Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

“Oh yeah,” Reed said through clenched teeth, “I feel like I just won the lottery.”

“If it wasn’t for your friend, none of us would be alive. He threw the ignition key overboard to save us.”

“I can’t believe Porter is dead. He was a good man, and that animal murdered him in cold blood. Who are those people? Why are they trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out. First, we need to get you to a hospital.”

“It’ll take us at least thirty minutes to get back to Montego Bay,” Max said. He glanced back at them, but his gaze settled on the ocean instead. The look on his face became grim. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ve got thirty minutes.”

Juan turned and saw that the Oceanaire was no longer stationary. Crests of water curled in front of its bow.

The assassins must have figured out how to hot-wire the boat and now had the engine cranked to full power. Not only was the Oceanaire on a pursuit course, she was gaining on them.

“Still no luck on the radio,” Max said.

“We’re on our own until we can reach port,” Juan said, holding his hand on Reed’s wound. The injury was more severe than it originally appeared to be. The ex-firefighter was having trouble breathing, and Juan wondered if a bone fragment had punctured his lung.

“I’d say we’ve got ten minutes tops before they’re in range to start firing at us. That was a great shot with the spear, but it was our only weapon.”

“Do you have anything else that we could use?” Juan asked Reed.

Reed, who was now ashen, merely shook his head.

“There’s gotta be something we can defend ourselves with,” Max said. “Once they’re next to us, they’ll either mow us down from their boat or board us if we try to hide inside. Either way, I don’t like our chances.”

“Then I’ll have to figure something out,” Juan said. He put Reed’s good hand on the rag. “Can you keep pressure on this?”

Reed nodded weakly. Juan didn’t like leaving him there, but there was nothing more he could do for him until they reached safety. If they reached safety.

Juan went downstairs and saw that one of the two remaining men on the Oceanaire was climbing out onto the open foredeck with his assault rifle while his companion drove the boat. He lay down and took aim at the Cast Away but didn’t fire, apparently not wanting to waste ammo until they were in effective range. Max similarly delayed taking evasive action until the shooting started. Doing so now would only allow their pursuers to catch up more quickly.

The spent speargun rested on the deck next to the fishing chair where Juan had discarded it. Empty beer bottles that had fallen from their perches when Max gunned the engine now banged against the transom.

Juan ducked into the cabin and searched for anything that might prove useful. The well-stocked galley had plenty of food and drinks, but nothing more lethal than a dinner knife. Juan had his own pocketknife, but it would only be valuable as a close-quarters weapon.

He opened the hatch into the engine bay and climbed down to see what he could find. Although the smell of diesel fuel and oil was strong, the equipment looked well maintained. Juan discovered a tool kit, but it contained little more than a wrench and a few screwdrivers. Nothing that would stand up to an assault rifle.

He was about to leave the engine room when the noxious odor made him stop. He realized that they did have a weapon: the fuel itself. He needed a way to launch it at the Oceanaire but didn’t know how until the memory of the empty beer bottles inspired a brainstorm.

He hurried up to the outside deck and picked up four Red Stripes. He also took the portable bilge pump and went back down to the engine room.

He uncapped the fuel tank and stuck the pump’s hose in. It took him only a few pumps each to fill all of the distinctive squat bottles.

He took the bottles and the tool kit back up to the galley, where he rifled through the drawers until he found a cigarette lighter. Juan then retrieved a life vest from the storage locker, took out his knife, and cut the vest open so he could get at the foam inside. He quickly sliced off pieces of foam and jammed them inside the bottles, where they would dissolve, converting the diesel to a sticky jelly. Then he got some hand towels out of the galley to stuff in the necks. He turned each of the bottles over until their makeshift wicks were soaked with diesel.

Now he had four Molotov cocktails. The next step was to figure out how to deliver them to the target.

Throwing them was the obvious choice, but it would also expose him to gunfire. He might get one good throw before he was cut down, and the boats would have to be practically next to each other to assure a hit. He needed a launch mechanism with more velocity and suddenly realized the speargun gave him all the velocity he needed.

Up on deck, Juan stole a glance behind them and saw the Oceanaire perilously close. The gunman took a couple of potshots, but the bullets had little hope of hitting a moving target at that range.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Max yelled, “you better hurry!”

“Two more minutes,” Juan replied as he placed the Molotov cocktails in the cooler for easy access.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I ask.”