever that means. I guess remodeled, sort of. The Caterpillar diesel makes 450 horsepower.”

Spencer eyed the fuel gauge and did some rough math, although he was reluctant to share the eight-thousand-mile range he was coming up with. “We’re probably good on fuel for a while, as long as that gauge is accurate. I’ll have to show you how to do a sounding on the fuel tanks so we can figure out how much diesel we actually have without relying on the gauge. If I can find the stuff to do it, that is.”

“Just say the word.” Rob looked up from the documents strewn about the console and eyed the fading sport fishing boat.

Spencer needed something long and flexible he could drop down into the fill tube, which he would then retrieve carefully as he watched for diesel residue. He’d done this in the Coast Guard with a flexible metal tape measure on a reel, combined with a color-changing paste to indicate the fuel level. He wouldn’t find the paste, but this boat was a lot smaller than the 210-foot Reliance-class cutter he was stationed on, and he thought he could get away with a regular tape measure he’d noticed on the small workbench in the engine room.

“Better to do it inshore or at least when we don’t have these rollers. We won’t get an accurate reading in these conditions,” Spencer stated.

“I’m up for anything and ready to help. I know I’ve mentioned this already, but you really don’t have to hold back, man. Just tell me what you need done. I’m a pretty handy guy to have around,” Rob offered.

Spencer nodded. “I appreciate it.”

Of all the things that concerned Spencer, running out of fuel wasn’t one of them. They easily had enough diesel to reach Stuart and Jacksonville Beach. Assuming a diesel burn rate of between eighteen and twenty-four gallons per hour at the high end of their speed, twelve knots, Spencer wasn’t even sure they’d need more fuel to reach his parents in Buxton.

But there were too many variables to be that confident without some hesitation. His numbers could very well be off, and so could the gauge. If an opportunity presented itself to take on fuel, he wouldn’t pass it up. What they had wouldn’t last forever, even if the Black Bird did boast a pretty incredible range. Fuel was something he wouldn’t have had to worry about on the Hunter quite so much, but Spencer wasn’t about to complain.

“How are you feeling, by the way?” Spencer asked.

“Better… Much better after I, ah… got it out of my system.” Rob dropped his chin and went back to reading the papers in front of him.

“And the girls?” Spencer asked.

“Nat’s good, and I think Maya did better than all of us.” Rob laughed, then paused for a second. “Is that kind of weather normal? I mean, is that going to happen a lot? Because that was pretty wild.”

“No. That was out of season, for sure. It’s not to say it can’t happen again, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Spencer checked the radar again and clocked the old fishing boat at just under seven miles and counting.

Rob sighed. “Good.”

“And I’d say our friends are headed south with no interest in us.” Spencer dipped his head toward the boat.

“Want me to take over for a while?” Rob offered. “You said you wanted to check things out below.”

“Ah, yeah. I guess I could do that.” Spencer looked around, making sure they were on course, and decided to set the target alarm on the radar. He’d turned it off when they ran through the storm to avoid listening to all the false reports.

“If you need me, don’t hesitate,” Spencer reminded Rob as he started down the ladder.

“Yep. Don’t worry, man. Take your time.” Rob moved to the bench and sat down with his binoculars just as Finn was getting motivated to follow Spencer.

The lazy dog sat up reluctantly, stretching his body out before dropping to the floor in a cloud of fur and dust that hovered in the sunlight fighting its way through the darkening sky. Finn was panting loudly and probably needed a drink. Spencer hadn’t noticed the water tank’s capacity in the registry, but there’d be time to look through the documents more thoroughly later.

“Come on, boy. Let’s get you some water.” Spencer had a bowl up here for the dog, but it had all sloshed out onto the deck during the storm.

Spencer headed down to the galley, satisfied that he knew all he needed to know about the Black Bird for now. Learning that they’d be able to navigate the river all the way into Stuart and actually come within a few hundred yards of Tom and Debbie’s property was a game-changer.

Their dock wasn’t that far from the channel. Spencer and Kate had borrowed her parents’ paddleboards one afternoon on their last visit and paddled across the river to a sandbar at low tide. Spencer caught a fat redfish off the edge of the temporary island while Kate got a little sun and played fetch with Finn in the ankle-deep water. They had to cross the channel to reach the low-tide sandbar, and it hadn’t taken them more than a few minutes or so of hard paddling to reach the deep cut of water from her parents’ dock. And that was with Finn riding on the nose of his board.

Spencer noticed two large black trash bags stuffed full and piled in the far corner of the mess deck by the rear door. Nat must have rounded up some cleaning supplies as well, judging by the smell of bleach and lemon. A vast improvement over the stench of stale cigarette smoke and neglect that permeated the space when they first boarded. Spencer wasn’t sure what was more surprising: finding the mess deck and galley this clean or the fact that Nat had found cleaning supplies on board a ship that looked like it hadn’t seen a mop in years.

Spencer moved to the sink, filling Finn’s bowl from the tap as he surveyed the impossibly clean kitchen. He’d caught a glimpse of the galley before rushing up to the bridge during the storm; there were broken dishes, cups, pots and pans, canned goods, and boxes everywhere. Nat had been busy.

“No wonder Rob came up to the bridge.” Spencer smiled as he set Finn’s bowl down on the deck with a chuckle.

The dog lapped at the water immediately, reckless with thirst, making a mess on the freshly cleaned linoleum floor. Spencer regretted not putting an old towel down first like he did on the Hunter for Finn after he and Kate realized there was no such thing as a spill-proof bowl, despite how the boat-worthy dog bowl was advertised.

Taking a cue from Finn’s little yoga-like routine on the bridge a minute ago, Spencer arched his back and thought about what Kate’s reaction to the Black Bird might be. Certainly better than he initially predicted, thanks to Nat’s efforts. But no amount of cleaning could wash away the feeling of loss. Spencer was done trying to pretend the Black Bird wasn’t the best thing that could have happened to them. He was ready to move on from the tragic event and count himself, Finn, and his new friends lucky, but it felt like he couldn’t without Kate’s blessing. That meant reliving what had happened for her sake, an inconvenience he’d gladly bear just to feel her in his arms again.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Spencer, is that you?” Nat called out over the faint hum of the engine.

A few seconds later, Spencer heard footsteps on the ladder leading up from the lower deck. Suddenly, Lewis popped around the corner, held by two little suntanned hands.

“Well hello, Lewis. Have you seen Maya?”

Lewis shook his head as Maya failed to hold back a giggle when Finn ran around the corner and tried to lick her face.

“Oh good, I was hoping it was you.” Nat stepped into view. “I want to get a look at your arm. We can’t have those getting infected.” She proceeded to grab Spencer’s arm and gently manipulate it so that she could inspect both wounds.

“It feels okay. A little sore, but no worse than the rest of me.” Spencer looked down at his body, focusing on his skinned knees from the slide to the davit during the storm.

“They’re healing. I’ll redress them tonight. Or now, maybe.” Nat let go of his arm, satisfied with what she saw.

“Later. You’ve been busy down here. It looks great. Thanks for doing all this.” Spencer panned the room.

“Maya was a big help. Weren’t you?” Nat looked at her daughter, who smiled and nodded.

“Well, thanks, Maya. You did a great job.” Spencer made sure to include her and was glad to see her laughing and playing with Finn, a stark contrast to the last time he’d seen her clinging to the seat at the height of the storm.

“Wait until you see what we’ve done downstairs,” Nat said. “Wait, did I say that wrong?”

Spencer tried not to smile at her terminology.

“Below deck, is that it?” She rolled her eyes. “Come on, we’ll give you the tour. Have you even been down here yet?”

“Briefly, right before the… I just had a quick look around.” Spencer didn’t want to mention the pirates in front of Maya and spoil the mood.

Nat glanced back with an appreciative smile as she led the way down the ladder with her daughter. “We’ll give you the tour, then.”

Spencer would have to be mindful of the girl; he wasn’t used to having kids around and wasn’t sure what Nat considered acceptable conversation around her daughter. The last thing he wanted to do was cause any unnecessary trauma. But the couple could only do so much to shield Maya from the harshness of the world they now lived in. In Spencer’s opinion, it would be best to be honest and open with the kid—sparing her the graphic details, of course—although that wasn’t his call to make. He was sure she’d be all right in the long run, no matter how the couple decided to explain their new life.

There was a brief moment back at the resort pool, right before he and Maya made their underwater escape from the collapsing building, that had stayed with Spencer. They’d locked eyes while counting down to their dive, and Spencer couldn’t explain it, but he knew then in his heart that Maya was a fighter, willing to do whatever it took to survive. Spencer didn’t know many adults who would blindly follow him into a dark, underwater hole.

Spencer nearly hit his head on the doorframe as he followed the girls into the forehold of the trawler. Spencer expected organized chaos. He’d seen the loose gear before the storm and afterward had done his best not to think about the resulting mess caused by the boat being tossed about by the twenty-foot seas. But to his astonishment, the forwardmost cargo space was neat and orderly.

Nat shrugged. “It still needs cleaning. A lot of the boat does down here. But we’ve got a good start on it.”

“I’ll say.” Spencer spun on his heels, making a complete circle as he took it in.

Nat had used the netted hammocks to store a lot of things that had otherwise been free to slide about on the deck. And as long as they didn’t need them for sleeping, Spencer thought they should stay that way. Letting things swing with the natural motion of the waves would keep things tidy and out of the way, leaving room for heavier, bulkier items down on the deck where they could be secured.

“Rob’s pretty good at building things,” Nat added. “He said he could make some shelves and maybe some bins out of those empty pallets to hold this stuff in place long term but wanted to talk to you first.”

“That sounds great. I’m all for organizing.”

“No, Finn.” Maya tugged at Finn’s collar as the dog buried his nose in a sack of rice.

“Come on, Finn. That’s not for you, buddy.” Spencer stepped up and over the high sill of the compartment door, slapping his thigh to let the dog know he was serious.

“Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the boat.” Nat and Maya scooted past in the narrow passageway while Spencer waited to make sure Finn was following.

Once Finn was through, Spencer closed the watertight door and rotated the big lever, twisting the dogs down tightly against the rubber gasket.

“Just as a general rule, it’s a good idea to keep this closed and fully latched unless we’re using the space. And if we drop anchor, which we’ll be doing in Stuart, no one should be in there while that happens. It’s a very dangerous place to be when that chain gets moving, and if… Well, you could get hurt really bad.” Spencer wrapped it up without going into further detail while looking at Maya to make sure she was listening and understood.

Rob and Maya might be the best parents in the world, but this was a big boat with lots of nooks and crannies for a curious kid Maya’s size and her stuffed friend Lewis to disappear into. Spencer needed to make sure Maya understood that not all places on the boat were meant for her to explore.

“We can add the door to our list, and we’ve already discussed some of the off-limits places. That’s one of them.” Nat pointed at the recently closed door, then held out her hand and started counting fingers as she waited for Maya to join in.

“The engine room. The other bedrooms. And get permission to go outside or all the way to the top.” Maya swayed back and forth as she recited the rules that Nat had clearly laid out.

“Very good.” Nat stopped peeling back fingers and ruffled the girl’s already messy hair. “We’re in here for now unless you want us to move.”

Spencer peeked into the stateroom without going in. As far as he was concerned, that was their space and he didn’t need to intrude.

Nat moved to the next door in the passageway. “There’s a bathroom in there. Or a head, I guess you call it.”

“That’s right.” Spencer nodded.

“Then three more staterooms. One of them has four bunk beds and a built-in table with lounge chairs, and the other two are like ours, except for this one, which has a larger bed and a private bath. I thought you and Kate might want this one, so I took the liberty of moving some of your things in. The sheets are clean and so are the towels.” Nat waved her hand through the air like a model introducing a new car.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” Spencer stepped inside the stateroom, inspecting the space.

“I’m guessing this was the captain’s quarters. It’s where I found the paperwork that I sent up to the bridge with Rob.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, too. It was the certificate of registry and some other things that I’ve been looking for.” Spencer shrugged. “But you guys should take the bigger room—or at least let Maya sleep in one of the bunk beds. We might as well take advantage of the space while we have it.”

“No, we’re fine, and as far as Maya is concerned, I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.” Nat glanced down at the girl, who took a break from rubbing Finn to grab her mother’s leg.

“No, I want to stay with you and Daddy.” Maya had been listening to their conversation after all.

“You are, sweety. You are. Did you know this boat has laundry? I didn’t expect that.” Nat turned her attention to Spencer, and Maya went back to lavishing attention on Finn.

“I figured it would. Probably like new.” He laughed.

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s seen a lot of use,” Nat agreed.

Spencer felt bad about suggesting Maya take one of the bunk beds but not as bad as he felt about taking the most luxurious stateroom on the boat. The captain’s quarters on the Black Bird made the space he and Kate slept in on the Hunter look like a shoebox. Spencer couldn’t get over the bed alone, which was a real full-sized mattress. It was odd seeing the comforter and pillows Kate had picked out for them in a new setting. But her decorating style seemed strangely at home among the polished mahogany woodwork that accented the stateroom. Apparently pirating was a very lucrative business.

Spencer stepped into the private head and was equally impressed with the ample space; it included a compact but full-sized shower. Whoever the pirates had stolen the boat from had put a considerable amount of time and money into the retrofit. It was a shame the former captain and crew hadn’t done a better job of maintaining her, although clear vestiges of the Black Bird’s former glory remained.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Nat said. “The other bathroom is a lot bigger. Oh, I did it again.”

“It’s fine, really. The most important things to get straight are port and starboard,” Spencer stated. Left and right were relative, depending on how the person was facing on a boat, but port and starboard never changed, allowing for unquestionable communication in an emergency, and he did think it was important for them to know that.

When Spencer stepped out of the head, Finn was breaking in the new bed by wriggling around on his back with all four feet kicking furiously at the air. But it was the snorting and sneezing that got Maya giggling at the dog’s antics.

“Oh, Finn.” Nat shook her head, watching the dog undo her and Maya’s hard work.

“It’s fine. Only a matter of time, really.” Spencer smiled at the wild-eyed dog and made his way to the far side of the room.

He took a quick peek out the porthole to check on the darkening sky to their west. Then he noticed the framed picture Nat had placed on the built-in table by the bed. The photograph showed Kate and Spencer standing aboard Restless at her parents’ dock, with Finn sitting between them.

“That was the weekend we got the Hunter.” Spencer couldn’t help but smile at the memories the photograph triggered.

The Hunter’s original name when they bought her was Knot My Problem, a corny pun that Tom took full advantage of all weekend. Every time Spencer added something to the list of repairs or upgrades he had planned for the new-to-them sailboat, Tom never failed to chime in with a “knot my problem” quip.

But Spencer’s good mood was short-lived, and his smile faded like the sun being covered by a cloud. He didn’t remember picking the picture up, yet he found himself holding the frame in his hand as Nat’s hand touched his shoulder.

Spencer fought the urge to cry tears of frustration as a roller coaster of emotions swept over him. Their boat was gone, and realistically, he had no idea if he’d ever see Kate again. He’d done his best not to think that way since the beginning of their journey, but the picture in his hands and the foreign environment was a reminder of what he’d lost and what he stood to lose. Seeing the image of Kate smiling back at him was bittersweet. No matter what Spencer found in Stuart, he couldn’t help but think days like those were gone forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Spencer set the picture down and dried his eyes as discreetly as he could before turning to face Nat. He suddenly felt like he needed some fresh air, and although he hadn’t accomplished anything while below deck, Nat and Maya had. Spencer couldn’t remember what he’d planned to do down here, but seeing that things were in order well beyond his expectations made him feel like it couldn’t have been that important.

“I think I’m going to head topside and enjoy the fresh air while it lasts.” Spencer slid past Nat toward the door. “You guys should do the same. You’ve already done more than enough.”

Nat shuffled her feet. “Sounds like we’re getting close to Stuart.”

“With any luck, we’ll be at the inlet around seven, give or take.” Spencer stopped at the door.

“That’s good.” Nat encouraged Maya to follow her out of the stateroom, her eyes betraying her true feelings.

“We won’t be there long, no longer than it takes to grab Kate and her parents and get out. You have my word on that. And you guys can stay aboard. Rob too. In fact, I’d prefer it. Someone needs to keep an eye on the boat. But we can go over all that later.” That was Spencer’s way of watering down the truth about needing Rob and Nat to stay aboard and be ready to fight if necessary to ward off anyone interested in taking the vessel for themselves.

“Do you think it’s going to be anything like Marathon? Can you see anything yet?” Nat asked with bated breath.

“I’m not sure what to expect, honestly. I wouldn’t count on much. I hope I’m wrong about that. I can’t see land yet, but if the color of the sky to our west is any indication…” Spencer checked his watch. He’d already said more than he meant to in front of Maya and finished with a shrug and a raised brow.

Nat ran a hand through her dark brown hair and let out a deep breath through pursed lips. “Everything is going to work out. I know it will.”

Spencer nodded at Nat and shot Maya a smile. “Thanks again for all the hard work. I think Kate’s gonna like it if—when—she sees the place.”

Spencer turned to leave but heard Nat call out behind him, “When, Spencer. It’s when.”

But Spencer didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. And now that he was out in the passageway, his desperation for fresh air had vanished. He also remembered that he’d wanted to take a look around the engine room to make sure things were in order after the beating the Black Bird had taken. And now that he wasn’t in a hurry like the last time he’d been below deck, he could take a few extra minutes to see if he could locate the engineer’s log or its equivalent.

Spencer scooted along the passageway toward the stern of the boat, the vibrations and steady clacking of the diesel growing in intensity as he neared the capsule-shaped, watertight door that opened into the engine room.

“Go play with Maya for a minute, Finn. Trust me, boy, you don’t want any part of what’s in here.” Spencer held his hand out and directed Finn back toward the girls with an extended finger.

