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.