Sea of Greed

As Paul straightened the boat up, Gamay exhaled and pulled the trigger repeatedly. The automatic pistol recoiled, chambered a new round and fired it off in a rapid blur. In a few quick seconds, Gamay had sent eight shots out into the dark.

She ducked behind the transom and hoped to avoid return fire as Paul turned the boat again.

When she looked up, their pursuer was turning and heading off course. Whatever or whoever she’d hit, the boat continued out into the dark and vanished.

“Two down,” she said.

Gamay checked the magazine as the third boat began to move in. There were only five shots left, a problem their new pursuer did not seem likely to have. “Looks like they’re sending in big brother.”

Though they couldn’t see it, they could tell the third craft was more powerful by the sound of its engines. “Whatever it is, she’s bigger and faster than us,” Paul said.

They could never hope to outrun it, nor could they bully it like Paul had done to the first attacker. Making matters worse, the boat’s pilot seemed to be an expert. Gamay could hear the throttle modulating precisely as it went over the waves. Because of that, its bow remained steady. And sitting up on that bow was a high-powered weapon on a tripod.

“Turn!” Gamay shouted.

Paul whipped the boat into a turn as a stream of red tracers flashed across the water. With five shells between each tracer round, that first burst would have been enough to shred the fiberglass launch.

“Sounds like fifty-caliber,” Paul said. “Not that it matters.”

“All that matters is, staying away from it,” Gamay shouted.

Paul did his best, but the new attacker matched every twist and turn.

On the third change of direction, the .50 opened up and the launch took a barrage of hits. Chunks of fiberglass flew around them, one of the life rings was blasted off its hook and sent flying through the air. Gamay felt something tug on her windbreaker as if a bullet had clipped it, but fortunately neither she nor Paul nor the engine took any direct hits.

“We’re coming up on the island,” Paul said. “Maybe we can lose him in the shallows.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Gamay replied. “Head for the rocks, if you can see any.”

Continuing his evasive maneuvers, Paul did his best to be unpredictable. Two more bursts from the .50 lit up the night, but both were well wide of the mark.

Meanwhile, Gamay rushed down into the cabin and came out lugging two of the heavy steel containers containing the bacterial cultures.

Reaching the stern, she heaved the tanks up on the transom. “Head straight for the island!”

“We are!”

“Turn at the last second!”

“Got it,” Paul said. “Ten seconds.”

The speedboat was closing in again, lining up right behind them, setting up a kill shot for the man with the machine gun.

“Paul!”

“Wait,” he said.

“I can’t.”

The machine gun began firing. Gamay ducked as more fiberglass was blasted from the transom. A sharp pain ran through her arm as a long splinter embedded itself in her skin. She winced and held on to the containers.

“Now!” Paul shouted.

Gamay opened the valves on the two tanks, shoving one off the transom to the left and one to the right. They hit the water just as Paul turned the wheel.

As the venting gas reacted, twin veils of fire spread out behind them. There was no explosion, no firestorm to cook the pursuing boat nor any thundering detonations to blow them off course, just two ballooning flashes of strangely colored fire, bright enough to blind.

The pilot of the following boat did the only rational thing. He avoided both fires by racing between them. He came out the other side with his night vision compromised. Even then, he saw the island, but it was far too late.

The boat hit the shore at forty miles an hour, tearing the bottom out, rupturing the tanks on the outboard engines and sending the remnants of the hull and the men flying onto the beach.

Paul and Gamay fared better in the Raleigh’s launch. They continued to turn, racing into the dark, scraping the bottom on some sand but otherwise emerging undamaged.

They left the barrier island behind and continued toward the mainland. After several minutes, without any sign of pursuit, they began to relax.

“I think we’re in the clear,” Paul said. Gamay pulled her cell phone out and began looking for a signal.

“I hope so,” she replied. “Now, let’s get in range and call the Coast Guard.”

31

GREAT SOUND, BERMUDA

KURT WAS FERRIED back to the Lucid Dream in a 1963 Riva Tritone sportsboat. The perfectly restored craft was a work of art. Its polished wood gleamed beneath the moonlight. Leather seats dyed a powder-blue color were offset by chrome trim on the dash and around the windscreen.

Kurt sat back, enjoying the breeze and the rumble of the engine, while the flag of Bermuda fluttered on a short post behind him. Rarely had he considered the perks of wealth anything to aspire to — adventure was more his style — but he could have gotten used to owning a classic powerboat like the Riva.