That had started Braulio’s hands shaking and he’d lit a trembling cigarette. He’d gone through an entire pack since.
With a sigh, he turned toward the railing, toward the island. The last of the daylight slipped over the edge of the world, leaving only the moon and stars to see by. The island loomed in the distance, the ruined ships dark shapes in the shallow coastal water, but he saw no sign of the lifeboats returning. And even if they tried, they might not be able to see the Mariposa. Estevan had a light on in the wheelhouse, but otherwise the fishing boat was dark.
“Estevan!” Braulio called. “Turn on the running lights in case they come back tonight.”
He heard the little man moving in the wheelhouse, and then a voice from within. “Why?”
Braulio took a deep breath, then began to cough. Maybe the cigarettes would kill him sooner than he thought. His hands began to tremble so badly that he had difficulty putting the butt to his lips.
Why? Estevan didn’t think the captain would be back tonight, and nobody argued with him. Hector didn’t even look up from his fishing pole. Alberto and Javier were silent belowdecks. Up on the bow, Cruz probably hadn’t heard.
Braulio took a long puff on his cigarette, the tip flaring orange in the dark. He forced his hands to be steady as he turned toward the wheelhouse. He’d go in and turn the goddamn lights on himself, and then he would have a talk with Cruz, who would be boss if the captain didn’t return.
Braulio strode away from the railing, already questioning his decision to get involved. It wasn’t his job, after all. He was just an old fisherman. But if he wanted to get paid …
Three steps and he froze, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
It sounded like singing — a lone voice across the water, distant and quiet, but rising, like something he would have heard in church. There were no words, just that voice — not quite beautiful and yet soothing, aching.
Curious, he took a step back toward the railing.
Up at the bow, Cruz screamed. The sound, high and shrill, lasted only a second before being cut off.
Something fell over in the wheelhouse — maybe Estevan slipping off his chair — and Braulio swore, hurrying along the railing, wondering what the hell had happened. Had Cruz hurt himself? Fallen overboard? Now that he listened, Braulio thought he heard splashing from the water, and something slapping the hull, wet and slippery. Drunk son of a bitch.
He hadn’t even reached the wheelhouse when another scream came from behind him. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of Hector’s fishing pole clattering to the deck, then all he could do was stare at the big man, who was trying to beat at something on his back, to tear at a limb wrapped around his throat.
The cigarette fell from Braulio’s lips.
Hector twisted around, struck the railing, and went over the side. As he fell, the moonlight illuminated his attacker. Braulio’s eyes widened, but he did not scream. “Los diablos,” he whispered, and began to weep.
They came over the railing then, two at a time, scraping wood and metal. In the wheelhouse, glass broke and Estevan started to shout. Gunshots echoed off the deck and out across the water, and Braulio fled, running toward the only shelter he could imagine — the cabin belowdecks. But to get there, he had to go through the wheelhouse.
Something grabbed him from behind, wrapping around his leg. He let out a cry and it fell on him, tearing at him, and he knew that God would not listen to the prayers of a criminal. In a breath, he told the Lord of his sorrow and regret.
More gunshots cracked the night air. Something splashed him, cold on his skin, though Braulio also felt the heat of his own blood running down his chest and soaking his pants. The grip on him loosened and he tore free and rose, staggering.
Only to see Estevan pointing the gun at him.
“Out of the way!” Estevan shouted.
But Braulio barely heard him. He careened for the wheelhouse door. As he passed Estevan, the man fired again, but Braulio did not bother to look back at what the bullets might have hit. He threw himself across the threshold of the wheelhouse, broken glass crunching beneath his shoes. A dark shadow twitched, half-dead, on the floor near the radio, but Braulio did not even slow down.
From the top of the stairs that led down into the cabin, where the crew had their quarters, he saw Javier and Alberto appear. The sickly yellow light gave them an ugly pallor, and glinted off the guns they must have fetched when they’d heard the shots from above.
“Stop!” Braulio cried, half-sliding down the steps. “Don’t go up there!”
“What the hell—” Javier began.
“Look out the window!” the old man said, pointing toward one of the round portholes in the main cabin even as he moved away from the stairs.
Javier ran to the window, pushed his face up against it. The glass cracked. Something grabbed him, pulled, and blood sprayed.
Something broke inside of Braulio then. He ran, limping, into the short corridor where all their quarters were and saw the door to the head slightly ajar. Thinking only of shelter — of tiny vents and metal doors and no windows — he practically fell into the bathroom. Twisting the lock into place, his whole body trembling now instead of just his hands, he climbed on top of the toilet, hugging his knees to his chest.
Only then did the pain begin to truly blossom in his chest. Only then did he press his trembling hands against the wound, trying to keep his life from leaking out. Only then did he realize that he had not escaped death after all.
Braulio shook and bled and wept, and listened to the gunfire and the screams until there were no more of either.
1
Just after one o’clock in the afternoon on a pristine June day, Tori Austin stepped out onto the deck of the Antoinette, dying for a shower. The wind came up off the Caribbean, salty and warm, and pulled her clothes taut across her body. She breathed deeply as she walked to the railing, invigorated by the crisp, clean air. Then the wind shifted slightly and she caught the scent of rust that always lingered on board the freighter, and her nose wrinkled in distaste.
Back on land, some people drove BMWs and some drove run-down pickup trucks. Out on the ocean, the Antoinette was the equivalent of a long-haul trucker, with a cab full of fast-food wrappers and empty beer cans, and a trailer full of anonymous cargo. The broad expanse of the Antoinette’s deck carried one hundred and eighty-eight massive metal containers, each one the size of a big rig’s trailer, but the principle was the same. This had been Tori’s first voyage aboard the Antoinette—hell, aboard anything larger than the sightseeing ships that ran tours on Biscayne Bay — but in her time working for the vessel’s owner, Viscaya Shipping, she’d learned all sorts of things about the cargo business and the ships in Viscaya’s fleet.
To her left, the view might as well have been of some harbor dockyard. Containers were stacked six high, some of them covered in rust and graffiti, others gleaming and new. On the ship’s bow, a crane of dull gray steel towered over them. Tori went to the right, walking back to the aft railing. The accommodations block — a white tower of crew cabins, showers, and common rooms topped by the captain’s bridge — was just as modular in appearance as the containers. It looked like a Fort Lauderdale beachfront apartment building had been dropped down onto the deck, right at the stern.
Some container ships had the accommodations block more toward the center, but Tori appreciated its placement on the Antoinette. Standing at the back railing, she could take in the breathless, vivid blue of the Caribbean without having to look at the cargo. She’d enjoyed the voyage so far, and surprised herself with how much she liked the work. But the sameness of those stacks of metal blocks had begun to get to her.