Sue asked, “Then how do you know anything happened?”
He pointed to the radio. He cocked his head to hear the low voices. His hand went to the volume and turned it. Almost immediately, a voice demanded, “Shut down your engine or we’ll sink you.”
“Who are you?” a very scared female voice answered.
“The new owners of your boat and everything in it.” A series of gunshots sounded before the microphone clicked off.
Another voice, the same woman, now in near panic, said, “We don’t have any spare supplies. Just leave us alone or help me with my husband. You shot him.”
Nobody answered that plea.
Steve turned the knob down. “It was like that all day, yesterday. I assume a few boats made it past them. Others joined their navy, one way or another.”
Sue turned to the four boats that were passing us by. “We have to warn them.”
Steve reached for the microphone. He repeatedly asked for them to respond. He tried the other radio without success.
“We can get their attention by shooting in the air,” Sue said.
Steve shook his head. “They’ll just put more distance between us and them if we do that. Go faster.”
“We have to do something,” she insisted.
He handed her the microphone. “Keep trying to reach them. Turn the dial a single click at a time and wait for them to respond.” He turned the volume back up.
“Who is that out there? Answer me!” He was asking about Steve trying to warn the other boats. It was the voice of one of the people on the blockade.
Sue lifted the microphone and said slowly and with correct diction so it would not be misunderstood, “Go to hell.”
She shrugged and said to us, “We need to figure out how to warn other boats.”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know how.”
“You mentioned another way to the islands,” I said. “I’ve looked at the GPS and at the paper maps we have. That place ahead is a natural choke-point and there’s no other way. We’re not leaving the boat to travel on land, even if we have to remain around here and hide for a month.”
He smiled. “If there was another way, would you consider discussing going with you?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I saw how you treated your last partner.”
“His hostage is more like it. You checked the magazine of the gun you took from me?”
I did. It was empty.
Steve continued, “He gave me the gun for show. To surrender to you. He never knew about the other one.”
“Why didn’t you kill him earlier?” Sue asked.
“He came aboard yesterday. In a little motorboat when he ran out of gas. Had his gun on me before I knew anything. My fault. I should have been more careful—like you were. I thought about killing him, but I’m not a cold-blooded killer. Not until today. I couldn’t let him shoot Bill and I didn’t know you were inside with that shotgun.”
“Tell me about another way up north,” I ordered. “If there is one.”
He reached for a rolled map and spread it on the desk in front of him. His finger pointed. “Deception Pass.”
Instead of traveling north as we had been doing, on the west side of Whidbey Island, his finger moved along the east side of Whidbey Island and retraced our route around the southern tip all the way to Everett where we’d stolen the Truant. His intent was clear. Go back the way we came and from there, continue north to a tiny place on the map where he now pointed. As I examined it, there was an opening at the top of the island that took us right to the San Juans, and we’d miss the blockade of boats ahead.
“Two days?” Steve said, guessing at the time to retrace our route and sail around. “Maybe three.”
I had my answer and since he had shared it with us before we made any promises, we could ignore his request to join us and sail away. With the information he’d provided, we could go on by ourselves. I looked at him, hard. He knew he’d given away his hole card, his ace. We didn’t need him anymore.
Or perhaps we did. I had no illusions about my lack of sailing abilities and scant knowledge of the most basic mechanics of the boat. My place in the world was in a dim basement with my computer screen in front of me. I ate delivered pizza, slurped soda by the can, and avoided interaction with people when possible. Now I’d been thrust into making life and death decisions for two of us—and perhaps three.
I was lost deep in thought, when Steve said, “Cap? How about it?”
I realized he was looking at me, then his eyes shifted to the radar screen and a startled expression made me look too. A boat from the north was coming directly at us. We rushed to the deck. A half-mile away, a large boat, what I’d call a cabin cruiser, was motoring our way, thirty feet long, with two decks above the main one. Men moved about.
“Weapons?” Steve asked as he lifted my rifle without asking.
“Five shells in that. It’s all we have. Sue has a pocket full of shotgun shells.”
His eyes went to my nine-millimeter.
“Three full magazines and more shells in my coat pocket. Sue has one, too. And the one that belonged to Micky.”
“Can you hit what you aim at?” he demanded sharply.
“Only if it’s thirty or forty feet away.”
His hand went to the starter button for the engine. “Go pull up the anchor.”
The engine grumbled to life as I used the electric winch to retrieve the anchor. I heard him talking to Sue. As the anchor lifted, the boat swung around in the wind and current. Steve fired the shotgun. He waited several seconds, and as I leaped to his side, he fired again. The shot splashed the water half-way between the other boat and us.
The boat continued racing at us without pause.
“So much for warning shots. Okay, Bill, you get inside and steer from inside there where it’s safer. Stay low. Just get us out into the main channel. Sue, fill the empties for me as fast as you can.”
The boat was about two football field lengths from us, and winks of light came from their guns as they began firing. Their boat dipped and dived in the rougher water of the main channel as it plunged ahead. We were relatively steady.
Steve was prone on the rear deck, my rifle in his hands. He fired. Worked the bolt and fired again. The boat swerved to one side, then came back on course. He’d either hit the person steering or scared him. Steve fired again. And again.
I steered the Truant for the center of the channel, which was to our left, full throttle. The boat surged and I saw through the front windows that Steve had set the jib. Our boat steadied as it cut through the chop with the narrow bow and increased in speed.
The other boat was faster but remained about a football-field length behind after Steve emptied my rifle into the area where the driver steers from. After Steve’s shooting, they were probably talking and making plans or being cautious. But he was out of rifle shells.
More random shots came our way.
Steve fired twelve shots from a nine-millimeter in half that many seconds. I saw glass and fiberglass erupt like little bombs all along the main deck of the hull. He ejected the magazine and slammed another home. He emptied it also in a few seconds, and there were only a few returning shots as the people took cover. I imagined everyone aboard ducking because he’d placed bullets all along the main deck, then the deck above.
Steve inserted the third clip and in a measured way, fired about a shot every two seconds, taking time to aim. I saw the splashes where they hit, right at the place where the hull met the water. He centered a dozen shots in an area a couple of feet wide, all right at the waterline. Pieces of fiberglass ripped and tore loose as the boat powered ahead. A ragged piece a foot wide came free on three sides and flapped against the water.
Sue handed him another full magazine. He continued shooting at the waterline, in the same place, on the right side of the boat, where the bow was widest. Sue handed him another mag as a flurry of bullets were suddenly fired at us. He fired the next rounds higher, at the main deck again, although I couldn’t see anybody for him to aim at.