Finn looked disappointed, but only for a second. Then he resumed panting and trotted off in the opposite direction. Spencer lifted the lever-style handle upward, freeing the dogs, then pushed the heavy steel door open with his hip and felt a blast of hot air hit his face. The overwhelming sound of the running engine split the dull air, and Spencer moved inside the space, swiftly closing the door behind him. He made for the workbench and located a pair of earmuffs swinging from an overhead beam. He took the time to clean them with his T-shirt before slipping them on.

Now that he’d reduced the deafening roar of the 450-horsepower Caterpillar to a dull rumble that he could feel throughout his entire body, he was ready to see if he could find what he was looking for while attempting to educate himself about the Black Bird’s inner workings. Spencer could already feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and happened to catch a glimpse of a thermometer mounted to the bulkhead among a handful of spare drive belts.

It was like being in a 120-degree sauna that reeked of diesel fuel, motor oil, and bilge water. Even the surface of the metal workbench he was leaning against was hot to the touch, and he half expected his sweaty skin to sear against the steel when it came in contact with his hand. He’d try to make his visit to the engine room as brief as he could, not because he felt pressured to get back up to the bridge but because he thought there was a chance he might pass out if he lingered here for too long. But mostly, he was worried about the scolding he’d get from Nat if he allowed that to happen.

Spencer eyed his surroundings; this was more than just an engine room, workshop, and storage space for spare engine oil and gasoline that was, Spencer now understood, for the previous captain’s center console, which he’d shot full of holes. The insulated space was as tidy as he’d remembered it and had apparently been left with everything properly stowed. The storm’s only consequence here was a broken coffee cup on the deck. Lying next to it in a mostly evaporated puddle of coffee was a thin, leather-bound book.

Spencer threw the broken pieces of the ceramic cup into a waste bucket and returned the logbook to the workbench, allowing the remainder of the spilled coffee to drip off of it first. Using an oil-stained rag, he hastily dried the floor, then the pages of the logbook as he peeled them apart.

Port-au-Prince, terminal tres—9,387 litro DF.

The spilled coffee had blurred the ink and made the already messy handwriting difficult to read, but Spencer managed to decipher the last entry just the same. Port-au-Prince was in Haiti; that much he knew. The rest didn’t take much effort to understand. The Black Bird had taken on fuel in Haiti, and according to the date scribbled after the entry, this was only a few days ago. The pirates must have filled her up and steamed north. He was wrong about the trawler originating from the Bahamas, but his discovery fit the narrative much better.

Port-au-Prince was not the most hospitable place, and that was putting it nicely. Spencer had been there a few times in the Coast Guard, and from what he’d seen, it seemed like a town where the Black Bird’s former captain and crew would fit right in. But even more importantly, the discovery told him that they had more than enough fuel to reach Buxton, North Carolina. Without the chart in front of him or access to the chartplotter, it was only a guess, but Spencer estimated the distance to Port-au-Prince from where they’d intercepted the Black Bird to be about seven or eight hundred miles. And if the fuel gauge was accurate, that meant the trawler boasted a very conservative burn rate.

Spencer left the book open and moved it to a shelf near the exhaust vent to expedite the drying process. There was other crucial information in the logbook, including oil changes, engine viscosity tests, and scheduled maintenance, all of which Spencer found remarkable for a boat that appeared to suffer from a lack of upkeep from the former crew, at least externally. Perhaps the chief engineer had been prior military or just simply understood the importance of properly serviced equipment. Either way, Spencer was pleased to see that some things on the Black Bird hadn’t been left to chance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Despite the looks of the thirty-some-year-old boat, Spencer felt a renewed sense of confidence in the rusty trawler’s reliability thanks to the detailed logbook. He only hoped the rest of the ship’s mechanicals were half as well cared for. And it stood to reason that they were; most of those systems were located in the engine room and had likely been maintained by the same person. He was sure he’d find additional information in the coffee-stained book about the other systems on board, but he wanted to make rounds and visually inspect what he could to make sure there were no alarms or worrisome readings on any of the gauges.

Spencer moved to a panel with several green lights and an array of black toggle switches. The information plate on the side of the panel identified the gray metal box as the control panel for the Coast Guard-approved twelve-person-capacity bacterial septic system, although he couldn’t imagine the Coast Guard had been aboard this vessel in quite some time. Everything looked as it should, and Spencer moved on to the far bulkhead and a set of ventilated metal doors. He opened the compartment, and as the realization of what he was looking at blossomed, he couldn’t control his excitement.

“Yes!” Spencer turned to share the good news with Finn, forgetting the dog wasn’t by his side for a change. He turned back to the open cabinet, eyeing his latest discovery. The desalination unit made the one on the Hunter look like a cheap trinket. He couldn’t find any specifications on the black box, but according to the water maker on board the Hunter, this thing probably had the capacity to make twenty to thirty gallons of fresh water per hour. Hopefully this water maker worked better than the one that was installed on Restless when Spencer had bought her. Of course, he assumed the poor performance of the Hunter’s desalination unit was due to an old reverse osmosis membrane, an expensive repair he’d put off because he and Kate usually did laundry and showered off the boat whenever they could.

Finding the water maker was another weight lifted from his troubled mind, but this didn’t mean they could be frivolous with the water they had. The lack of a warning light, along with a needle that hovered within the green zone, told Spencer the unit was running as it should, but he still wasn’t sure how much water it was actually making. And while it very well could have been around thirty gallons per hour, he knew how quickly that could be consumed on a boat full of people.

Spencer watched as a drop of sweat rolled off the end of his nose and splattered on the metal deck plate, a reminder that he’d already been here too long. He moved to the impressive Caterpillar diesel in the center of the space and made his way around the bright yellow power plant. He checked the gauges quickly, even though the smooth-running engine gave him no reason for concern, especially after what he’d put the boat through earlier. He followed the drive shaft back toward the reduction gear, where it disappeared into the bilge below the deck plates, making room for a small auxiliary engine that lacked any identifying information, unlike the green Isuzu generator situated right next to it. Spencer couldn’t hear the generator running over the big Cat behind him, but the gauges and spinning belts told him it was operating properly.

He took another look around while moving toward the exit, noting the welding equipment secured into a rack at the other end of the workbench. He didn’t have much experience with welding, but the strategically placed steel plating in various locations along the vessel’s railing topside made sense now. He threw the lever on the watertight door and stepped outside into what felt like an air-conditioned space compared to the engine room. Spencer drew in a lungful of uncooked air and closed the door behind him.

The Black Bird was a sleeper. Maybe not when it came to speed, but she had all the bells and whistles needed to survive at sea long term, despite her appearance from the outside. There was no question she was a capable, well-outfitted, purpose-built boat. The original owner’s intention was obviously long-range, blue-water cruising, and it was evident they’d sunk a large chunk of change into achieving that.

Under the direction of her last captain and crew, the boat’s mission was far less innocuous. He couldn’t help but think of how disappointed the original owners would be to learn all their efforts and money had been repurposed to terrorize and prey on the innocent and unsuspecting.

Spencer stayed put for a moment, enjoying the quiet of the dim passageway as he processed his discoveries and allowed the heaving of the boat to sway him from side to side. A stream of fresh, salty air pushed its way down into the lower deck through the open hatch leading up to the galley, along with the delicate sound of laughter. Nat and Maya had made their way topside, and by the sounds of things, so had Finn.

Spencer started for the hatch and stopped. Turning on his heels, he made for the forward hold instead. Once inside, he untangled one of the heavier-weight rod and reel setups and a gaff from a cluster of fishing gear bungeed together and secured against an exposed pipe. They’d have to come up with a better solution for rod storage or else the gear would eventually batter itself to pieces with the constant movement of the boat. And they couldn’t afford to let that happen.

The fishing gear was key to their long-term survival and second only in importance to the weapons they possessed, as far as he was concerned. There was a bulk of rice and beans on board and a few other things in the gallery refrigerator. Provisions also taken on in Haiti, he assumed. But they’d need protein, and the couple dozen eggs and the box of crudely packaged bacon wouldn’t last long.

Spencer decided on a neatly coiled daisy chain for his lure. The string of three white rubber squid ended with a fourth and larger pink squid. Spencer checked the size 8/0 stainless hook for sharpness with his finger and gave the tip a few strokes with the file on his Leatherman for good measure before heading topside.

Maya was all eyes as he crested the top of the ladder onto the mess deck with the fishing gear while Finn wagged his tail in anticipation of what was to come.

“Are you going to catch a fish?” Maya slid off the couch and joined Finn as he approached the rod and gave the string of squid a thorough inspection with his nose.

“I’m going to try and catch us some dinner.” Spencer smiled at the girl and pushed past Finn toward the stern. “Wanna come with me? I mean, if that’s okay with your mom.”

Maya looked at her mother in the galley.

Nat eyed Spencer as she moved supplies from the boxes and bags they’d brought on board into the cabinets. “Just be careful, please.”

“Will do, Mom.” Spencer bobbed his head up and down in a way that he hoped conveyed his utmost sincerity.

Spencer held the door open for Finn and Maya as they joined him on the ample fantail platform of the boat.

“We’ll be right out here on the poop deck if you’d like to join us.” Spencer glanced at Nat with a smile, then looked back at Maya, who was already trying to hold in a laugh.

“You boys are all the same.” Nat shook her head as he secured the door in an open position.

Spencer set the rod into one of five rod holders built into the back railing and took notice of a live well, along with a fresh- and saltwater washdown station. This boat really did have it all. This was the first time he’d really been out here on the aft main deck, unless he counted the time he was on his way overboard before Rob saved him.

“So this is called a daisy chain. And these rubber squid will swim along like a small school of bait with a bird teaser in front.” Spencer uncoiled the three-hundred-pound monofilament leader and let the teaser hang from his finger for a second, its spiraling silver stripes reflecting the dull daylight.

“A bird teaser?” Maya made a face.

“Yep. It’s got wings like a bird and spins to tease the fish into biting the squid.” Spencer laid the lure out as he attached the eye of the leader to his line, but not before clipping the Snap swivel off with his Leatherman and reattaching it with a swivel knot that he trusted.

Maya crouched down to get a closer look and touched one of the soft white rubber squid. “Ew.”

“The white ones don’t have hooks, but that one does, and it’s very sharp, so be careful.” Spencer pointed to the larger, pink squid that sat last at the rear of the rig.

Maya proceeded to feel each one with a similar reaction, excluding the last one. Finn knew the drill and had already found a spot to watch the action through the railing as Spencer tossed the lure into the water several yards off the stern and began to pay out line from the reel. The sound of the reel spooling out brought Rob to the railing on the weather deck above them.

“Fishing?” He offered a bemused smile.

“You want to eat dinner, don’t you?” Spencer answered.

Rob threw his hands up. “Hey, I’m not complaining.”

“Daddy,” Maya said with a wave.

“Hi, sweetie. Are you helping?”

“We’re using a bird teaser,” she answered.

Spencer kept the line paying out until he was well past the trawler’s prop wash, then adjusted the drag until he was happy with his offering. This was the perfect lure for anything from dolphin and tuna to wahoo and billfish, if he were lucky, although Spencer would settle for anything. This was meat fishing, after all. His number one priority was putting dinner in the box, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun doing it. He hadn’t set out to do anything more than just that, but he couldn’t deny the activity was a much-needed distraction from the reality they would soon face.

“Ever done any offshore fishing, Rob?” Spencer asked.

“Yeah, I’ve been out a few times on a charter boat.”

“Why don’t you come down and take over for me? I’ll take the helm for a bit. I want to look at the chart a little more anyway.”

“You sure?” Rob asked.

“Yeah. Come on.” Spencer waved him down.

Rob disappeared from the railing and was coming through the door from the mess deck in a matter of seconds.

“If you get a hookup, let the fish take it for a few seconds before you adjust your drag and set the hook.” Spencer slid the drag lever back and forth on the reel. “You good?”

“All good.” Rob was smiling as he helped Maya into a better position to see the daisy chain dragging behind them. “This is called trolling,” he explained to her.

“There’s the gaff, but I’ll help when you hook up.” Spencer jumped on top of the live well that was built in against the rear bulkhead outside the mess deck, and with the help of a swell, he pulled himself up and over the railing to the rear weather deck behind the bridge.

“When, huh?” Rob watched Spencer clamber his way up to the second deck.

“Trust me, it’s gonna happen. Get ready. I just need to get us down to a good trolling speed.” Spencer looked out over the trawler’s wake and spotted the smoke trail thrown off by the neon-pink bird teaser. The twisted white ribbon of subsurface air bubbles caused by the teaser’s wings made the daisy chain easy to spot in the clear, dark blue water. Spencer liked the way it looked and had a good premonition they’d be eating well tonight if his new friend could handle a rod and reel.

If I was a fish, I’d eat that. Spencer gave his spread—or lack thereof—one last glance and made his way into the pilothouse.

They were in good water, and as soon as he reduced their speed, Spencer was certain they’d hook into something decent out here. They needed to, and not just because he was getting hungry; this was his first real chance to prove that living aboard the Black Bird was sustainable for a larger number of people. Something he hoped to demonstrate by catching something they could fill their bellies with.

The thought of Rob, Nat, and Maya staying on board had crossed his mind a time or two. And he was actually warming up to the idea if Jacksonville didn’t pan out. But he was also starting to get the impression that the couple and their daughter were much less enthusiastic about going home now than they were at the outset of their trip. None of them had said a word, but Spencer felt there was an unspoken understanding between the adults on board: that Jacksonville hadn’t fared much better than Marathon. And if the horizon to their west was any indication, neither had Stuart. Slowing down to land a fish might have seemed like a silly idea on the surface, but the more Spencer thought about it, the more he realized it could very well be a matter of life and death.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Once inside the pilothouse, Spencer eased the throttle back until they were making a little less than six knots. All the while, he questioned his decision to break from their full-steam-ahead to Stuart strategy. He should have been going a little slower if filling the freezer was their first priority, but six knots was a compromise he was comfortable with. The opinions on proper trolling speed varied from one captain to the next, but somewhere between three and eight knots was generally productive. He’d hooked into a sailfish once off the back of Restless at over seven knots, although he’d failed to land it. Their main goal was to reach Stuart, after all.

Spencer bumped the throttle back up a hair until he had a solid seven-knot readout on the display and promised himself they’d give the trolling at least half an hour. If they hadn’t seen any action on the bait by then, it was back to business as usual. Using his binoculars, Spencer scanned the horizon in all directions, doing his best to disregard the almost black section of sky that appeared to extend the length of the entire Eastern Seaboard.

He’d been counting on the remaining daylight to help him navigate the Saint Lucie Inlet and the tricky river beyond, but based on the sky ahead, Spencer figured it was safe to assume they’d be operating in near darkness. That would complicate things, but the trawler had work lights out on the foredeck and several others stationed along the exterior of the hull, not to mention the spotlight he’d brought aboard from the Hunter. As Spencer pictured a lit-up Black Bird cruising up the river, though, he realized using the lights might not be such a great idea. He’d have to rely on the channel markers. Most of the buoys were equipped with solar-powered lights, but not all of them, and as they traveled farther upriver, the majority of the markers would use a reflective indicator.

Spencer was deep in thought, picturing Rob up on the bow with the spotlight, flashing buoys as they meticulously worked their way up the sandbar-laden river. That could work. It might have to. That was how he used to find his way home after duck hunting in Pamlico Sound through the backwaters around Buxton. But this was no johnboat, and it was quite a bit longer than fourteen feet. There’d be no room for error, something he continued to needlessly remind himself of.

In the johnboat—or even the Hewes, for that matter—with a flick of the wrist, he could turn on a dime. That wouldn’t be the case in the trawler. Spencer hadn’t had any issues with the steering, but she was a heavy vessel, and he had no way of knowing how the trawler would handle inshore at low speeds. He imagined that every move would require a great deal of forethought. There’d be no last-minute corrections in a boat this size.

Spencer glanced at the radar before stepping away to look over the certificate of registry Rob had moved to the chart table. Going through the documents, he searched for the metric he was looking for, finding it on the second page.

“Eighty-five thousand tons,” Spencer read out loud.

The Black Bird was no lightweight, which didn’t come as a surprise, really, but the number was bigger than he anticipated. And that was the dry weight, most likely before the retrofit, when she was just a bare-bones commercial fishing vessel. Add fuel, water, and probably a few tons of woodwork used to furnish the boat with creature comforts that were definitely not part of the original build, and Spencer was probably sitting on top of a hundred tons of boat.

He suddenly felt like he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and his thoughts were overcome with doubts about his ability to handle a boat like this in thin water—or anywhere, really, for that matter. He tried to ignore the fear of inadequacy that washed over him like a wave and reminded himself that he had been running the Black Bird successfully so far, albeit in open water. But he couldn’t discount what they’d been through, and although he attributed some of their success to dumb luck, there was more to it than that.

He stiffened his posture and repositioned his hands on the wheel. He couldn’t let thoughts like that creep into his head; instead, he focused on all the positive things he’d discovered about the boat and how well set up they were to cope with the challenges ahead. They’d do just fine navigating the river. The channel was deep enough, and if he had to, he’d idle up the Saint Lucie at a knot or two if that was what it took to avoid running aground.

At least he’d finally settled into the idea that the trawler was his, or theirs, after battling previous feelings of uncertainty and guilt. The former captain and crew of miscreants had taken Restless from him, so it was only fair for Spencer to claim the Black Bird for himself and Kate. It was time to acknowledge ownership and make peace with the way things had turned out. Just like it was time to stop playing games and get back up to speed.

Spencer eyed his watch reluctantly; it was approaching the half-hour mark since he dropped the lure over the stern. Catching dinner seemed less and less important as the minutes to their ETA ticked by on the monitor, especially when he considered that they already had food aboard.

Spencer heard the mechanical whine of the gold-colored offshore fishing reel over the trawler’s rumble and his heart immediately began to race. Seconds prior, he’d been on the cusp of calling it quits on the fishing and pushing the throttle forward to resume their ten- to twelve-knot slog toward Stuart. But all that had changed in an instant. Running to the aft weather deck behind the bridge, Spencer arrived at the railing in time to watch Rob pull the rod from the holder and pump it backward in an effort to set the fish.

