She’d had to take a negative tack, motorsailing to hold tighter to the wind so that she could get clear of the reefs off the eastern side of Dominica. Now, she was trying to pinch up to hold a northerly course to clear Jenny Point.  She’d tack again somewhere in the middle of the Dominica Channel to get around the island of Marie-Galante. It was going to be a very long night.

The airport was somewhere along this shore, but Riley didn’t see any planes taking off or landing. She stuck her face outside the dodger and scanned the shoreline, but the boat reared up and then slammed down into another trough and more spray splattered across the canvas sounding like buckshot. Forget trying to spot the airport, she told herself. They probably shut it down at night anyway. Most of the runways at these small island airports left little margin for error. Neither did their rocky windward coasts, she thought.

Once she was a good five miles beyond the point, Riley stood up, stretched and made her way below, moving from handhold to handhold on the heaving boat. She wanted to check her radar again. Even on the twenty-four mile range, aside from Shadow Chaser, she hadn’t seen a thing. So far, so good. Maybe this idea of going up the ocean side of the island had thrown them off their tail. Or maybe Cole and Theo were dealing with them about now. She had tried contacting the guys on the other boat by radio earlier, but they were out of VHF range and they weren’t reading her on the SSB channel they had chosen to monitor, either. It was a shame that they hadn’t been able to buy new cell phones while they were in DC.

She slid into the chart table seat, turned on the radar at the panel and waited for the image to appear. With her autopilot, chart plotter and refrigeration all running, she needed to conserve her battery power. She’d shut off the engine several hours ago. She considered making herself another cup of coffee on the propane stove while she waited for the radar to warm up, but decided against it. She was already feeling jittery enough. Solo night sailing did that to her.

A message appeared on the radar telling her to push the power button to start up the antenna. She watched as the green line made the sweep around the black screen. A large green blob sat off the north end of Dominica. It looked like a big rain shower. The blob changed shape with each sweep round the screen, but a small bit in the lower left hand corner stayed solid. As she watched, she decided that hard blob might be moving.

Riley changed the range on the radar from twenty-four miles down to twelve. Using the buttons on the front of the screen, she moved the cross hair symbol over the radar target and marked the spot. The green target moved away from the X she had drawn. Yes, it was definitely moving. And fast. Too fast for a freighter. She judged the distance between her and the target to be something around ten miles. And shrinking. Maybe a cruise ship would move that fast.

She stood up and pulled herself up the companionway ladder until she could see through the dodger’s windows to the sea ahead. Scanning the horizon as the boat crested a wave, she thought, no way a cruise ship could be that close and still not be visible. After assuring herself that she couldn’t yet see anything off her bow, she climbed down and slid back into the seat.

Riley stared at the radar. They were only about eight miles off now and closing at a speed close to fifteen knots. That meant they were less than thirty minutes away even in this confused sea. And they were on a collision course.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

Aboard Fast Eddie

March 30, 2008

9:30 p.m.

“Christ, Pinky,” Spyder said. “Can’t you do that over the leeward side for Pete’s sake? The fucking wind is blowing your chum all over my jacket.”

He watched his brother clutching the gunnel of the boat, his head dangling over the side like a bar of soap on a rope. Spyder buried his nose in the crook of his own elbow. God, the smell was enough to make him get sick even though he’d never been seasick a day in his life. Didn’t matter whether he was on a swordfish boat or a shrimper, Spyder could take the smells of rotten fish, diesel, you name it. But puke? Shit, no.

“Listen Bro,” Spyder yelled towards the back of the red racing jumpsuit his brother wore. They had found a pair of these all weather suits on board the big Donzi race boat, and they had both climbed into them when it had started to rain earlier. “The boat rolls a hell of a lot worse when we slow her down. She don’t pound so bad, but she rolls like a bitch,” he yelled. “That’s what’s making you sick, man.” He had no idea if that was true or not, but Spyder loved opening up those big throaty engines and letting the Fast Eddie show off her stuff. When the boat flew over flat water and he flexed his knees with the motion, it almost felt as good as sex. Almost.

Even with all the noise, Spyder heard the sound of his brother’s retching one more time. He turned away lest the wind carry the vomit into his face.

Here we go again, Spyder thought. When they first took off in the Fast Eddie, his brother had started puking as soon as they’d got out into the channel.  Spyder had slowed down, but once they got in the lee of the island, he’d opened her up again. Pinky was okay on the flat water. Still, by the time they got down to the south end of Dominica, it was almost dark and there was no sign of the doc or the bitch. Pissed him off.

That was when Pinky got out the GPS machine again. They seen she was on the other side of the island headed north. Pinky wanted to know how the hell he knew it was her boat and not the doc’s. He told the freak that ain’t no way they’d be going no five knots in that big trawler. So Pinky says, then let’s follow her. Spyder knew for damn sure what would happen if they tried to take that route in the open ocean. Back to the vomiteria.

Then Pinky suggested they could cut her off just as easy at the north end. So they’d headed up the flat, sheltered water on the leeward side of the island. Since he was feeling better, Pinky went below and found some cold beer and packages of crackers and chips. Only once they rounded the point, they’d run into that squall and here they were with Pinky spewing his guts over the side again. Those vinegar potato chips had smelled bad enough the first time around.

Spyder turned the wheel to point the boat into the swells and tilted his head off to one side so the windshield no longer blocked the rain-scented wind from his face. The beaded braids that dangled down either side of his face flew back and fluttered against the side of his head. God he loved how this boat made him feel. He pictured what he’d do to the bitch once he pulled up in this black bomber and got his hands on her. He was gonna tear her wide open. Show her not to mess with him.

“Damn,” Pinky said, as he pushed himself up and collapsed into the padded passenger seat.

“‘Bout time,” Spyder said. “You ready to go now?” He was ready to open that sucker up and start pounding those seas.

Pinky’s hand flew out and grabbed Spyder’s forearm. Shit! He had no idea the little freak could squeeze that tight. His long fingernails seemed to be cutting right through the rain jacket.

“Fuck, Pinky. You’re hurting me!”

“Listen,” his brother hissed.

Spyder had to lean in close to that puke face to hear.

“There’s no way we both gonna jump from this boat to hers out here in this ocean.”

Spyder started to interrupt, but his brother dug those fingernails into him again.

“Jesus, cut it out!” Spyder wailed.

“I said listen. You might be able to do it, but you ain’t leaving me alone on this boat. What we gonna do is, we gonna follow her. Keep far enough back she can’t see us. She either gonna lead us to the doc, or if she stops somewhere, we take her. Once she tells us where the doc is, you can do whatever the hell you want with her, bro.”