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.