“Easy there. Not too hard.” Spencer was afraid Rob would lose the fish before the fight had started.

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s big!” Rob shouted.

Spencer panned the rolling swells in the direction the line was paying out but couldn’t see anything. “Let ’em have it. Just keep the line taut.” He was about to suggest Rob tighten his drag up a tiny bit but decided against giving him that advice, afraid he’d go too far and break the fish off.

“We got one!” Maya screamed, getting to her feet on top of the live well where she’d been sitting.

“We sure do,” Spencer agreed.

A moment later, Nat burst through the mess deck door and rushed to Maya’s side, making sure the girl didn’t fall in her excitement.

“What is it?” Nat asked.

“Don’t know, but it’s big,” Rob grunted.

“Reel on your back pull,” Spencer said. “You’ve got to start gaining ground. I’ll back down on the throttle.”

He left the three and returned to the helm, where he promptly throttled the engine back until they were holding steady at just over three knots. He didn’t want to reduce their speed too much due to Rob’s inexperience, opting to use the trawler’s forward momentum to make up for his bad technique and keep the pressure on. He’d back off further when the fish was tired of running and closer to the boat. Spencer returned to the weather deck feeling torn between his duties at the wheel and his desire to land the fish. But he had to trust Rob to get it done. Either way, they’d be back up to cruising speed soon, with or without dinner in the icebox.

“Spencer!” Rob shouted.

“Hang on.” Spencer ran back to the railing overlooking the fantail of the trawler, where he saw Rob reeling in line at a fevered pitch.

“It’s coming right at us.” Rob bounced off the railing as he battled the fish and the rolling swells that threatened his footing.

Spencer returned to the helm, pushing the throttle forward, increasing their speed back to the original six knots and beyond. This type of thing was a lot easier on a smaller boat when you could see what was going on. But every time he entered the pilothouse, he lost sight of the action. Then he heard Rob yell something else that he couldn’t make out, followed by one of Maya’s signature squeals.

Spencer rushed back to the railing and saw that the fish had changed direction again. This time, it was swimming straight down, judging by the line disappearing into the prop wash.

“Keep the pressure on. Tighten the drag and don’t let up. He’s getting tired,” Spencer instructed.

Rob didn’t answer but did what Spencer said, grunting his way through a series of movements, pumping the rod up and down, reeling in line on the downstroke.

Spencer returned to the helm and zeroed the throttle out, throwing the boat into neutral. He was pretty sure they’d hooked into a tuna, judging by the exaggerated figure-eight pattern of the forty-pound monofilament cutting through the foamy water directly below their stern. A tuna of any size would be more than he’d hoped for, but Spencer curbed his excitement for the time being. He knew better than to celebrate before crossing the finish line.

Spencer flew over the rail, only bothering to find a single foothold on his way down to the lower deck before landing among the chaos of Rob’s grunts and unsteady footwork. Spencer slid to the rail and peered down into the abyss, trying to catch a glimpse of the fish at the end of the line.

“I can’t see him yet,” Rob panted.

“Keep at it. You’re close.” Spencer reached for the gaff and prepared himself as the pink of the daisy chain’s teaser began to materialize from the depths. Then a flash of silver and then color.

“A little more. Come on, you’ve got ’em now,” Spencer cheered while Nat and Maya took positions at the railing with Finn to watch the show. The fish had other ideas, and in a surge of energy, it made the reel sing once more as it stripped another twenty yards off and attempted to run. Rob put his back into it, though, and didn’t disappoint his audience by bringing what Spencer had already decided was a yellowfin tuna right back to the surface.

A quick jab and a retrieve with both hands planted firmly on the handle, and Spencer found purchase with the razor-sharp hook of the gaff, sinking it deep into the tuna’s meaty flesh, just behind the gills. Using all his body weight, he leaned back, hauling the writhing animal out of the ocean until all but its tail was left to thrash about in the water. He shook with each spasm of the tail as the tuna fought to free itself, its energy transferring through the aluminum gaff handle like electricity.

Rob jumped in and took hold of the gaff below Spencer’s grip. Between the two of them, they wrestled the chunky beast over the rail with a resounding smack as it hit the steel deck. The tuna flailed about for a few seconds more before settling into an almost still quiver, apart from the gaping mouth as it struggled to find water to push over its gills. Spencer unsheathed his Leatherman Signal multi-tool and found the long, sharp blade with a flick of a thumb. Without hesitation, he sank it into the top-center of the tuna’s head, putting the fish out of its misery in a matter of seconds.

It was a yellowfin, and a hefty one at that. Spencer guessed about sixty to seventy pounds, although his embarrassing attempt to pull the fish on board made him want to increase his estimate. He’d seen bigger yellowfin recorded on the marina display boards, but this was the largest he’d ever helped land, giving some of the typically larger bluefin tuna he and his dad had caught off Hatteras a run for their money when it came to heft.

“That’s a nice fish. Tuna?” Rob panted.

“Yep. That’s a nice yellowfin. Lots of meat.” Spencer lifted the gill cover and used his knife to slice through the gill membrane, severing the blood vessels. He moved his blade a few inches behind the pectoral fin and made an incision, opening the mid-line artery. Spencer flipped the fish over and repeated the process on the other side so the fish would bleed out, which would improve the quality of the meat.

“Why are you doing that?” Maya looked as though she wanted to glance away but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“Tuna are warm-blooded, which means they can regulate their body temperature to keep it warmer than the surrounding water. And after a fight like that, it’s important to bleed the fish and cool it down as quickly as possible. Otherwise, the meat won’t be as good,” Spencer explained.

“That’s a lot of blood.” Maya watched as Spencer used the raw-water washdown hose to force water into the fish’s mouth, flushing the blood from its body.

Finn moved in to investigate the lifeless tuna, taking the opportunity to taste the crimson ribbon of water flowing over the deck and out the scupper.

“Yuck,” Maya protested.

Spencer sat back on his knees, holding Finn by his collar as the fish continued to bleed out. They’d be eating well for the next few nights, but for Spencer, the real satisfaction came from proving to his new friends that he was a competent captain, at least when it came to providing food.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

With the fish packed in ice from the galley’s ice maker and the internal organs removed, there was nothing more to do with the chubby yellowfin tuna until dinnertime. Spencer had already sliced away several steaks from the tuna’s flanks and left the rest up to Nat, who volunteered to cook dinner for everyone.

Spencer was still riding the high of the catch. The time spent in pursuing dinner had proven worthwhile, putting several meals’ worth of high-quality protein on board, but it was good to get back on course and up to speed. The conditions hadn’t changed much; the lazy three- to four-foot swells continued moving the boat up and down in a predictable manner. And they were still enjoying following seas, giving Spencer reason to believe they might reach Saint Lucie Inlet slightly ahead of schedule.

Maya had been up on the bridge for a short while, and Spencer let her feed Ciro, who’d decided to come back in from his perch atop the boat davit now that the sun was being choked out by the dirty haze polluting the lower atmosphere. Spencer was glad she’d gone below deck to help her mother, though. He was beginning to pick up targets on the radar screen. People fleeing the post-apocalyptic horrors of life on land, no doubt.

The thickening sky had turned the remaining day light a ghostly shade of yellow that reminded Spencer a little of the calm before a midday southern Florida thunderstorm. But it was well past midday, and there was no storm looming on the horizon tonight; these foreboding and ominous skies were manmade.

Spencer was hoping beyond reason that things in Stuart would somehow be different from what they’d experienced in Marathon, but he was sure now that wouldn’t be the case. The occasional bits of ash floating by the pilothouse windows were proof enough that all was not well in Stuart or the surrounding area. And if that wasn’t enough to convince him that his greatest fears had been validated, the toxic smell of burning organic and inorganic materials alike filled his nostrils with every breath.

They were still an hour or so out from the mouth of the inlet, but Spencer’s course had brought them to within seven miles of the coast, just south of Stuart. Within the last few minutes, the remaining daylight had been sucked up like water into a sponge with the steady increase of ash content in the air, causing a premature start to the evening. Spencer stepped out onto the portside weather deck with his binoculars, doing his best to shield his eyes from the gray blizzard of falling particles.

The faint orange glow off the port side of the trawler, where water met sky, was becoming more prominent with each passing minute. At first, he thought it was the last of the setting sun burning through the low-hanging smog in spots, but soon, he realized it was something much more sinister.

Florida was on fire.

Spencer remembered hearing more than once on the television at the bar what a dry spring they’d had this year. It didn’t affect him or the Keys so much, but he imagined that up north, where the state was covered in wetlands, the impact of the EMPs would be catastrophic.

With water tables low, the 18,000-plus square miles of wetlands that made up over a third of the Sunshine State would be anything but wet, their various types of grasses left parched. It was common during the summer months for the state to close down sections of Interstate 95. The heavily traveled highway ran through millions of acres of these savannah-like grasslands and frequently made travel advisory news for poor visibility due to smoke from the grass fires ignited by lightning strikes. He’d heard more than the occasional customer at the bar griping about the drive down through the fires and the resulting traffic delays.

Spencer glassed the shoreline, or at least where he imagined it should be. Seeing anything clearly through the falling debris and dense air was like looking through a poorly made blindfold. He could see the points of light that seemed to flicker and fade with the drifting smoke. Fires dotted the shoreline as far south and north as he could see, although he didn’t figure that to be very far. He should have been able to spot land from here, or at least a few taller buildings and their lights. But he knew there wouldn’t be lights—not the artificial kind, anyway. And he was willing to bet they hadn’t even seen the worst of it yet.

Spencer dropped the binoculars, letting them hang around his neck by the lanyard as he took a look around at the trawler’s exterior. Not being able to see very well wasn’t without its advantages. The flat-black, rust-stained hull of the Black Bird should make for decent camouflage in these conditions. Spencer would continue to operate without running lights as well, something he never would have considered, especially while traversing an inlet. But his concerns about maneuvering the big trawler up the small river channel in the dark were secondary to the bigger threat and might possibly be the easiest of their challenges tonight.

The real danger was dealing with the people they’d run into while moving slowly upriver or at anchor in the small cove off Tom and Debbie’s property. He didn’t imagine there’d be many boats, if any at all, moving back toward land, and if his radar screen was any indication, that was a safe assumption. Spencer had resisted allowing himself to feel comfortable on board his new home out of pride and maybe a little self-pity over losing Restless. But over the course of the last couple of days, the big trawler was starting to feel familiar. Spencer hadn’t asked to be captain of the Black Bird, yet here he was, and there was no way he was losing a second boat without a fight.

Staying out of trouble while inshore was a real concern. And not just when he went ashore. A boat this size would stand out in the Saint Lucie River, especially now that marine traffic was sparse. And while most modern boats had been disabled by the EMPs, Spencer would have to anchor the trawler close to shore. Close enough to tempt at least a few nefarious survivors. The trawler might be hard to see, but it wasn’t invisible—or silent.

The shorelines of the Saint Lucie River were densely populated residential areas, all of it high-end real estate with fancy boats and even fancier houses. Spencer expected most of them to be nothing but rubble if the power surge caused by the EMPs had the same effect in Stuart as it did in the Keys. But either way, there would be plenty of eyes on them.

Rob’s voice startled him from his thoughts. “Here you go, bud.”

Spencer turned from the radar monitor to find a steaming bowl of beans and rice topped with two pink-in-the-middle tuna steaks, just like he’d requested.

“Wow, that looks great.” He eagerly accepted the bowl and took a seat on the couch.

Finn followed Rob up the ladder, but Spencer was sure the dog was only hoping to share the meal with him rather than make a social call.

“He’s eaten, so don’t let him fool you.” Rob’s smile faded as he took notice of the ash particles streaming past the pilothouse windows.

“Yeah, it’s changed a lot in the last hour or so.” Spencer broke a big piece of tuna off with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth while Finn made his way up onto the couch.

“I smelled the change from the mess deck but didn’t realize it looked like this. It’s like snow. Well, if snow was black and gray.” Rob stuck his head outside but pulled it back inside quickly.

Ciro squawked a short warning at Finn, who’d moved onto the couch with Spencer, but Finn ignored the bird, keeping his eyes glued to Spencer’s bowl instead. Spencer broke down and gave the remains of his first tuna steak to the dog, realizing he couldn’t eat all of what Nat had given him.

Rob studied the monitor. “Lots of boats out there.”

“Yeah.” Spencer kept his response short. He wanted to finish eating so he could start preparing for Stuart, mentally and physically. But he’d have to think hard about what to load into his backpack, making sure he had everything he needed to be successful but not so much that it slowed him down.

“Most of them don’t seem to be moving,” he added between bites.

Rob shrugged. “They probably don’t know where to go.”

“You might be right about that.” Spencer held the bowl up to his face, and much to Finn’s disappointment, he shoveled the last of the rice and beans into his mouth. “We’ll have to turn the radar off pretty soon anyways. There’ll be too much interference. It’s already getting tough to read because of all this.” He waved his fork at the fallout that was starting to accumulate on the windows facing the bow.

Rob seemed to be pacing a bit, moving from one monitor to the next. Spencer wasn’t sure what was on the man’s mind, but small talk about the weather and the handful of idle targets pinging on the radar screen wasn’t it.

“It’s gonna be pretty bad in there, isn’t it? I mean… I’m sorry, Spencer. I know you’re worried about Kate. I’m not trying to point out the obvious here, but… Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m going ashore with you to look for Kate. What if they aren’t at her parents’ place? What if it isn’t there anymore? Either way, you’re gonna need my help.” Rob ended his pitch with crossed arms and direct eye contact.

“Rob, look, I⁠—”

“No arguments. You can’t do this on your own. I talked it over with Nat. She’ll stay here with Maya and watch the boat. She found a couple of handheld radios while she was cleaning up below deck, so we’ll be able to keep in touch with her if they work, and if not, she’s got flares.”

Spencer wasn’t sure what to say. There was no changing Rob’s mind, apparently, although the thought of Nat launching a flare from the trawler while they were anchored in the river was more than a little concerning. But they could discuss that later.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Spencer said with a grateful nod.

“You don’t need to thank me, Spencer, not after what you did for Maya back in Marathon. I need to help you get a win here.” Rob took Spencer’s empty bowl and started down the ladder. “I’ll grab those radios from Nat so we can try them out.”

“Sounds good.” Spencer slid off the seat. He was going to remind Rob that he’d more than paid any debt by saving Spencer during the storm, but he didn’t think it would have made a difference. Rob was determined to join him inshore, and as bad as Spencer felt about involving either of the couple in his problems, Rob’s commitment was reassuring.

He washed down the meal he’d just inhaled with a few gulps of a freshly opened energy drink and moved back to the radar monitor. There were well over a dozen targets showing up, along with a heavy dose of noise or interference that Spencer attributed to the fallout from the fires. The outline of the coast was faint but visible, and Spencer identified Saint Lucie Inlet right away. He had no idea what he’d find in Stuart, but knowing that Rob and Nat had his back made whatever odds they faced seem surmountable.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rob hadn’t returned to the bridge yet, and Spencer was starting to wonder if the man had in fact cleared his plans to go ashore with his wife. Spencer reluctantly tried to eavesdrop at the top of the ladder but heard nothing from the mess deck. He was grateful for the offer Rob had made to him—or insisted upon, actually. And there was no question that Rob would be an asset in a place where an extra set of eyes and ears could mean the difference between being successful or not.

But Spencer was worried about leaving Nat and Maya on the boat to fend for themselves. He’d already decided to leave Finn aboard with the girls for added protection and peace of mind, though it was more a symbolic token than a truly effective means of ensuring their safety. Then again, who could be sure of anything anymore? Here he was, planning the details of Kate’s rescue without even knowing if her parents’ house was still standing. He and Rob would know from the river before they got there, if that was the case. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Spencer pictured the clouds of smoke hovering over the water’s surface in Marathon; they’d prevented him from seeing the shore from the Hunter most of the time.

He tried focusing on something he could control as they closed in on the inlet.

“We’re gonna need masks.” He looked at Finn, who responded with a tilt of his head.

Spencer pulled the pencil from his ear and jotted the item down on his growing list of things to throw in his backpack. So far, he’d come up with the obvious: weapons, water, flashlight, knife, which he always carried, and now his sun buff to cover his mouth and nose to minimize the amount of toxic air he inhaled. He felt foolish for not grabbing the N95 masks that he had in the storage shed in Marathon; he’d bought a whole pack of them for sanding down the woodwork on the Hunter. Thinking about them was a waste of time now, though.

Spencer retrieved the flat-black SIG Sauer 9mm he’d found earlier in the console drawer, along with two magazines and a well-used leather shoulder holster he’d found in the bottom storage of the gun rack. He pulled the Smith & Wesson Shield in its IWB holster from the small of his back and laid them on the helm station for Rob to use. He couldn’t have the man running around with a .454 Taurus revolver tucked into his belt. The big pistol wasn’t just awkward but dangerous. Spencer anticipated tight quarters and limited visibility. A weapon like that could have unintended consequences in a restricted area, like punching through several walls at a time. Or a boat hull.

He’d set Rob up with the Benelli 12-gauge as well, another good choice for the CQB conditions they’d be operating in. Spencer would carry his AR-15. With the stock collapsed, the thirty-inch-long carbine was shorter than the typical AR platform, but that was why he’d purchased the weapon—so it was more manageable within the tight spaces of a boat. He wasn’t altogether sure the gun show purchase was legal, something he used to worry about, but not anymore.

Spencer fitted the shoulder holster around his body and adjusted the straps until it was snug but comfortably supported the weight of the SIG and the two extra magazines in the opposite pouch. The getup wasn’t the most comfortable thing he’d ever worn, but if it sent the message that he hoped it did, the bulky holster would be worth any discomfort it caused. There was no point in hiding the fact that he was armed anymore. Concealed carry was a thing of the past, and although having a hidden weapon had worked to his advantage and gotten him out of trouble before, he was hoping that wearing the SIG in plain sight might prevent it altogether.

