When no one appeared, he made his way back outside and quickly cut the docklines. He moved up the stairs to the flying bridge. Max’s vision cleared for a few brief seconds, allowing him to see the bridge had a canvas top and plastic wraparound windows. He knelt beside the captain’s chair within the variegated shadows, and his vi-son blurred and doubled again.
A wave of nausea rushed at him, and he breathed through it as best he could. Mostly by touch, he used the knife to pop a section off the top of the helm. Perspiration stung a cut on his forehead and ran into his brow as he pulled out a tangle of wires. His vision wasn’t getting any better and it took him longer than he would have liked to locate the back of the ignition switch. When he did, he sliced through the wires, then touched them together. The twin inboard engines kicked over, sputtering and churning the water as Max placed one hand on his side, one on the helm, and rose.
He put the yacht in gear, slid the throttle forward, and eased the craft away from the end of the dock. If he tilted his head just right, his double vision wasn’t as bad, and he could keep the yacht in the center of the waterway and away from hazards.
He motored the vessel out of the marina and into Nassau Harbor, beneath the bridge that connected Paradise Island to the capital and past the cruise ships docked at Prince George Wharf. Nothing that night had come this easy, and at any moment, he expected a spray of automatic fire, shredding the canvas top and chewing up the deck. The minute he’d landed on the island that afternoon, his luck had gone from bad to worse, and he didn’t trust that his bad luck was through with him yet.
“Excuse me, but what are you doing?”
At the sound of a female voice, Max spun around and gripped the arm of the captain’s chair to keep from falling. He stared at the double image of a woman outlined by the fading lights of the harbor. A lighthouse at the end of the island sent a bright beam sliding across the floor and lighting up two identical pairs of feet with twenty red toenails. It made a leisurely journey up two red and blue skirts and bare flat bellies. Two white shirts were tied between two pairs of big breasts. Then it slipped across the corners of two full mouths and drifted through a tangle of blond curls. Her face remained hidden as the fuzzy image of two small dogs yapped from her arms, the shrill barking enough to make Max’s ears bleed.
“Shit, I didn’t need this,” he said, wondering where the hell she’d come from. The poor excuse for a dog jumped from her arms and bolted across the floor, stopping by Max’s feet and barking so hard his rear legs rose from the deck. The woman moved forward, and her double image trailed slightly behind as she rushed to scoop up the mutt.
“Who are you? Do you work for the Thatches?” she demanded. He didn’t have time for dogs or questions or bullshit in general. She had to go. The last thing he needed tonight was a barking mutt and a yapping woman. She and her dog were going to have to jump. The tip of Paradise Island was less than a hundred feet behind them now. They’d probably make it. If they didn’t, it wasn’t his problem.
“Shut that dog up or I’ll drop-kick it overboard,” he said instead of forcing her and her mutt into the sea. Damn, he was getting soft in his old age.
“Where are you taking this yacht?”
He ignored her and glanced one last time at the fading lights of Nassau, at the fuzzy green buoy markers and flashing lighthouse, then he turned his attention to the controls. He had a few questions of his own, but he would have to wait to get the answers. At the moment, he had more important concerns, like survival.
His hands shook from pain and adrenaline. Through the sheer force of his will and years of experience, he steadied them. He hadn’t detected another vessel following him, but that didn’t mean much.
“You can’t just take this boat. You have to return to the marina.”
If his head hadn’t ached like a bitch and his body hadn’t been used for a punching bag, he might have found her damn funny. Turn back, after the hell he’d lived through? Take the yacht back, after he’d gone through the trouble of stealing it? Not freaking likely. It took a rare talent to hot-wire when a person couldn’t even see straight. He’d been aboard just about every Navy vessel imaginable. Everything from an inflatable to an attack sub. He knew how to read a Global Positioning System, and in a pinch he could read chart maps and use a compass. Problem was, with his vision, the best he was capable of at the moment was to head west and haul balls to the walls.
“Who are you?”
He squinted at the golden blur of the controls in front of him and reached for the radio. He missed and tried again until he felt the knobs beneath his fingertips. Static filled the air around him, drowning out the woman’s questions. He adjusted the squelch knob, cutting out the background noise, then he turned it slightly. The radio picked up the marine operator’s transmission with a passenger ship, then he switched to a noncommercial channel. He heard nothing out of the ordinary and continued to switch. Each channel sounded normal. Again, nothing out of the ordinary, but he wasn’t listening for normal or ordinary traffic.
“You have to take me back. I promise I won’t tell anyone about you.”
Sure you won’t, honey, he thought as he glanced over his shoulder, but he could see nothing out of his left eye and turned his attention back to the controls. If she’d shut the hell up, he could almost forget she was there.
He’d been out of communications with the Pentagon for twelve hours. In his last transmission, he’d informed them that there would be no need for a rescue, no need for further negotiations. The two DEA agents he’d been seeking were dead, and had been for a while. Obviously unused to torture, they’d succumbed at the hands of their captors.
“People will notice I’m gone, you know. If fact, I bet someone has missed me by now.”
Bullshit.
“I’m sure someone has already contacted the police.”
The Bahamian police were the least of his problems. He’d been forced to kill Andre Cosella’s oldest son, Jose, and he’d barely managed to escape with his own life. When Andre found out, he was going to be one extremely pissed-off drug lord.
“Sit down and be quiet.” Through his double vision, he made out the lights of a sailboat heading toward them on his port side. He didn’t think the Cosellas had found the body yet and doubted the sailboat was filled with drug smugglers, but he knew better than to rule anything out, and the last thing he needed was for the woman beside him to start screaming her head off.
He felt rather than saw her move, and before she could take a step, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Don’t even think about doing anything stupid.”
She screamed and tried to pull out of his grasp. The dog yapped, jumped to the deck, and locked his jaws on the leg of Max’s pants.
“Get your hands off me,” she yelled, and swung at him, almost connecting with his already aching skull.
“Damn it!” Max swore as he spun her around and slammed her back into his chest. He set his jaws against the pain shooting along his ribs and grappled for her wrists. She fought to escape, but she was soft and very feminine and no match for Max. He easily forced her forearms to cross her breasts, pinning her to him and controlling her jabbing elbows. Her hair piled on the top of her head tickled his cheek as he clued her in on their untenable situation. “Be a good girl, and who knows, you just might live to see the sunrise.”
She stilled instantly. “Don’t hurt me.”
She’d misunderstood him, but he didn’t bother correcting her. It wasn’t him she had to worry about. He wasn’t going to hurt her, unless she took another swing at him. Then all bets were off.
The sailboat sliced through the calm waters, a blur to Max, and all too clearly reminding him of his weakened position. He couldn’t see straight. At the moment, his vision was better in the dark than the light, which had just about as many advantages as disadvantages. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him his ribs were cracked, and he was sure he’d be pissing blood for at least a week. Worse, Cosella’s men had taken all of his toys- his weapons and his communications. They’d even taken his watch. He had nothing to fight back with, and if they found him, he was a sitting duck. Worse than a sitting duck. His bad luck had cursed him with a soft civilian woman and her irritating mutt. He shook his leg and the little yap-per slid across the wooden floor.