Read Online Cuban Death-Lift by Randy Striker - Free Book Online

well off to port, locked in place by the conflict of foul wind and foul Stream current.
    The reflection of sunlight on glass had caught my attention. I banked east, opened throttles to three-quarters, and bore down on the boat.
    As I drew closer, I could see that it was more trawler than cruiser. And the trawler was not alone. A Mako center-console, twenty to twenty-five feet long, with its sweep of gunwales tapering toward the stern, had rafted up beside it.
    From behind me, I heard the woman’s voice. She had, apparently, felt the sudden change of course and had come topside to see what was going on.
    â€œI think there’s a boat in trouble up there, Miss Santarun. I’m going to have a look.”
    â€œBut isn’t that another boat with it? Aren’t they already helping?”
    She stood beside me, wind pulling at the pile of black hair as we powered on to thirty knots. I could smell the closeness of her: a frail odor of soap and some kind of body powder.
    â€œMaybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”
    â€œBut why else would another boat—”
    â€œIt won’t take long, ma’am. Besides, it’s against the law for me not to offer assistance.”
    She hesitated for a moment, then climbed back down the ladder. I wasn’t exactly unhappy to see her leave.
    I was downwind of them, so I was within fifty yards of the boats before I throttled down. The trawler had listed to starboard, bow high, aft deck partially submerged. It rolled in the weak wave crest like a disabled animal. The trawler was white fiberglass with red trim, and a good bit larger than my own Sniper, which is a little smaller—but a hell of a lot faster—than most sportfishermen. The skiff lashed up beside it was a Mako 23 with twin Johnson 200s. The name on the side of the Mako was factory-painted, blue letters two feet high: Talon. I could see only one man aboard the Mako. He seemed preoccupied with something on the deck.
    â€œDo you need any assistance?”
    The man looked up, startled. He was a black man, thin and angular in a loose white shirt. He rode with the roll of waves momentarily, staring at me.
    â€œI said, ‘Do you need some assistance?’ ”
    He shook his head and yelled back at me, “Naw, man. Just called the Coast Guard. Best stay back—this boat here’s about to go down!”
    There was something about him I didn’t like. He seemed nervous, uncommunicative. At open sea the vastness, the loneliness, normally affects people just the opposite—they become talkative, unfailingly polite.
    But not this guy.
    â€œI’ve been listening to VHF all afternoon, and I didn’t hear any call—maybe your radio’s busted.”
    It was a lie. I hadn’t listened to VHF after the first hour. The steady chain of distress calls, and the endless question from Key West Coast Guard— “Do you have any refugees aboard?” —had caused me to switch it off in minor protest.
    But I wanted to test him. I wanted to see his reaction.
    He thought for a moment, shrugged.
    â€œI’ll call them for you right now!”
    He fidgeted now, uneasiness intensifying. And I had him figured.
    There was probably another guy with him—belowdeck in the disabled trawler. And they hadn’t stopped to give aid.
    They were pirates.
    That simple.
    In three hundred years, nothing has really changed off the Florida Keys. People come and go, but the pirates—generation after generation—stay. The trawler had probably been a victim of the deadly squall. And this guy had come out looking for floaters: boats to strip, unattended vessels to plunder.
    And after that storm, there would be plenty to find.
    I edged Sniper closer, wishing to hell I’d brought a weapon. I could have thrown it overboard before reaching Mariel Harbor. But I hadn’t, so I kept my eye on the guy as I approached, never wavering.
    â€œBoat’s ’bout to go down, man!