But avoiding trouble was a lofty ambition, and he knew better than to count on this extraction being anything but difficult. He also intended to get in and get out as quickly as possible, but he understood that this would be slow and steady as he tried not to make mistakes or expose them to any unnecessary risks.

It was going to take more than a minute to pick the Hewes from the cradle on the foredeck and drop her into the water using the single-point boat davit. It would take even longer to shuttle Kate, her parents, and their things back to the trawler. He anticipated at least a few trips. And why shouldn’t they grab all they could if the conditions allowed them to? They had the space, and he knew for sure that Tom had the gear.

Spencer wasn’t sure they’d have that kind of time. It depended on how much attention they attracted. He’d initially dreaded arriving in Stuart at night, but now that they were almost there, he was thankful for the lack of daylight, even if it would make navigation challenging.

Rob stomped his way back up to the bridge. His footsteps on the metal ladder prompted Finn to get up and wag his tail with excitement, while Ciro moved to the edge of his perch with a drawn-out but coarse squawk.

“I’ve got the radios.” Rob turned on both units and handed one to Spencer. “Looks like they work. Not sure about the range, though.”

Spencer eyed the black and orange Cobra two-way radio in his hand. Rob pressed his talk button and blasted them both with the shrill squeal of feedback. Finn barked at the high-pitched tone and retreated to the far side of the couch despite Ciro having moved down to the chart table next to the cushioned seat.

Rob made a face. “Sorry about that. I guess we’re too close.”

Spencer thumbed the scan function on his radio, forcing a pause at channels 13 and 16 for a few seconds before running through the rest, but he got the same result as he did with the ship’s radio: nothing but static. He wasn’t surprised, but being able to communicate with the Black Bird while he and Rob were ashore was a big enough win by itself.

“This is probably a good time to try these out and go over the process of dropping the anchor.”

“Okay, what do I do?” Rob asked.

“Head up to the bow. See that shiny round thing?” Spencer pointed at the only piece of bright metal on the boat. “That’s the windlass. When you get there, I’ll explain how to let the anchor out. And let’s use proper radio etiquette and sign off with ‘over’ so we don’t end up talking over each other.” Spencer eyed Rob’s radio and synced his to the same channel.

“All right, I’ll try to raise you when I get there.” Rob turned and took the ladder in a few exaggerated steps, landing on the main deck with a thud.

A few moments later, Spencer watched him cross the foredeck. He kept himself steady with one hand on the Hewes while using his other hand to shield his face from the falling ash. Spencer hadn’t anticipated the fallout from the fires to be this bad and suspected they’d see some falling embers by the time they reached the river. Fortunately, he didn’t have to worry about the trawler catching fire, unlike the Hunter. Another advantage of a steel-hulled vessel.

Spencer tried the windless switch located in the pilothouse earlier but got no response and assumed it had been damaged in the firefight or hadn’t worked to begin with, although it was located suspiciously close to a bullet hole on the outside of the bulkhead. But even if the remote switch had worked, it was a good idea to have a person tend to the windlass while anchoring. There were too many things that could go wrong with dropping the anchor on a boat this size, and he deemed it a two-person job. One on the bridge at the controls and another at the anchor.

“Can you hear me? Over.” Rob’s voice came through, along with a healthy amount of static.

“Copy that, Rob. I want you to look down by your feet. See those two covered pedals? One raises the anchor, and one lowers it. Over.”

“I see them. Over.” Rob ducked down behind the high rake of the bow and found respite from the driving ash, which seemed to be moving twice as fast in the light of his borrowed headlamp. He extended his leg and tested both pedals, and Spencer saw the lights on the pilothouse anchor controls flash.

“It’s working. Over.” Rob tucked himself back up against the exaggerated upward sweep of the hull under the bow pulpit.

“Good. When we get there, you’ll have to operate the windlass. The remote switch up here is toast. But before we can drop anchor, you need to release the brake and open the chain stopper. Do you see what looks like an iron bar or pipe… or maybe an oversized wrench? Over.” Spencer had intended to go over the windlass with Rob today at some point, but he’d lost track of time. Not to mention, the man had been just about every shade of pale green there was throughout the afternoon.

Rob didn’t use the radio to answer but instead held up a three-foot piece of pipe and waved it at Spencer in the pilothouse.

“Okay, see the holes on the top of the windlass? The pipe goes in there, and you spin it counterclockwise to release the brake. Then, up on the chain toward the anchor, there’ll be a stopper you have to flip out of the way. But do that before you release the brake. Over.” Spencer was tempted to leave the helm, join the man on the bow, and get this over with quickly. They’d proven the radios worked, even if their voices were garbled. And this was too much information to explain over the radio in these conditions.

“I got it figured out. I’m coming back up. Over.” Rob covered his face as a whirlwind of ash was whipped into a frenzy around his body and moved aft.

Spencer watched the light of Rob’s headlamp bounce along the deck until it disappeared under the pilothouse windows. Getting up the river and anchored properly would be a fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants operation, not the heroic entrance he had in mind, but that hardly mattered. If they had the time and he was patient, he’d wait until first light. But he feared they were already out of time, and he certainly lacked the patience to sit at the mouth of the inlet all night while Kate was suffering through God knew what. As far as he was concerned, it was now or never, and Saint Lucie Inlet was less than two miles off their bow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rob was a little out of breath as he climbed the ladder to the bridge, and Spencer wasn’t sure if it was because of the quick trip to the windlass and back or the poor air quality.

“It’s pretty bad out there, man. You got an extra one of those face things you were wearing in Marathon?” Rob wiped the sweat from his face, smearing soot and ash across his features, making it look like he’d applied camouflage paint.

“Yeah, I’ve got plenty. The girls should probably wear them, too, even though they’re staying on the boat. It’s only going to get worse.” In that moment, Spencer realized the time for action was here.

“I can handle dropping the anchor. So don’t worry about that. I’m pretty solid when it comes to anything mechanical.” Rob’s face wrinkled with a smirk as he nodded.

“I’m sure you know more than I do about a lot of things. I don’t mean to overexplain—I guess I’m just a little nervous.” Spencer exhaled through pursed lips. “Everything all right with Nat? Is she good with you coming with me? Are you sure you still want to?” Spencer gave Finn a few scratches behind his ear as he gave Rob another chance to back out.

“Yeah. Of course. It’s all gonna work out. We’ll grab Kate and her parents and whatever stuff they have and get out. People are gonna be plenty occupied with their own problems. I think you’re overthinking this whole thing. I mean, yeah, it could be dangerous, but we’ve got each other’s backs, and Tom was—is—a Marine.” Rob corrected himself with a tilt of his head before continuing his pep talk. “From what you’ve told me, I think they’ll all have their bags packed and be waiting on the dock.” He gave Spencer’s shoulder a friendly smack and turned his attention to the gun rack as if he knew where Spencer was headed next.

Spencer had no idea how the man could be so confident or so casual about what they were about to do. Maybe it was because he didn’t understand how easily they could run aground before they even got there, or maybe it was because he didn’t have a real stake in the success of the evening, although Spencer didn’t believe the latter. Rob and Nat were too nice not to care about the results of tonight’s effort to retrieve Kate and, hopefully, her parents. He believed they were genuinely invested in making this happen. The man had every reason to stay aboard the Black Bird with his wife and daughter, yet he was willing to risk his life to help Spencer.

Rob had either missed his calling by becoming an electrician instead of a motivational speaker or Spencer’s recently finished energy drink was kicking in, because he felt unexpectedly optimistic about what lay ahead. He handed Rob the list, along with the Smith & Wesson Shield in its concealable holster.

“That’s yours tonight. The Taurus is a little too much, I think, and this makes more sense since I’ll be using that. We can double up on ammo.” Spencer glanced at the SIG Sauer wrapped up in the shoulder harness; he’d laid it across the chart table after fitting it to his body earlier. The stiff leather straps and back pad were making him sweat more than he already was.

Rob admired the SIG. “Nice.”

Along with the heavy fallout came sauna-like temperatures that were hard to ignore. The trawler had air-conditioning, but he’d yet to run it, and it wouldn’t have made much of a difference with the busted window on the bridge anyway. The small fan mounted in the corner helped, but the small breeze it provided was far from refreshing.

“I was thinking you’d take the Benelli, too. I’ve got some double-aught buckshot you can carry,” Spencer stated.

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.” Rob opened his own backpack and produced a leather bandolier specifically set up for shotgun shells. “Found this hanging up in our stateroom. It even came with a few.” He twisted one of the half dozen shells hanging in the loops before pulling the whole thing over his head and snugging it up around his body.

Spencer flipped open the gun rack and pulled out the AR-15 and the 12-gauge, along with several spare magazines and a box of double-aught shells for Rob. He felt like he was forgetting something, but he also didn’t want to take too much. They’d be loaded to the gills on the way back, anyway, and too much gear would only slow them down.

He’d been worried about prepping for their trip to shore, but now that it was almost time, he realized there wasn’t actually that much he needed. No matter what precautions he took or provisions he threw into his backpack, nothing could fully prepare them for what lay ahead or solve every problem they encountered.

Spencer pulled the bright yellow, battery-powered spotlight from its charging cradle on the console and handed it to Rob. “I’m going to need you up at the bow again when we get past the inlet. I’m not sure how many buoy lights will be working, but we’ve got to stay in the center of the main channel. Red channel markers should be on our starboard. Red, right, returning is an easy way to remember it.”

“Yep, no problem. Can I get that mask from you, though?” Rob glanced outside at the tempest of gray and black ash trying to find a way into the pilothouse.

“Yeah, there was a blue tote with some stickers on it. I think Nat moved it to my stateroom. There should be extra in there. You should grab one for Nat and Maya as well,” Spencer added.

Rob nodded. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

“Also, Maya should probably stay below deck from here on out, at least until we know what we’re dealing with.” Spencer wasn’t ruling out being shot at from the shore or the bridge they’d have to contend with farther upriver to get to Kate’s parents.

Rob filled the last empty slot on his bandolier and used the strap on the Benelli to sling the weapon over his shoulder. “I guess I better get up there.”

“Soon. We’re getting close now. Don’t forget the radio, and keep your eyes peeled for sandbars.” Spencer shrugged. “I’m not sure what the tide is doing.”

“Okay. Give me a minute. I’ll check in with the girls and then get back up to the bow.” Rob threw the spotlight into his backpack and clipped the radio to his belt before disappearing down the ladder.

Spencer turned his attention to the radar monitor and took one last look before turning the unit off. There was so much interference now that he could hardly make out any discernible features. And if there was a boat sitting in the inlet or nearby, it didn’t much matter because there was only one way into the river.

Sewall Point Bridge was located around four miles from the inlet and about a mile short of Tom and Debbie’s place. They had to cross under this bridge both ways; there was no choice in the matter. The only saving grace was the bridge’s height; the section of bridge directly over the channel boasted a sixty-five-foot vertical clearance off the water’s surface. Spencer remembered that from the time he and Kate came through on the Hunter. That should be a strong deterrent for even the most ambitious would-be boarder. But they were also a bigger target now in the trawler, with plenty of open deck space to aim for if a person was desperate enough. Not to mention, the pilothouse of the trawler was much higher off the water as well. The drop to the weather deck around the bridge, or even the roof over Spencer’s head, would be only thirty-some feet from the overpass.

The more he thought about it, the less comfortable he became with the prospect of squeezing the trawler through the tight channel at the bridge. The other option would be to anchor on the south side and use the skiff to run the rest of the river to Kate, but Spencer liked that idea even less. The radios barely worked from the bridge to the bow; he couldn’t imagine them being able to communicate over a few miles, and not in these crazy conditions.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Spencer was glad to see Rob making his way up to the bow, although he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about the man getting stuck with the outside work. At least Rob had found his tote full of fishing gear and grabbed one of the buffs. Kate made fun of him for ordering a twelve-pack of the things, but they’d come in handy now. The thin material of the sun buffs was meant to prevent sunburn, though, not the inhalation of toxic smoke and fallout, but it was better than nothing.

Rob waved his hand when he got into position on the bow. Spencer watched him pull the spotlight from his bag as they neared the mouth of the inlet and began to ease back on the throttle. Sailfish Point, which consisted of golf course homes and resort condominiums along the oceanfront side of the expansive property to their north, was in ruins, with most of the structure fires still going strong. In dozens of places, bright yellow flames shot up from the ground like geysers, well over twenty feet into the air, which Spencer attributed to ruptured natural gas lines.

The lingering effects of the EMPs were worse than he anticipated, and his heart sank as the devastated shoreline revealed itself through the fouled air. There were several houses left intact on larger lots. A couple of them had sprinkler systems currently running, and some even had lights on. Whole-house generators were a common residential feature in Florida, though, thanks to yearly threats from tropical storms and hurricanes. Damon had saved his house in a similar fashion, and like Damon, the people using their lights would attract unwanted attention.

Spencer saw the flash of the spotlight reflecting back off the ash-filled sky. “We should only use the spotlight in short bursts. And I wouldn’t keep your headlamp on, either. Over.” He flipped the switch on the console, bathing the bridge in a dull crimson light.

Up on the bow, Rob was a target with his headlamp on, negating any advantage that came from operating without the trawler’s running lights.

“Copy that. Looks like the water’s moving pretty fast through the inlet. Over.” Rob extinguished his headlamp, and for a moment, Spencer lost sight of the man through the streaks of ash.

“I see that. We’ve got a pretty strong outgoing tide. Over.” Spencer was hoping they’d get lucky and show up at high tide—or at least an incoming tide—but that wasn’t going to be the case.

He pushed the throttle forward, gaining speed against the flow of water rushing out toward the ocean. They didn’t have to be as careful here; this would be the widest part of the channel, meant for multiple boats to exit and enter the inlet at the same time. But once they were farther upriver, that would change.

Spencer was disappointed to see so many fires burning. He’d hoped things would have died down by now, but there was some benefit to the natural gas torches jutting skyward when it came to visibility. The orange and yellow refractions of light dancing on the water’s dappled surface allowed him to identify the coquina rock jetties that marked the edges of the channel. Their port side was dark in contrast to the firelight coming off Sailfish Point. Under normal circumstances, Jupiter Island stretched for as far as the eye could see, and the state park and designated wildlife sanctuary extended all the way down to Hobie Sound. But tonight, there was no indication of anything existing beyond a couple hundred yards.

“Rob, I need you to find me the end of that jetty off the port side. There’s an exposed rock about five hundred yards off the south jetty. Over.” Spencer was worried about cutting the corner too close due to their southern approach to the inlet. He remembered a shoal at the outer edge of the Jupiter Island side and wanted to make sure they didn’t run aground before they’d even begun.

Rob flashed the spotlight for a few seconds at a time, illuminating the main jetty first, then working his way out across the choppy water toward the channel. Conditions were getting worse as they neared the mouth of the inlet, the water growing more turbulent in the swift-moving tide.

“A little farther out, I think. Over.” Spencer was worried, though; the red and green buoys that marked the inlet’s entrance should have been flashing.

It took Rob three more attempts to locate the shallow extension of submerged coquina jetty, but he eventually found the unlit marker. The green buoy with a black number three on its side leaned hard against the rushing tide as it reflected the spotlight. Spencer saw that they’d clear it, albeit by a narrower margin than he was aiming for. He spun the wheel to starboard and gave them a little extra room to compensate for the current.

Spencer was long past the point of needing to sell himself on the benefits of the Black Bird over the Hunter, but for the first time, he was genuinely happy he had the boat and its 450 horsepower at his disposal. Pushing in through the opening of the two jetties in this ripping current would have been much more difficult in the underpowered Hunter.

He bumped the throttle forward with the palm of his hand and brought them deftly into the inlet, giving the exposed rock a wide berth. He thought back to the one and only time they’d been through this waterway and tried to remember its nuances. The south bank, off the tip of the wildlife sanctuary, was thick with sandbars. He recalled the perfect little one-foot barrels that formed off the Hunter’s wake as the miniature waves broke across the flats, just like he could hear them breaking now. He was tempted to favor that side of the river and take advantage of the darkness, but it wasn’t safe, and unfortunately, these conditions wouldn’t last very long before they came into a residential area past the sanctuary.

He could already see the fires up ahead on the opposing shoreline. He doubted that he’d need Rob on the bow anymore as he spotted the next solar-powered green light of the channel marker coming up off their port bow. Then he found the red marker off the other side. A second later, Rob’s left arm shot up over his head and then dropped sideways toward the starboard buoy. Spencer wasn’t sure why the lights on these channel markers were working and the ones at the mouth of the inlet weren’t, but he hoped the working buoy lights continued as they moved upriver.

“Got it. Over.” Spencer would call Rob up to the bridge once they passed Jupiter Island. It was disheartening to admit, but there’d be plenty of light to navigate the river.

Spencer had hoped to use the cover of darkness to their advantage and make a stealthy approach to Tom and Debbie’s, but with plenty of fires still lighting the shoreline, speed would be their best bet. He wasn’t sure he could call ten to twelve knots “speed,” though, and against the outgoing tide, they might be going even slower.

Rob flashed a hazard marker off their starboard side, causing a moment of panic as Spencer checked their depth.

“Fourteen feet deep here. We’re good. Over.” Spencer assured Rob they were still in the channel but thought it best to confirm that.

He’d left the chartplotter powered up for its display of metrics, but their route to Kate’s parents’ house was no longer showing consistently on the monitor, along with many other details of the river. Spencer wondered if the GPS-powered equipment was losing its signal due to the heavy amount of particulate falling from the sky. He was convinced that was what had done the radar in.

He flipped on his headlamp briefly to better read the chart he’d laid out on the table, forgetting that Ciro was even here. The raven let out a squawk, hopped down from his perch, and strutted around on the chart. Spencer did his best to ignore him and identified the hazard as a submerged boulder before switching off his light.

