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.