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.