According to Spencer’s paper chart, there would be two more warning markers along their starboard side before the channel veered south and made a slight curve. That was good information to have as he resumed his duties behind the wheel. But the hazard buoy was a reminder that they couldn’t let their guard down. A reminder neither of them needed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Spencer found the next buoy, its red light flashing a couple of hundred yards off the port bow. This was the beginning of a very tight section of the channel. He’d been dreading this section mostly because of how shallow it was. Some sections of the channel through here were between eight and nine feet deep. Not much of a buffer when he took into consideration the Black Bird drew seven and a half.

His fingers tightened around the smooth, polished wood of the wheel as he swung the big boat around the western tip of Jupiter Island and left the calm darkness of the wildlife sanctuary behind. There was no room for error here. He was putting a lot of faith in the data he’d found in the certificate of registry. In a matter of minutes, he’d know just how accurate the numbers were.

But the shallow and extremely narrow channel that would lead them from this point on to the section of river behind Kate’s parents’ house presented other concerns beyond running aground. And those concerns were their soon-to-be close proximity to land.

Sewell’s Point was a high-density residential area that ran southward, separating the Saint Lucie River from the much larger Indian River. The peninsula brimmed with oversized houses on postage-stamp-sized lots. Spencer never understood why people would pay that kind of money to live only ten feet away from neighbors on two sides. But it came as no surprise when he saw what looked like the entirety of the development on fire or smoldering. The opposite bank of the Saint Lucie was no different, except for a small municipal airport and several golf courses. In addition to the houses—or what was left of them—the river was fraught with sandbars from here on out.

At least the channel marker lights were working for the most part. And that was good, too, because so many other things were working against them, like the two- to three-knot outgoing tide.

“I think you can come back up to the bridge now. Over.” Spencer figured there was enough light coming from the fires for him to navigate, and if Rob had to, he could spotlight from the weather deck outside the bridge.

“You sure about that? Over,” Rob’s garbled voice came back.

“Buoys are lit. Over.” Spencer set the radio down quickly, reluctant to occupy himself with anything but steering the heavy trawler and searching for the next marker.

“Copy that. On my way. Over,” Rob reported back.

Spencer watched as Rob hustled across the foredeck and disappeared from view. He didn’t think he needed Rob to find his way through the channel anymore, but he had an ulterior motive: with them running so close to shore, he was afraid that Rob was an easy target up on the bow.

Spencer hoped his premonitions about running into trouble were simple paranoia, but he wasn’t willing to risk Rob’s life to avoid running aground. If they bottomed out on a sandbar and got stuck out here, then they really would be a target, if not tonight, then tomorrow in the daylight for sure. But that was something he’d rather not think about.

Spencer heard Rob enter through the mess deck door at the base of the ladder, but he didn’t come up to the bridge right away. He was probably checking in on Nat and Maya, and Spencer couldn’t blame the man. He felt bad about suggesting the girls and Finn stay below deck for the trek upriver, but he’d rather err on the side of caution than be surprised and have everyone scramble for cover in a panic. Ultimately, it was the couple’s call, but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea for Maya to see what he was seeing anyway.

The homes here weren’t built much differently than the homes in the Keys: stucco-covered concrete blocks and either tile or asphalt shingles, none of which were especially flammable on their own. But it wasn’t the exteriors of the homes that were failing. With the surge of electricity that Rob had described taking place in their room back at the resort, the fires would’ve started inside the homes, where there was no shortage of consumables to burn.

The interior walls and trussed-roof systems were made of wood—kiln-dried southern yellow pine, to be exact. Growing up, Spencer had enjoyed many bonfires on the beach. The fuel they used consisted of scrap wood from his dad’s construction sites. He also remembered starting those bonfires with nothing more than a match thanks to the veins of sap that ran through the knotty sections of the material.

With the interior load-bearing walls and other structural components of the houses burning from the inside out, a good ninety percent of the homes lining the river had been reduced to nothing but blackened concrete shells with flames and smoke rising from inside. He’d seen it in Marathon, although a lot of the fires were just getting started as he was leaving, but not here. This was two days’ worth of unbridled destruction, and it was ugly.

Dozens of million-dollar sportfishing boats sat at their moorings but no longer floated, their fiberglass hulls melted to the waterline. Spencer could hear the distant hum of generators and he wondered which would last longer: the gas to keep them running or the fires that continued to burn. If the remaining homes lost their ability to douse themselves in water every so often, they’d eventually succumb to the flames as well. Most likely, when all was said and done here, there’d be nothing left of the place. But right now, there was only one house Spencer cared about.

Rob’s footsteps betrayed him, and a few seconds later, he appeared at the top of the ladder. He was still wearing his buff and holding one for Spencer. “Figured you’d want a clean one.”

“Thanks.” Spencer took the thin neck gator and stuffed it into his pocket for now. “Why don’t you get one of those set up for Nat? I want to leave her with as many magazines as we can. They can all come up to the pilothouse when we go ashore. They’ll have a good view in every direction from here and the best chance for decent radio reception.” He began to lay out his plan, although calling it a plan was a bit of a stretch.

Once they got the boat anchored, he and Rob could get to work getting the Hewes into the water. Based on how long it had taken them to get the skiff into the cradle, he was allowing them ten minutes—fifteen tops—before they’d be motoring into the dock. And as far as Spencer was concerned, that was when the clock would really start to tick. If they were spotted leaving the trawler, it would send a clear signal to anyone interested in trying to take advantage of their situation.

Rob pulled a dozen thirty-round magazines from under the high-top bench seat and laid them out across the cushion. Half of them were already loaded full.

“We’ll leave both of those for Nat to use.” Spencer nodded toward the two AK-47s in the rack, including the modified version with the fifty-round drum magazine.

“She’s got the little Glock for backup.” Rob had lost the casual expression he usually wore.

“They’ll be all right. We’ll be in and out in no time. Believe me, I do not want to hang around here any longer than we have to.” Spencer looked out over the dystopian hellscape that Stuart had become for a quick second before returning his gaze to the channel ahead.

As he navigated a wide bend in the river and rounded the peninsula, they headed north against the running tide. Rob loaded magazines, starting with the replenishment of rounds to the big drum, while Spencer concentrated on finding the next set of markers. He was reluctant to take his eyes off the water, but it was hard not to. They both worked in silence for the next few minutes, trying to take it all in. And now that they were in the midst of it all, Spencer was having a hard time accepting the grisly scene as reality.

The canal-based housing community off their port side had been completely razed. The houses were situated so close together that the fire must have torn through the development at lightning speed. The subdivision had finished burning long ago, leaving behind neat rows of smoldering rubble and streets peppered with scorched vehicles.

Kate’s parents weren’t wealthy. They’d done all right for themselves with Tom’s pension and benefits from the Marine Corps, but they probably wouldn’t have been able to afford a place on the water here if the house hadn’t been in Debbie’s family. She often joked that he’d only married her for a place to keep his boat. Tom would plead the Fifth jokingly, and they’d all have a laugh, but nobody was laughing today.

Spencer could feel the tension building as they closed in on Tom and Debbie’s. The house was in an older development, though, and that meant the lots were bigger, unlike the subdivision they were currently cruising past, where you could practically pass your neighbor a roll of toilet paper from one bathroom window to the other.

But they still had a couple of miles to go and a bridge to deal with.

“Spencer?” Rob moved to the weather deck, taking the spotlight with him.

“Wait, not yet.” Spencer flipped the red cabin lights off completely, leaving them in the dull glow of the instruments.

The whine of a two-stroke engine echoed off the water somewhere in the distance.

“That way, I think.” Rob pointed off the starboard bow and traced a line through the air to his left as if he were watching the invisible boat cross their path. The recent cloud of smoke that had overtaken the trawler was making it difficult to see much beyond a hundred yards in any direction. If it were any thicker, Spencer might lose the trail of channel markers he was following. The numerous fires along both shorelines gave him points of reference through the putrid, almost opaque air, but even at a paltry two knots, he felt they were moving too fast for the current visibility. Spencer fought the urge to pull the throttle back even farther but resisted. As much as the conditions demanded he navigate cautiously, they also urged him on toward Kate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

After another mile or so of pushing their luck in the dense, smoke-laden air, Spencer saw the outline of Sewall’s Point Bridge through the haze. They were too far away to tell if anyone was on the bridge, but he was glad to see it. Not only did the bridge mean they were getting close to their destination, but he could use the center span as a reference point to aim the bow.

The last light on the green channel marker they passed on their port side wasn’t working. Streaks of white fiberglass and a busted bulb led him to believe someone had collided with the buoy, and in these conditions, it was easy to understand how. The last thing Spencer wanted to do was run over something and foul the Black Bird’s prop. The channel markers with working lights were no problem, but a busted beacon added another concern to Spencer’s growing list.

“We’re going under that?” Rob moved out onto the starboard-side weather deck and tried to get a better look with the binoculars. “I don’t see anybody on it. But then again, I can’t see much at all, really.”

If there was anyone waiting to ambush them from the bridge, Spencer didn’t imagine that they’d advertise their location with lights or anything else that would give them away.

“It’s getting worse the deeper we get.” He pushed the throttle forward a half inch, bringing the trawler up to four knots against the rapidly ebbing tide.

Rob shot him a look that conveyed his confusion about their increase in speed.

Spencer explained his logic. “As long as I can see the center of the bridge, I know we’re good to go. Plus, the faster we’re moving when we go under, the better, I think.”

“I agree. This is a lot more real estate to land on compared to your sailboat. What do you figure? There’s about twenty or thirty feet between us and the bridge?” Rob stuck his head back outside and eyed the roof of the pilothouse, then the bridge.

“Something like that.” Spencer had already worked it out, and it wouldn’t be as much of a drop for someone trying to board them as he would have liked.

Spencer pushed the throttle forward a little more and adjusted the wheel a few degrees. The channel here was narrow, at least for a boat that drew this much water. The clear span between the two sea walls that protected the bridge’s concrete support columns was 125 feet, officially. But the area of dredged channel with a depth suitable for the trawler was less than half that by far. At least he knew they’d be safe right down the middle, although he hated the uniformity of that route. Unlike with the Hunter, there’d be no need or room for lateral movement, even if he’d wanted to change things up.

Spencer thought the reason they’d been so successful in discouraging any more attempts at boarding Restless on the eastern side of the Seven Mile Bridge was due to the tacking maneuvers they’d been forced to execute. The zigzag pattern of the Hunter had caught their attackers from above off guard, at least the ones who were trying to land on the boat. He’d seen the ill-intending survivors scramble to find new anchor points for their ropes as he tacked to make the best use of the wind and avoid the big catamaran they’d had to share the channel with. At the time, the maneuvers were nerve-racking and seemed like an added chore that put them at greater risk, but the constant jockeying for position might have actually been the reason they made it through without taking on any unwanted passengers.

This time, Spencer would have no choice but to bring them under the bridge dead center of the midspan and exit the other side in a very predictable spot. The trawler was almost as long as the bridge was wide. They’d be going in and coming out almost simultaneously. Turning the boat might help reduce their exposure while passing under the structure, but that meant slowing down and increasing their chances of getting stuck. He wasn’t even sure the maneuver was possible. The Black Bird was equipped with a bow thruster, but working against the brisk tide with very little tolerance in the way of navigable water was just too risky.

“We might want to get Nat up here for this.” Spencer originally thought the best and safest place for the run upriver would be down below, and that was probably still the case, but they might need all hands on deck if Nat would be willing to leave Maya alone.

Rob didn’t respond immediately, and Spencer could tell what he was thinking.

“Finn too. If someone does manage to make it aboard, he can be a pretty persuasive deterrent,” Spencer offered.

“Let me go down and talk to her.” Rob laid down the magazine he was reloading and started for the ladder.

Spencer hated to ask, but if they faced anything like what they saw in Marathon, it would be a good idea to have as much help as they could muster to keep any would-be boarders off the boat. Although Nat wasn’t much help in Marathon, Spencer had seen a change in the woman since then, and she’d played a role in taking control of the Black Bird when the pirates had attacked. He attributed Nat’s new attitude to her realization that other than Rob and Spencer, she was the only one standing between Maya and some of the unsavory characters they’d had the misfortune of running into.

Spencer eyed the snub-nosed AK-47 in the rack. The weapon was less than ideal for Nat, but it was good at making a statement, one that said, I don’t have to be accurate with a magazine this size. He let her use his AR-15 last time but thought it best that he hang on to the carbine for what was coming. Spencer wanted the accuracy and maneuverability of a weapon he was familiar with while they went ashore. There was no telling what kind of resistance they’d run into, but he wanted any and all advantages he could give himself.

Rob returned with Finn on his heels, eagerly jockeying for first place up the ladder. Jumping up onto the couch without hesitation, Finn made himself at home, turning his nose toward Ciro and taking a few exaggerated sniffs in the bird’s direction. Spencer wished he had a way of providing Finn some relief from the foul stench but understood the best thing he could do for the dog, and for the rest of them, was get on with what they had to do and get this over with.

“He knows something’s up.” Rob shrugged. “I don’t think I could have gotten him to stay below deck even if I wanted to.”

“And Nat?” Spencer glanced at their depth.

“Just getting Maya down for the night. She’ll be up in a minute. We’re hoping Maya will sleep through most of this, if that’s possible.” Rob raised his brow with an eye roll.

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Spencer glassed the fast-approaching bridge and nudged the wheel to port.

As soon as Nat was topside and ready, he’d speed up and try to shoot under the bridge as fast as possible. There was still no sign of anyone waiting for them, but that didn’t mean anything to Spencer. Although the pedestrian walkway was devoid of any people, the solid concrete barrier just behind the walkway made for excellent cover.

“We’ll leave both of those for Nat.” Spencer tilted his head toward the AK-47s in the gun rack.

Rob nodded but didn’t say anything. Spencer could see that he was concerned, and he had every right to be. The look on the man’s face only served to perpetuate the guilt Spencer already felt about putting the family through this. He reminded himself that they knew the deal before leaving Marathon, but that did little to calm the butterflies in his stomach or the knot in his gut.

The sound of Nat’s footsteps ascending the ladder was all the motivation Finn needed to get up from the couch and wait at the top of the landing, tail wagging and tongue hanging out so far it looked like it might touch the floor. The sweltering heat they’d encountered inshore was unexpected, and it was making them all feel uncomfortable and move a little slower. Nat carried three fresh bottles of water. She handed them out and acknowledged Finn with a head rub before saying anything.

“She’s finally asleep.” Nat expelled a weighted sigh. Spencer was sure it had more to do with what lay ahead than frustration over getting a reluctant child to go to sleep. “She was overtired. Took a little longer than usual, but I think she’s going to sleep pretty solid for a while.”

“Thanks for the water.” Spencer shook his head and ran the condensation-covered bottle of water over his face. “The farther we go upriver, the hotter it feels. Ninety-six degrees and climbing. It was eighty-seven at the mouth of the inlet.”

If there weren’t already enough reasons to make their visit here brief, the oppressive heat was reason enough alone. Another environmental side effect of the EMPs, Spencer assumed. It made sense, with the artificially low ceiling of ash and smoke hanging over their heads. It was only June, and at this hour, the weather should have been much cooler, even for Florida.

Rob pulled the AK-47 from the rack and went over its operation with Nat, making sure to let her know that she had the other rifle at her disposal as well if she wanted something a little more accurate. The plan was for them all to remain in the pilothouse for the pass under the bridge, ready to take action if need be. And now that they were all here, it was time to do just that.

“Ready?” Spencer looked at his reluctant crew members and got a nod from each of them before pushing the throttle forward and coaxing the diesel from a dull rumble to a solid roar. He used the spotlight to glance back at their prop wash for a split second. They were churning up a lot of mud, but that was expected with only a couple feet of water between the boat’s keel and the river bottom. Spencer watched the mud-colored bubbles swirl around the stern for a second before killing the light and returning his attention to the bridge ahead. Clogging the sea strainers was a real risk, but it paled in comparison to the risk they were about to take.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Spencer expected trouble by now, or at least to see a head or two bobbing behind the concrete barrier running the length of the bridge. Maybe they’d gotten lucky, or maybe his fears were the result of paranoia over what they’d encountered in Marathon. After all, by the looks of things, any survivors left in Stuart clearly had their hands full, like Rob had said earlier. There was a good chance no one would care about an old, rusty trawler sailing up the Saint Lucie River. These people truly did have bigger problems. Spencer had built the moment up in his head so much he was almost disappointed when they passed under the bridge without so much as being noticed.

“Well, that went better than expected. Maybe Stuart will be different.” Nat pulled her sun buff down and took in an unencumbered breath of air during a rare smoke-free moment in the pilothouse.

But as the last few feet of the Black Bird slipped out from under the concrete and steel overpass, Spencer heard a vehicle on the bridge above, followed by the squeal of brakes. Nat had spoken too soon. He knew it wouldn’t be this easy.

“See that buoy flashing red? Keep it just off the starboard bow.” Spencer waved toward the starboard side, just in case there was any question, and then pulled the throttle back to its previous position, slowing them down to just a few knots.

It wasn’t Spencer’s desire to slow them down, especially with people on the bridge, but ten knots was way too fast with Nat at the wheel. He would have stayed at the helm and opted to try and put a little more distance between them and the bridge, but the sudden pocket of clean, clear air made it impossible to get far enough away before being spotted—if they hadn’t been spotted already.

Spencer and Rob made their way out through the back door and onto the rear weather deck, weapons ready. The sounds of doors slamming and faint voices culminated in the appearance of three dark figures standing at the rail of the bridge. One of the silhouettes was unmistakably carrying a long gun, although Spencer was pretty sure it was a shotgun. And even at only a few knots, the Black Bird was leaving the bridge behind in a hurry. He and Rob watched as the darkened figures talked among themselves.

Spencer watched the trio on the bridge through his red dot sight, finger on the trigger. A couple of days ago, he wouldn’t have dreamed of pointing a loaded gun at anyone in the civilian world, but the fear of making a mistake, or the possibility that he might be overreacting or misjudging these three, was nowhere to be found. Instead, his mind was filled with images of them making sinister plans for the trawler’s return. That was something he and the others would have to consider. They might have slipped into Stuart unchallenged so far, but the Black Bird would eventually draw the attention of someone with the fortitude to take action or at least try. Everything that went upriver had to eventually return, and the three people watching the boat from the bridge knew that as well as he did.

