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.