“Do you think we’re the reason they’re here?” Rob asked.

“I’m not sure. But why else would you be out on a bridge in this? I’m thinking they meant to get here a couple minutes ago.” Spencer lowered his weapon and held his hand up to shield his eyes from the falling debris.

“Good point.” Rob let the shotgun fall to his side and began backing up toward the door behind Spencer. Another cloud of smoke was slowly overtaking the trawler, and the people on the bridge were fading from view and range if all they had was a shotgun.

Spencer didn’t waste any time getting back up to speed. There was still a mile or so to go before they reached the big section of bay that Kate’s parents lived on. The river opened up from here, but the channel remained as narrow as it had since the Jupiter Island wildlife sanctuary. Everything from this point on, like before, was a manmade, dredged channel. While the chartplotter was cooperating, Spencer took note of the shallow areas around the channel, and they were surrounded by seven- and eight-foot depth readings on either side of the narrow cut. There was one overly optimistic nine-foot, eight-inch mark that Spencer was reluctant to trust for more reasons than one.

“Go on, get.” Spencer shooed Ciro from the chart table to verify what the glitching plotter was reporting.

He recalled jumping off the paddle board to play with Finn in the water and cool off, and he could have sworn the river was nowhere near that deep between the channel and Kate’s parents’ house. On one of his dives, he’d retrieved a discarded beer bottle from the sandy bottom to dispose of it properly and was pretty sure the water never exceeded much more than seven feet on the east side of the manmade artery.

He knew the bottom contours in the bay changed with seasonal storms and dredging operations by the Army Corps of Engineers. Add the outgoing tide to the equation, and Spencer had zero confidence in venturing out past the channel, even if it was tempting to think he could get much closer to Tom and Debbie’s. They might make it a few hundred yards, but they might not make it back. And if anchoring in the bay for an extended period of time was risky, getting stuck in the mud and having to wait for high tide to escape was asking for trouble.

Rob watched from the open doorway as the bridge faded from view, along with the potential threat of an attack. “They’re still watching us.”

“Let ’em. They can’t touch us now,” Spencer boasted, although he knew the victory was temporary.

He was willing to put money on those people being ready for them the next time the Black Bird went under the bridge, and there would most likely be more of them once word got out that there was a functional vessel in the river, one sizable enough to evacuate a large number of people. The thought of facing another bridge full of desperate survivors gave Spencer a sick feeling in his gut, but there were too many other things to worry about right now besides whom or what he’d have to face on their return to the ocean. There’d be ample time later to fret over their extraction from Stuart. And there was plenty that had to go right first.

Spencer spotted the last buoy, or at least what he assumed would be the last buoy. The green marker, number twenty-one, sat at the outside of the sharp turn in the river as it changed direction and headed west toward Lake Okeechobee. The buoy also marked the end of deep water and, as it happened, the beginning of Hoggs Cove, where Kate’s parents lived. They wouldn’t have been able to travel much farther upstream in the trawler even if they wanted to. And at a current depth reading of nine feet, they were already pushing their luck as far as Spencer was concerned.

“That’s our target.” Spencer pointed out the flashing green buoy to the others and began to ease the throttle back. He was sure they were kicking up plenty of debris from the bottom but didn’t want to use the spotlight to check anymore unless it was an emergency.

“Still planning on dropping the anchor?” Rob asked.

“Yep. I’ll be ready for you to do your thing up there in a few minutes. I hate to send you out again, but it’s about that time.” Spencer inched the throttle farther back.

“It’s unavoidable.” Rob shrugged and adjusted his mask.

“I’ll go with you. I should probably know how this works,” Nat offered.

“That’s not a bad idea, if you’re up for it,” Spencer agreed.

Nat carried the spotlight and followed Rob down the ladder. Finn whined as the two left them behind on the bridge.

“It’s all right, boy. We’re going to find Mama soon.” Spencer gave the dog a few rubs on top of his head.

He wondered if Finn could sense that they were getting closer to finding Kate or if the dog was just nervous for obvious reasons, like the deteriorating conditions outside the pilothouse. They were back into the heavy, putrid smoke, and from the looks of things, it wasn’t going away anytime soon. Spencer closed the doors leading out to the weather deck, but it was an exercise in futility due to the broken window; to improve visibility, when they first began their run upriver, he’d removed the temporary cover Rob and Nat had come up with to keep the rain out.

Spencer was grateful they were out of sight of the bridge, but at what cost to their physical health? The greasy coating of ash and soot he could feel on his face and arms was a constant reminder of the pollution they were all inhaling. He felt bad for the people who were stuck here, but he was looking forward to leaving this place behind and getting back out on the open ocean, where the air didn’t leave a foul taste in his mouth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Spencer did his best to ignore the burning in his nose and throat, readjusted his face covering, and squared up on the helm station. Anchoring a boat this size was really no different than anchoring the Hunter, although the stakes were quite a bit higher. The heavy Danforth-style anchor should have no problem finding purchase in the soft river bottom, but that didn’t mean Spencer would be at peace leaving the trawler with Nat, Maya, and Finn behind.

Buoy twenty-one was close now, and Spencer slowed the trawler down even more. They were in Hoggs Cove, and although the visibility was poor, every now and then, he could make out the shoreline and the numerous finger piers that jutted out into the river. Some of the docks still had homes at the other ends of them, but most did not. He’d been straining to see Tom and Debbie’s since emerging from this side of the bridge, but so far, he hadn’t been able to find their pier. He wasn’t overly concerned yet, though; the house sat back from the water a little ways and conditions were far from ideal.

“When do you want me to release the brake and throw the stopper? Over.” Rob’s voice came through, but the transmission was heavy with static.

Spencer spun the wheel to port a few degrees and then backed down on the throttle until the Black Bird sat at idle, just holding her ground against the swift-moving tide. “Go ahead, drop now. And remember to use the foot pedal to keep it moving until I say. Over.”

“Copy that. Over.” Rob motioned for Nat to stand back.

Spencer watched from the pilothouse while Rob released the windlass brake tension with the breaker bar and kicked the chain stopper loose. Spencer threw the boat into neutral and let the current push them back as the shots of chain paid out into the water.

“Stay on it. Over.” Spencer encouraged Rob to stay on the pedal. With the channel here topping out at a little under nine feet, the anchor hit bottom in a matter of seconds, leaving the weight of the drifting trawler to unravel the chain they needed to let out. Spencer gave it about thirty seconds, keeping an eye on a fixed point of land to gauge how far they were moving backward.

“Looking good. Stand by. Over.” Spencer knew the couple was anxious to get out of the smoke and ash, but he needed to make sure the anchor had set.

He threw the trawler into gear and inched forward a few yards, then returned to neutral and let the boat drift backward with the tide. Spencer locked in on one of the docks he could see and used the landmark to make sure they weren’t drifting freely. The anchor was holding, and they were good to go. Spencer would show Rob and Nat how to secure it all with the bridle when he went down to deal with the skiff, provided the trawler had one rigged up. But for all intents and purposes, they were now at anchor and immobile—an unsettling feeling, to say the least.

“Okay, come on back. We’re good to go for now. Over.” Spencer stepped out onto the weather deck to take a better look around. He’d been so focused on keeping them in the dead center of the channel that he’d only dared to steal a few glances away from the instruments and helm. He wanted to shut the engine down, but they still needed to run the single-point davit to get the skiff in the water. The steady chug of the idling diesel echoed off the relatively still waters, and Spencer was sure the noise would attract attention. But that was all the more reason to get busy splashing the skiff.

Spencer intercepted Rob on his way up the ladder.

“The chain coming out of the forward hold was pretty loud. Nat went to check on Maya to make sure she didn’t wake up,” Rob said, explaining his wife’s absence.

“That’s fine. It’s time to drop the skiff in anyway.” Spencer felt guilty for asking Rob to go back outside with him after he’d just come in, but they’d have to endure worse than this going ashore. And as far as Spencer was concerned, the clock was ticking on the amount of time they had to pull this off without inviting trouble—if they hadn’t already, thanks to being spotted by the three on the bridge.

Rob and Spencer made their way to the foredeck and got to work removing the tie-downs from the skiff. Spencer left Rob to undo the last two straps while he fired up the boat davit and familiarized himself with the controls again.

“All clear.” Rob moved to the port rail, manning two lines, one attached to the skiff’s stern and the other attached to the bow. The high-pitched whine of the hydraulics sang out against the weight of the Hewes as the boat began to rise.

Nat emerged from the shadows. “She’s still out. If she can sleep through that, she can sleep through anything.”

“I told you, she was exhausted. Here, can you take the stern?” Rob tossed Nat one of the lines and moved forward to better control the skiff’s bow in the air. Spencer found the davit controls fairly intuitive, and the lack of swell rocking the trawler from side to side made the process go much smoother than when they’d brought the Hewes aboard. He barely needed any assistance from Rob or Nat on the lines and ended up asking Nat to climb aboard and throw out the bumpers as he lowered the skiff past the trawler’s rail.

After the skiff splashed down, Rob jumped in as well, and as soon as there was slack in the davit cable, he untethered the Hewes and threw Spencer the lines. Spencer stopped for a moment and switched the red light on his headlamp over to white, then looked at the water. The stench of oil was heavy, and now, with the use of his light, he could see why. The rainbow of colors that curled around the skiff’s hull gave him his answer as well as a sick feeling. The water here was disgusting and looked thick enough to scoop with a fork. Spencer wondered if the whole river looked like this or if they were just unlucky enough to anchor in a particularly polluted section.

“What?” Nat paused as she transitioned back over to the trawler and looked down. His expression had given him away.

Spencer flashed his light down at the water for a few seconds and let her and Rob see for themselves.

“Oh, wow,” Nat gasped.

“Man. Maybe there’s a sunken boat nearby leaking oil?” But Rob was being optimistic, and Spencer knew it. The water was contaminated here, just like it was in Marathon—or worse than contaminated, by the looks of it. Spencer switched his headlamp back to red and made his way to the bow, where, after a short search, he located the anchor bridle and attached it to the chain, taking the tension off the windlass.

Rob and Nat watched as Spencer made some final adjustments to the chain with the foot pedals and threw the stopper back into place. His primary goal was to attach the bridle, but he also wanted to make sure that Rob had done everything correctly. If something went wrong and the trawler broke loose, Nat would be on her own, and Spencer didn’t think that would turn out very well for any of them.

Spencer switched his headlamp off completely and invited Rob and Nat to follow him back up to the bridge. The three of them made their way to the mess deck and up the ladder in silence, knowing full well what came next. Spencer’s stomach was in knots. The miles traveled, the people fought, and the challenges overcome had led him to this point. It was time to find out what had become of Kate and her parents. But not before going over things on board to make sure Nat was as well prepared as she could be when it came to her ability to defend the boat from a possible attack while he and Rob were gone.

Spencer was the first one in the pilothouse, and he greeted Finn with a scratch to his head. The dog was excited to see the others return after Spencer had ordered him to stay put while they put the Hewes in the water.

“Cr-r-ruck.” Ciro danced around his perch, looking like he wanted to fly away but somehow understood the conditions outside were deadly.

Spencer laid out the weapons they were leaving behind for Nat, along with several spare magazines, while the couple had a quiet but intense conversation. Nat was visibly concerned about staying behind alone, and who could blame her? Spencer left the couple to themselves and used the time to confirm their current location using the heavily distorted image on the chartplotting monitor.

Tom and Debbie’s house was located in the northeast corner of the cove. Normally, Spencer would have been able to see their place from where they were anchored, but not tonight. He couldn’t locate the finger pier or Tom’s twenty-four-foot Grady White center console in the heavy smoke but knew where it should be. He committed the compass reading to memory and shut everything down, interrupting Rob and Nat’s conversation. An eerie silence fell over the pilothouse, and the Black Bird went dark and quiet for the first time since they’d commandeered the seventy-four-foot vessel. They all stood, listening to the silence. The lack of vibrations running through the hull and the deck under Spencer’s feet seemed foreign and made him feel even more vulnerable, if that was possible. A distant pop sounded from somewhere out in the darkness, and he wasn’t sure if it was a gunshot or something under pressure being pushed to its limit by the fires.

“We should probably leave everything off. I’m afraid even the red lights might attract attention,” Spencer stated.

Nat nodded and bit her lip as she peered out over the water off the starboard side.

“You sure you want to come with me? You don’t have to do this.” Spencer gave Rob one final chance to stay with his family.

“No. You’re gonna need my help, and the sooner we find Kate, the sooner we can get out of here.” Rob looked toward shore and put his arm around Nat’s shoulders.

“All right.” Spencer turned his attention to Nat. “You’ll have the radio. If you need us, we can be back here in a matter of minutes. It’s hard to tell with all the smoke, but their house is just over there.” Spencer pointed, then followed it up with a finger on the paper chart, indicating the approximate location of Tom and Debbie’s.

Nat set her two-way on the console. “And if the radio doesn’t work, I’ll use the flares? There’s a lot of static.”

“Only as a last resort.” Spencer raised his eyebrows. “We won’t be the only ones responding if you send a flare up. I can almost guarantee you that.”

The three of them stood in silence, their gazes locked. No words were exchanged. Now was the time for action.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Rob gave Nat a kiss and whispered something into her ear as he held her close for a few seconds. “I’ll check on Maya on our way out.”

Nat was afraid the sudden quiet might cause Maya to wake up. Spencer threw a couple of fresh bottles of water into his backpack and gave the contents one more quick glance, making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. Lastly, he removed his logbook from the bag and stowed it in one of the console drawers.

“I’ll see you down at the boat.” He put his hand on Rob’s shoulder and slipped by the couple, stopping near Finn on the couch. “And you be a good boy while I’m gone and listen to Nat.”

Spencer bent down and pressed his forehead against Finn’s, rubbing the dog’s neck with his free hand. He’d been in such a hurry to reach this point in his quest to find Kate, but now that the moment had arrived, he was more apprehensive than ever.

Finn sat up, staring blankly at Spencer as he stood up and moved to the ladder.

“I’ll be right back. Be a good boy.” Spencer skipped the first step and got to the bottom of the ladder as quickly as he could. He’d procrastinated to some extent in his preparation to go ashore; as long as he was on his way to Kate, there was hope she might be okay. But in just a few minutes, he’d know for sure, and he’d have to face reality, whatever it might be.

Spencer stood against the rail, staring down at the Hewes as it bobbed alongside the Black Bird. Another distant explosion shifted his attention to the hazy shoreline, which remained a mystery cloaked in the fog of chaos and destruction. No matter what he found when they went ashore, his life was about to change forever—again. That was the only thing he could truly count on tonight.

Spencer checked his watch. The fear and anxiety eating a hole in his gut quickly turned to impatience. He tried to put himself in Rob’s shoes and imagine what it was like to leave his wife and child behind to follow a kid he’d only met a few days ago into what looked like a war zone.

“Spencer.” Rob appeared from the mess deck door, the shotgun slung over his shoulder and the bandolier loaded with 12-gauge shells. The two of them made a pair, for sure, like a duo straight out of a bad movie Spencer would have missed without a second thought. But this wasn’t a movie; this was reality, and the opening scene would set the tone for some time to come.

“You ready?” Spencer answered.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I had to peek in on Maya for Nat… and myself.” Rob’s gaze dropped to the skiff.

His tone had a sense of finality that hinted at the possibility of no return from their foray onto land. Spencer shook it off and did his best to steer the mood in a different direction.

“So nothing new, really. I’ll drive and you sit forward and keep your eye out for anything in the water?” Spencer jumped down into the skiff and unclipped his AR-15 from his harness so he’d have more maneuverability while operating the tiller.

“Sounds good.” Rob followed him, his large frame rocking the Hewes dramatically as he clambered aboard.

Despite the low stern line in relation to the water, Spencer wasn’t concerned about Rob’s awkward boarding. He was too busy wondering how the polluted, soup-like water would affect the antique Johnson outboard’s cooling capabilities. The water was worse than he’d thought from his original observation when dropping the skiff overboard, and that was saying something. From the looks of it, the slick rainbow of colors flowing past the trawler was just the beginning. The usual innocent uprising of agitated water that erupted from the outboard’s propeller was marred by a display of viscous fluid that threatened to cling to the white hull. It was evident now that the pollution ran much deeper than the colors painting the surface.

Spencer’s immediate concern was the possibility of the engine overheating due to a lack of proper cooling. The thickened water wouldn’t flow through the outboard like it should normally, but he wasn’t about to call off the effort. In one of the most selfish acts Spencer might have ever committed, he leaned over and untied the stern line, shoving them out and away from the trawler with his foot. They must have been in a bad spot of water; the entire river couldn’t possibly be this bad.

Spencer kept his eyes trained on the troubled shoreline, but his ears remained alert for any change in the old Johnson outboard’s tune. There was no way the engine was cooling properly in this slop, and he expected problems any second now. He glanced back at the thin stream of discharge from the engine and couldn’t help but notice the intermittent changes in the consistency as the cooling system expelled chunks of matter that had no business flowing through the cooling system.

It was a miracle the fiberglass hull wasn’t being eaten away from under them in the petrol-laden water. And although that might have been a bit of an exaggeration, his eroding confidence about leaving the trawler on what might amount to a one-way trip wasn’t.

“Spencer.” Rob flashed his headlamp and exposed something Spencer had never seen in the water before.

He swung the tiller to port, and the Hewes complied with a labored groan from the engine and a heavy lean to starboard. Spencer could barely believe his eyes as they swung around the tail end of a small aircraft. The plane had clearly been attempting to land in the airport across the river but had fallen short. Spencer could only surmise it had lost power when the bombs detonated.

The back end of the small aircraft bobbed slightly with the outgoing current, and Spencer committed its location to memory as best he could. The plane was a hazard to navigation and just the sort of thing that could ruin one of their trips back and forth from land to the Black Bird.

“Deeper here than I thought.” Rob stared wide-eyed at the sunken aircraft until it passed beyond the reach of their dim red headlamps.

He was wrong, of course. The plane had just settled into the bottom, and although every gauge Spencer had on the Hewes was fried, he knew the water here was deceptively shallow. Not a problem in the skiff, but unpassable in the trawler; this was the reason they’d strictly adhered to the very center of the channel. On the bright side, the water was clearing, and soon after they passed the downed plane, the froth of multicolored bubbles and churned wash off the skiff’s transom looked more familiar. The cleaner water was reassuring, but Spencer’s optimism soon faded as the disaster-plagued shoreline came into view.

Rob was silent on the bow, but there were no words that could adequately describe what was slowly taking shape as the smoke gave way.

“Dear God.” Rob glanced back at Spencer before turning away, his eyes red from smoke or maybe emotion. Both were understandable, given what they were seeing.

Spencer had low expectations for Stuart after seeing the sights on their way in through the inlet, but up close, the devastation took on new meaning. The scene before him was almost as unbelievable as the increase in temperature they were experiencing. The countless blazes raging around them and the lid-like atmosphere hovering what seemed like mere inches over their heads made for an environment that felt more like the inside of an oven than anything Spencer could have imagined.

He searched for a familiar landmark along a shoreline he remembered very little about. A double row of queen palms stood out to him, and he suddenly recalled a neighbor’s house several lots down from Tom and Debbie’s property that boasted extensive landscaping. Most of the houses on the water displayed a manicured but open backyard between the residence and dock area, but not this one, and it stood out in his mind. The double row of well-manicured queen palms remained upright along the path to the boat dock. The crisp, scorched palm fronds fluttered in the rising heat-induced air currents, showing the results of their battle with the unnaturally hot and dry conditions.

Spencer watched as Rob set his shotgun down and went prone across the bow, dipping his hand into the water and cutting a line through the inch-thick layer of ash that had accumulated on the surface.

“Are you seeing this?” Rob gave Spencer a look that relayed his astonishment, then refocused his headlamp on the raft of debris they were motoring through.

“That’s something you don’t see every day.” Spencer tried to play it cool, but he was as dumbfounded as Rob by the anomaly.

Within the last thirty seconds, the river had transformed into something from another world. The oil-ruined water was no longer Spencer’s biggest concern. He cut the engine after a momentary lapse of logic while he tried to make sense of it all and what it meant. He couldn’t possibly run the engine in this stuff. And the closer they got to shore, the worse it was getting.

Spencer let the tiller handle go and reached for the push pole held in place by the deck hardware. Rob saw what he was doing and facilitated the effort by releasing the forward holds.

“We can’t run the engine in this. We’ll pole in from here. But that might work to our advantage. It’ll be a lot quieter.” Spencer mounted the polling platform over the outboard in one swift move, assuming a familiar position while planting the eighteen-foot push pole in the soft bottom.

Normally, this was where he’d stand to infiltrate a feeding school of redfish when he didn’t want to risk scaring his prey with the boisterous two-stroke. Tonight’s approach required stealth as well, but for an entirely different reason, one that Spencer was reminded of everywhere he looked.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

With the outboard silenced, Spencer and Rob were treated to an array of sounds that had gone unnoticed over the cackling two-stroke Johnson engine. Everything from pops and bangs to small explosions combined with what must have been structures crumbling filled the air. Spencer’s idea that poling in would somehow mask his and Rob’s approach was well-intentioned but entirely unwarranted.

He was tempted to fire up the outboard and expedite their approach to shore. And he might have pushed their luck if he knew where Tom and Debbie’s dock was. But speed wouldn’t help, considering they didn’t know where they were going. And with the amount of debris in the water, it was already a bad idea before it had even completely formed in his head.

“This is a lot worse than it was in Marathon.” Rob turned to face Spencer immediately after he finished. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No. You’re right, it is.” Spencer dug into the river bottom and did his best to move them away from the smoldering remains of a house.

The devastation was undeniable, surpassing even the scenes they witnessed in Marathon. Perhaps it seemed worse due to their days at sea, distant from such chaos. Though the fires had largely run their course, the landscape was still ablaze, with flames erupting from buildings in disarray. Gas lines, ruptured and unchecked, shot fire skyward, casting an eerie glow across the ash-crusted water. Amidst the ruin, the air hung heavy with smoke and the acrid scent of destruction, a stark reminder of the forces that had torn through this once-tranquil community.

Spencer would have already lost hope of finding Tom and Debbie’s house intact if it weren’t for the handful of houses that remained standing. The sounds of generators running filled the voids of silence between the pops and bangs of who knew what.

“Kate’s parents have a whole-house generator.” Spencer broke the silence as they took it all in.

“Most of the places I see have solar panels,” Rob said. “The generator might be the reason they’re still standing, but I think it’s the solar power setup that got them through the initial surge. All the systems I’ve worked on utilize a main disconnect after the inverter. That’s probably what saved ’em. Of course, the systems won’t work anymore, but I guess that’s a small price to pay to keep your house.”

Spencer sometimes forgot the man was an electrician, but what he was saying made sense, aligning with Damon’s theory as well.

“Did, uh… Did Kate’s parents have solar?” Rob sounded as if he instantly regretted asking the question.

Spencer forced a smile. “They do.”

Rob nodded. “Well, that’s something.”

It was a small consolation, and it might have bolstered Spencer’s optimism if he hadn’t seen so much evidence of the fires spreading indiscriminately. With the houses here packed so closely together, the condition of the neighboring properties was just as crucial. Tom and Debbie’s house sat on a large lot in an older subdivision, developed back when waterfront real estate wasn’t so scarce. Yet this hadn’t spared many of the homes they were passing. They were now within sight of where Kate’s parents’ house should have been, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Rob must have read the expression on Spencer’s face. “Hey, man, hang in there. We’ll see for ourselves.”

Spencer plunged the push pole into the water again, burying the end deep in the soft bottom, along with his doubts, as they slipped past another dock with a missing house on the other end. They must be close now. The place with the elaborate landscaping was only a few hundred yards down the bulkhead from Tom and Debbie’s. They would have been there by now if the water wasn’t so foul.

“Looking for a Grady White center console.” Spencer searched for anything that could have passed for the outline of a hull through the off-white smoke drifting across the water in front of them, but he saw nothing. He glanced down at the compass. He’d stuck to the original heading since leaving the trawler. Maybe he’d miscalculated, but he didn’t believe he had. Spencer kept the skiff far enough out in the river to slide around the end of the docks sticking out into the water as he passed yet another pier. A half-sunken pontoon boat, still attached to the dock by its lines, bobbed lazily as the remainder of its canopy above the water line continued to collect falling ash.

“Spencer. I see something.” Rob’s headlamp reflected off the polluted air for a second before he turned it off, realizing it was only making their visibility worse.

“That’s it, I think.” Spencer sank the push pole into the mud and pressed the shaft against his hip, pivoting the Hewes toward the ghostly outline of the center console. “Yep, that’s Tom’s boat.”

The sight afforded Spencer a very small amount of relief; he’d started to wonder if Tom had somehow gotten the boat running and taken the girls somewhere. But just because they’d found the boat didn’t mean Kate and her parents were here. What it did mean was that Spencer had finally made it.

“Careful,” he cautioned. Rob was leaning so far over the skiff’s bow that Spencer was afraid he might fall into the water.

“I think I… It’s there. The house is there!” Rob nearly shouted, lowering his voice quickly as he pointed.

But there was no need for Rob’s announcement thanks to a hot breeze that whipped the smoke into a whirlwind of ash rising from the surface of the water around them. Spencer’s eyelids slammed shut as he held his breath, waiting for the flurry of debris to subside. When he no longer felt the tiny particles bouncing off his skin, he opened his eyes to a remarkably clear view of Kate’s parents’ house.

He had pictured this moment countless times on the way here, but none of his ideas about what he might find compared to what he was looking at. In his mind, the house would either be standing or it wouldn’t, like most of what they’d seen on the way upriver. But the scene in front of them resembled a little of both.

The light yellow stucco structure and the orange of the clay tile roof were no longer visible. To say the house was soot-stained would have been underselling the severity of the charcoal-like coating covering the exterior like a cocoon. The sprawling U-shaped ranch home had survived, but just barely, by the looks of the place. A neighbor’s large queen palm had fallen across the screened-in lanai and landed in the pool, but not before clipping off a chunk of the roof over the breakfast nook, spilling a waterfall of roof tiles through the broken trusses.

Seeing the house intact should have been a reason to celebrate, but that was the last thing Spencer felt like doing. The house looked bad—bad enough that his initial impression was that it was abandoned. Spencer took all the comfort he dared in the fact that he could at least rule out the worst-case scenario: that Kate and her family had all been trapped inside and perished in a fire like so many others.

“No wonder we couldn’t find it. It’s completely black.” Rob shook his head in disbelief. “But hey, it’s still standing.” He glanced back at Spencer and flashed a tight-lipped smile.

Spencer dug deep with the eighteen-foot-long push pole and put everything he had into moving them forward. Two big strides later and they were cruising straight for Tom’s dock at a respectable pace and with enough momentum to see them all the way there. Spencer jumped down from the poling platform and stowed the push pole in one fluid motion, then grabbed his carbine and clipped it onto his sling before sliding the weapon around to his back.

“Get ready with a line up there.” Spencer moved to the port rail, taking the coiled line at his feet with him.

He was about to drop the fenders over the side but noticed they were sitting well below the looming dock’s height thanks to the skiff’s low profile and the ebbing tide.

“We’ll put her under the dock, out of sight,” Spencer warned Rob but wasn’t sure the big man had heard him.

Rob was busy checking in with Nat again, like he had done every so often since they left the trawler, to make sure the radios were still working. There was a lot of static, worse than before, which Spencer expected. But it was better than having no communication at all.

“We need to go radio silent from here on out—unless it’s an emergency. And watch your head.” Spencer pointed out the dock twenty yards away.

They’d both have to duck in order to squeeze the little flats boat under the extended finger pier, but Spencer didn’t mind the inconvenience if it helped keep the Hewes out of sight. He hated to cut Rob’s conversation with Nat short, but they were close to land and Spencer didn’t want to risk being found out before they even had a chance to unload. It also wasn’t completely unreasonable to think that someone else might have a working radio around here and could be listening to their conversation.

Rob might think all these precautions were overkill, but Spencer didn’t really care. He wasn’t taking any chances now that the prize was within reach. He’d been through too much to risk blowing his shot at a reunion with Kate now.

Spencer noticed the tail end of the dock line quivering in his hand and tried to steady his nerves. But there was no stopping the flow of adrenaline that was slowly infecting his body.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Spencer tied the stern line off to a piling on the opposite side of the dock with a quick bowline knot that would be equally as fast to untie. He made sure to leave enough slack in the line so they could push out from under the pier temporarily and climb out of the boat.

“Hang on, I’ll show you.” Spencer crawled to the bow carefully, avoiding the deck joists and spiderwebs above his head. He took the line from Rob and tied another bowline knot around the piling off the bow, but at half the speed.

“No matter how tight that gets, you can use this hinge here to untie us quickly.” Using his fingers, Spencer broke the knot with ease, then immediately tied the boat back to the piling. “That’s a bowline knot. Got it?”

“Got it.” Rob drew a crooked line of soot across his forehead as he wiped away beads of sweat.

Rob was nervous; Spencer could tell. But so was he. And they were about to leave the relative safety of the boat and venture ashore. He pulled his buff back up over his face as a fresh bank of smoke drifted over the pier and obscured the house and just about everything else from view.

They both gathered their backpacks. Rob had agreed to carry several spare bottles of water and a small medical kit that Nat had put together for their outing. There was no telling what condition Kate or her parents might be in. But it was a good idea to prepare for the worst.

Spencer grabbed the salt-treated joist over his head and swung the Hewes’s stern out from under the dock. “Go ahead.”

Rob clambered up onto the deck boards, leaving his foot in contact with the skiff to hold it in place while Spencer joined him.

“I got it.” Spencer gently shoved the boat back under the dock until the poling platform and the outboard were all that could be seen.

“If it stays like this, we won’t have to worry about being seen,” Rob whispered.

“Especially if we die of smoke inhalation.” Spencer adjusted his mask and brought his weapon around. “Come on, let’s go find her.”

Rob removed the Benelli from his shoulder and nodded briskly at Spencer, no longer showing any signs of nervousness. “Let’s go get your girl.”

Spencer led them down the fifty-yard pier through an almost opaque cloud of multicolored smoke that stunk of plastic and fiberglass. They’d agreed to leave their headlamps off for now, opting instead to find their way by the light of distant fires. He moved slowly until he felt grass under his feet, then looked back to make sure Rob was close behind.

As Rob neared, Spencer heard a hissing sound below them at the water’s edge. He flicked his red light on and panned the stretch of dry sand at the bottom of the bulkhead that had been left exposed by the low tide.

“Holy… Wow. We better remember that.” Rob’s wide eyes reflected the light of Spencer’s headlamp.

Spencer left the light on for a moment as he counted a handful of six- to eight-foot alligators lining the riverbank, including the one directly under the dock below them. “They’re trying to get out of the water.” He shook his head; they’d probably die unless they could manage to get out to the ocean.

“Can’t blame them for that,” Rob stated.

“Come on. This way.” Spencer turned his light off and headed for the right side of the screened-in lanai that covered the pool area.

There was a door on this side, and more importantly, there were no forty-foot palm trees in the way. As they came up to the house, Spencer noticed that Tom had the storm shutters deployed. The white, metal, accordion-style shutters were normally easy to see when in place, but they were as black as everything else now.

Nearing the first window, Spencer thought about gently rapping on the shutter to try and get Kate’s attention if she was inside, but he also didn’t want to get himself shot. Tom had the hurricane shutters closed for a reason, and after a few days of defending the house, the man might have adopted a shoot-first, ask-questions-later policy. And by the looks of the neighborhood, that seemed completely reasonable.

“I don’t hear anything or see any lights. Not that I expected lights, but I thought you said he had a whole-house generator?” Rob glanced around at their surroundings, tightening his grip on the shotgun.

“He does. It’s on the other side of the house, but I don’t hear it.” Spencer wasn’t surprised, though. Tom wasn’t stupid. He would only run the generator as it was needed, and he’d also be mindful about attracting attention. Their house was only one of three that Spencer had seen standing in this area, so there was no question it would get attention from looters eventually.

Spencer took a few steps into the lanai and stopped. The queen palm had fallen in a way that left most of its foliage at the top of the tree submerged in the pool, but the trunk had clipped the back corner of the breakfast nook. The fallen tree had sheared off several cinderblocks and collapsed a section of the roof, blocking the rear patio doors in the process with a cascade of fallen roof tiles and twisted metal supports from the screened-in lanai.

A few feet onto the pool deck, Spencer realized they couldn’t get in this way. Even if they could, it might not be safe. The remaining lanai structure looked like it could come down any second; the surviving sections of overhead screen were loaded with enough ash to bow out the aluminum support columns.

“We’ll have to go around front.” Spencer turned to head back out through the screen door, taking the lead once more. The sharp clap of a rifle, followed by a few more shots of a different caliber, split the night air, causing Spencer to freeze in his tracks temporarily and take a knee. Rob did the same right behind him.

“At least it doesn’t sound that close,” Spencer stated.

“It doesn’t sound that far away, either,” Rob added.

“Just stay alert. Let’s go.” But before Spencer could get to his feet, a loud crash sounded from inside the house. In a knee-jerk reaction, Spencer was tempted to call out for Kate, but something wasn’t right, and he held his tongue. A few seconds later, he heard an unfamiliar and irritated voice. Spencer couldn’t make out what was being said, but it didn’t much matter—because it wasn’t Tom.

“Was that Tom?” Rob whispered.

“No. It’s not.” Spencer dropped his head.

Rob sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

The man looked disappointed, but it couldn’t compare to how Spencer was feeling. His heart sank as he began to wrap his head around what this meant. Then a flicker of light through the rear patio door, where the fallen palm tree had peeled some of the hurricane shutter away from the rear entrance, caught his attention. And just like that, Spencer’s hopes of finding Kate at the house were torpedoed, and so were his aspirations for making this extraction a quick and painless process.

There were looters inside the house—of that he was certain—but what had become of Kate and her parents? It was a question he could only hope to answer by going inside the house and taking a look around.

“Come on.” Spencer tapped Rob’s shoulder as he headed for the side of the house, kicking up ash with every silent step muffled by the half inch of fallout covering the ground. The house next door hadn’t been so lucky, and from the looks of things, when the place burned down, the tremendous heat left behind a solid coating of soot on this side of Tom and Debbie’s. Spencer tried to pick at the charcoal-like crust that had fused itself into the gaps around the shutters but was unable to break through the hard, black coating with his finger.

“This is crazy. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Rob ran his hand over the exterior wall next to them, feeling the tacky, creosote-like substance.

Spencer continued down the right side of the house, confirming that all the windows here were sealed shut.

“We could try to get in through the roof in the back,” Rob suggested.

“We’ll make our way around and see if we can’t find an easier way in. If not, the hole in the roof will be our last resort.” Spencer figured whoever was in the house had found a different way in, especially if their intention was to carry out stolen goods.

“If they’re not here, is it worth going inside? We could just leave,” Rob suggested.

“I’m not going anywhere without Kate,” Spencer snapped, barely managing to keep his voice to a whisper. He hadn’t gone through the last couple days of hell just to turn around now. With or without help, he was leaving here with Kate—or knowledge of where she went.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“I didn’t mean we should give up and leave Stuart. I just meant go look somewhere else,” Rob explained.

“Sorry.” Spencer apologized for letting his frustration show.

He was hot, tired, and irritated about their discovery, not to mention terrified that his odds of finding Kate had just taken a nosedive.

“Look where, though?” he finally responded. “No, we need to get inside and look around. Kate wouldn’t go anywhere without leaving a note. I know that much.”

“So we deal with these guys,” Rob stated.

Spencer turned to look at him. “If you want to head back to the boat, that’s okay with me. Leave me the radio and I’ll call you to come get me when I’m ready.”

“No way I’m leaving you here, man. I’m with you. Let’s do this.” Rob jerked his chin in agreement.

“All right.” Spencer turned his attention back toward the street, checking to make sure there weren’t any looters out front. He noticed right away that there had been an attempt made to open the garage door. Deep gouges in the doorjamb along the weatherstripping indicated a crowbar had been forced between the overhead door and the trim piece. The left-front corner of the garage door was damaged as well: a series of small holes punched through the lower panel, possibly with a sledgehammer. But overall, the door remained intact, and none of the holes were large enough to fit a person. With his eyes, Spencer followed a set of tire tracks in the ash that ran from the garage out to the street and beyond. He dropped to his knees and tried to look inside the garage through one of the sledgehammer-sized holes. He didn’t dare use his headlamp but was able to determine that the garage was empty.

Tom had taken the girls somewhere in his 1961 Ford F-100. The antique of a pickup was a project he’d recently completed, although last time Spencer was here, it was on blocks in the garage. And as discouraging as it was to know Kate and her parents weren’t here, the missing truck was cause for optimism—unless that had been stolen, too. But Spencer couldn’t allow himself to think like that.

At the front of the house now, they started to catch glimpses of the neighborhood down the street between drifting smoke clouds. It was as bad as Spencer had expected based on what they’d seen since arriving in Stuart. There wasn’t much left of the small, gated community except a handful of homes—and by the grace of God, Kate’s was one of them.

Spencer pushed his way through the landscaped plant bed bordering the front walk, knocking ash off the broad tropical foliage as he went, including the dying bird-of-paradise that Debbie was so proud of. The plant, with its sprawling plume of green fronds budding with orange and purple flowers, was no longer vibrant but barely standing, a wilted and gray version of its former self.

Spencer followed the curved entry to the covered front porch, where he found a disturbing sight. Bullet holes peppered the hurricane shutters covering the oversized front doors. Most of the shots were concentrated around the hinges and hardware, while one corner of the shutters had been peeled back like the lid on a can of sardines, but only by a foot or so. Spencer felt the crowbar pry marks on the doorjamb, then noticed some of the bullet holes had been made from the inside.

Tom or one of the girls had shot back, and that was probably the reason whoever had been prying off the shutter had given up. The dried blood on the pavers under Spencer’s feet told him that Tom had won this round, but apparently, the victory was short-lived; otherwise, they would have still been here. Another volley of gunshots filled the air, standing out from the crackling and popping that had by now become familiar in the background.

“That sounded a little closer.” Rob moved into the shadows of the covered porch, crouched behind a large planter, and faced the street.

Spencer tried to ignore the not-so-distant gunfire for the time being and continued looking for an access point.

“There.” He stayed low while moving to a large front window that led into Tom’s office. The hurricane shutters had been breached right behind an eight-foot-tall fan palm that made the break-in hard to spot initially. The triple-wide window unit was a weak spot in the shutter system due to its wide span, and the looters had capitalized on the vulnerability, prying it open from the middle.

The glass was busted out of the center panel, and Spencer had to wonder if that was the noise they’d heard. Had they really been unlucky enough to arrive here at the same time as the looters? If so, that could play to their advantage. Whoever was inside the house was probably busy looking through the place. He and Rob needed to act fast if they were going to get the jump on the looters.

“I think they just got here.” Spencer moved aside as Rob joined him behind the fan palm to inspect the opening while they both kept an eye on the street out front.

Rob peered over the windowsill and ducked down a split second later as another crash sounded from inside the house. “Now what?”

“Now we go in. If they just got here, they might be too busy to notice us.” Spencer knew that was weak reasoning, but he couldn’t stand the thought of strangers going through the house like they owned the place. And he was quickly running out of patience with a world that seemed intent on dealing them blow after blow. Besides, if Kate had left something behind—a note, a clue, whatever—the looters might ruin his chances of finding it if they continued to ransack the place.

The window was only two feet off the ground, and Spencer was able to step over the sill with little effort. It took more skill to avoid the broken glass on the floor than it did to get inside the house. Spencer moved some of the larger pieces of broken glass with his hand, setting them aside so Rob wouldn’t step on them when he came in.

“Watch your step.” Spencer pointed out the mess in Rob’s way and then moved through the office to the door, listening to the looters turn the place upside down while Rob climbed inside.

“At least they left on their terms,” Spencer remarked.

Rob’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

“The gun safes are open and empty. That’s Tom’s doing. And it means they left on their terms and took whatever they wanted with them.” Spencer ran his hand along the edge of the safe door. “See? No pry marks. Not that a crowbar would have worked on these anyway.”

“Well, that’s good news. So we know Kate and her parents aren’t tied up in there or something,” Rob stated.

“No. Tom’s got an old truck. I saw the tracks. They’re gone.”

“So let’s deal with these guys and find out where Kate and her parents went.” Rob nodded. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Spencer swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Don’t think, just do what you know. The last time Spencer had crept around a dark corner with a carbine in his hands, he was a hundred miles offshore of the Yucatan Peninsula in the belly of a commercial fishing vessel, conducting a search with his law enforcement team. He never imagined the skills he’d learned in the Coast Guard would be put to use so soon.

Spencer moved silently toward the living room by way of the kitchen, stopping at the center island to make sure Rob was close behind.

“Living room.” Spencer motioned with his hand toward the doorway he intended on using to exit the kitchen and confront the looters. From the sounds of things, there were two men in the house, and they were back in the bedrooms. If he and Rob could get set up in the living room, they could ambush the looters when they came out. Spencer wasn’t exactly sure what they’d do then, but he promised himself before leaving the trawler that he wouldn’t hold back. He couldn’t play by a different set of rules than everyone else, not if he wanted to find Kate. He’d witnessed the cold, hard truth of it all in Marathon and had seen enough to know hesitation could get both him and Rob killed.

The looters chose to break into this house, and they knew the consequences of getting caught. For all Spencer knew, the two guys tearing the place apart right now could be the same guys responsible for driving Kate and her parents to flee. It would take more than a few attempted break-ins to get Tom to abandon the house. So Spencer had to assume these guys were armed and dangerous. The bullet holes in the shutters by the front door were a testament to the measures they’d taken to gain access to the house, and if nothing else, it proved Spencer and Rob were dealing with individuals who had no problem killing to get what they wanted.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Spencer moved through the kitchen and had Rob wait at the doorway to the living room. He took a position behind the L-shaped couch and listened as the looters continued searching the bedrooms. Spencer was about to wave for Rob to join him but stopped at the sound of footsteps on the tile flooring.

Two dark figures emerged from the hallway.

One of the men pulled his mask down. “At least there’s nobody around this time. The last place turned into a real mess.”

“You’re the one that shot the guy. I played it cool.” The other man inspected a nearby shelf full of pictures and collectibles with a flashlight.

“He was going for his gun.” The man with the mask around his neck continued moving, making his way into the dining room, where he searched the buffet table with the help of a headlamp.

“It was a knife. And thanks to you, we couldn’t get the combination for the safe out of him,” the man with the handheld flashlight stated.

“He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last,” the looter in the dining room responded.

“You’re sick. You know that?”

“You ain’t exactly innocent, you know. And you don’t have to worry about that here. The safes have been cleaned out,” the man in the dining room said.

“That’s because they knew we were coming back,” the man by the shelf shot back.

“Another bust.” The guy in the dining room turned and briefly illuminated his friend with his headlamp.

“Thanks, genius. Now I’m blind.” The man by the shelf returned the favor with his flashlight.

The juvenile behavior was enough to allow Spencer to see that the man by the shelf had an AR-15 slung over his back and a semiautomatic pistol on his hip. The other guy was toting a pump-action shotgun in one hand and a crowbar in the other.

“Found the liquor cabinet.” The man with the shotgun set the crowbar down, pulled a bottle of something from the cabinet, and took a swig.

“We’re looking for food and valuables. If you go around drinking everything you find, you’ll be worthless, again, like last night.”

“Relax. We can do whatever we want.” The man took another drink from the bottle, slamming it down hard on the bar top when he’d finished.

Spencer was struggling with a moral dilemma and was undecided on how to proceed. He was inclined to shoot them both where they stood without warning but wasn’t sure he could actually do it, although the looters had just made a compelling argument as to why they deserved to die. These men were killers, and whether or not they were the same ones who’d been here before, he’d just heard them admit to doing some terrible things.

“I’m gonna search the room with the safes, where we came in. Maybe they missed something.” The man with the AR-15 started for the front of the house and the doorway Rob was crouched in. Spencer glanced over at Rob’s location and saw Rob get to his feet and begin to move out of the looter’s path. But instead of making a silent retreat into the shadows, Rob clumsily bumped a shelf above him with his shoulder, lifting one side off its bracket and dumping Debbie’s collection of antique glassware and ceramic juicers onto the floor. The delicate assortment of glassware hit the tile with a deafening crash, but Spencer had seen it coming.

He was already behind his carbine, and his canted sights were set squarely on the man by the shelf, who already had his pistol drawn from its holster.

Crack, crack.

Spencer laid into the man with two rounds, both striking his chest within an inch of each other. One of the bullets penetrated all the way through his body, painting the wall behind him with blood.

But Spencer had no time to make sure the man was down. There was still another looter to contend with. By the time Spencer had a bead on his number-two target, the remaining looter had his shotgun pointed at Rob.

Crack, crack. Boom. Crack.

Spencer got two rounds off before the shotgun erupted. A blast of flames and burnt powder illuminated the entire room for a split second before Spencer followed up with a third shot. The shotgun blast took a chunk of drywall from the doorway less than a foot from Rob’s head.

Boom.

Before Spencer realized what was going on, Rob’s gun went off and hit the man by the shelves, who was trying to raise his pistol as he bled out. At just ten feet away, Rob’s double-aught buckshot didn’t even slow down as it ripped through the man’s torso and embedded itself in the wall beyond. The looter’s body was blown backward several feet, bouncing off the walls in the tight hall like a pinball, and eventually landed in a crumpled mess on the tile floor.

Rob and Spencer stood motionless for a while and didn’t say a word. Spencer wouldn’t have been able to hear anything anyway after the handful of explosions in such a confined space. The ringing in his ears was proof that what had just happened was real, but he couldn’t accept it yet.

“You okay?” He was finally able to bring himself to speak.

“I’m good, I think.” Rob patted himself down as though he expected to find a few holes.

“That was close.” Spencer made his way to the body in the dining room and kicked the shotgun from the dead man’s grip.

“Too close.” Rob waved at the air with his hand, trying to clear away the cloud of drywall dust while eyeing the crater in the wall.

Spencer took the headlamp off the man in the dining room and turned it off, then turned his own headlamp on, utilizing the red light to see what he was doing. The man in the hall had dropped his pistol after being shredded by Rob’s shot, but Spencer made sure to retrieve his AR-15, although there was zero chance the guy would ever use it again. The puddle of blood expanding under his lifeless body and flowing along the grout lines in the tile was proof enough of that.

“Not exactly how I saw that going down, but at least it’s over,” Rob said. “And we’re still here.”

“Barely.” Spencer glanced at the divot in the wall near Rob.

“Should we move the bodies?” Rob wandered over to the dining room and stared down at the man who’d tried to kill him.

“No time. Besides, I don’t see us coming back here. And Tom and the girls have already cleared the place out of anything worthwhile. What we need to do is look around for a note and then get out of here.” Spencer wasn’t overly concerned about the shoot-out drawing attention, not with all the activity outside.

Rob pulled the radio from his belt. “You mind if I check in with Nat and let her know what’s going on? I don’t know if she heard that, but with the gunshots we’ve been hearing outside, I’m sure she’s plenty worried.”

“Yeah, of course.” But Spencer was only half listening as he began his search for a note or a clue from Kate.

He left Rob to his call and headed for Kate’s old room, doing his best not to get blood on his sneakers. The looters hadn’t spared anything, unfortunately; there wasn’t a drawer in the room that hadn’t been opened and emptied onto the floor. The sight was disheartening. He’d never find anything in this mess.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Spencer went straight to Kate’s nightstand, where she confessed to keeping her diary when she was younger. Spencer thought she might have left a note in there detailing what had happened and where she and her family had gone, but he came up empty. With each passing minute, Spencer was more certain that the looters had ruined any chance he had at finding whatever information Kate had left him. He and Rob should have entered the house immediately and stopped the two thieves before they had a chance to tear the place apart. The disorder they’d created in the short time they were inside was hard to fathom, but that didn’t change Spencer’s predicament. He took one more look around the disheveled room and decided to look elsewhere.

A sinking sensation crept over him as he confronted the stark reality of the situation. Without locating the note or clue Kate had left him, finding her seemed increasingly unlikely, maybe impossible. She could have gone anywhere.

His next stop was the hall bathroom. A longshot but worth a shot at this point. The puddle of blood under the body in the hallway had stopped spreading but was already touching both walls, and Spencer had to jump to the bathroom door to avoid the mess. He checked the mirror first, thinking Kate might have written something on the glass, but was disappointed to find it clean. Spencer put both hands on the vanity top and let his head hang. He was running out of confidence in his ability to find Kate. This was like looking for a needle in a haystack. His expectations for Stuart weren’t high, but this was something else. He kept his eyes closed as he blew out a long swoosh of air and tried to shore up his fading optimism.

“Spencer. You should come take a look at this.” Rob’s voice echoed through the dead house, jerking Spencer to life. He cleared the blood-soaked tiles, riding a wave of new hope in whatever Rob had found.

The man stood in front of the refrigerator. “It doesn’t make any sense, but I feel like there’s more to it.” His puzzled look was understandable.

Spencer studied the three lines of multicolored letters on the fridge. Tom and Debbie kept a few sets of children’s magnetic alphabets on the exposed side of their refrigerator facing the kitchen. Rob was right, though. The three rows of gibberish didn’t make any sense, but their placement in the middle of a cleared spot among the other magnets was deliberate, and somehow, it felt familiar.

Then Spencer remembered his birthday last year. Kate had arranged a scavenger hunt for him with clues planted along the way. Each location around the boat and eventually Marathon revealed a small gift and a note written in a code he needed to decipher in order to reach the next location. The letters on the fridge formed a cryptographic message.

“Ceasar Cipher. Ever heard of it?” Spencer began sliding letters around.

“No, what’s that?” Rob stepped back and gave him room to work.

“It’s a kind of cryptography where each letter in the message is replaced by a letter some fixed number of positions down the alphabet,” Spencer explained as he continued reorganizing the colorful magnets.

“But how do you know how many positions down the alphabet to go?” Rob asked.

“I don’t, but I’m guessing it’s the same key she used for my scavenger hunt birthday last year.” Spencer completed the first line and read it out loud. “Fifty-one North River Road.”

“Where’s that?” Rob used his shirt to wipe the soot from his face.

“I have no idea.” In that moment, Spencer realized that even if he found out where Kate and her parents had gone, he had no way of knowing where 51 North River Road was. Come on, have faith. She’d know that.

Spencer got started on the next line without hesitation, counting seven positions down the alphabet from every letter and replacing it with the correct one. “Left Friday, Map in DW.”

“Map in DW, map in DW.” Rob repeated the last line in confusion. “Dishwasher?”

Spencer pulled the dishwasher door open so fast it almost bottomed out on the tile floor. In the top rack was a folded map of Stuart, and when Spencer laid it out on the island, he found 51 North River Road circled in red ink. Spencer wasn’t familiar with the address Kate had left him, but he could see that it was a house on the water—and it wasn’t too far upriver.

“What day is it?” The last few days had melded into one, and Spencer was drawing a blank.

Rob’s brow wrinkled. “It’s Saturday, I think.”

“They left yesterday, then. We just missed them.” Spencer leaned into the counter and took a closer look at the map as several gunshots rang out from a nearby neighborhood.

“That looks too far to go on foot, especially with all that going on out there, and what about Nat and Maya and the boat? I don’t know if I’m comfortable being that far from them.” Rob ran a hand through his hair.

Spencer hated to admit it, but he agreed with everything Rob was saying. The address was only two or three miles south on the same peninsula. Spencer could have jogged there, but he knew that was foolish. Not to mention, they’d have to come back here for the skiff anyway. How else would they transport Tom’s guns and the rest of the gear and supplies Kate and her parents would have? As Spencer contemplated their options, the rumble of an approaching vehicle got his attention.

He tucked the map in his back pocket and followed Rob to the front room, where they’d entered the house.

“Maybe they came back.” Rob beat him to the window and crouched below the sill. Spencer rushed to join him and waited for the source of the rough exhaust note. It sounded like it could have been an antique Ford pickup with a modified exhaust. Tom said he was keeping the truck stock everywhere but under the hood.

Spencer licked his parched lips and readied himself to hurdle the windowsill and run to Kate when the truck pulled up. He’d endured a lot to get here, but it would all be worthwhile once Kate was in his arms. But he’d have to wait for that.

A white Chevy van with patches of gray primer rounded the corner, flashing the window with its headlights. Spencer and Rob ducked out of sight until the light had passed. But the knot forming in Spencer’s stomach was here to stay.

“Oh great. They’re stopping.” Rob peered over the windowsill.

Spencer watched as three men unloaded from the vehicle, all carrying weapons. They must have been with the other two looters and were here to help haul the spoils away in the van. Spencer couldn’t decide what bothered him more: that he’d foolishly hoped it was Kate and her parents or that the world he now lived in had become so predictably evil. But one thing was painfully evident: his struggles had just begun.

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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

Dead Reckoning

The Dark Road series:

Breakdown

Escape

Resistance

Fallout

Extraction

Reckoning

Deception

Restitution

Desperation

Forsaken

Redemption

Dissension

Resignation

Sanctuary

Breakthrough

Cloverdale series:

Impact

Survival

Endurance

Confrontation