Metro Girl (Alex Barnaby 1)

“If the computer punks out, I’m a dead man.”

I couldn’t eyeball the island, but I could see the island approaching on the GPS screen. It was possible that Bill was just miles away. An unnerving thought. Chances were good that he wouldn’t be happy to see Hooker and me. And chances were very good that I wouldn’t be happy after hearing his story.

“You look tense,” Hooker said.

“How confident are you that the boat you saw in the river was yours?”

“Not confident at all. In fact, I’m not even sure it was a boat.”

Suddenly there were three dots on the horizon.

“The island we’re after is in the middle,” Hooker said.

My heart skipped a beat.

“Are you carrying Felicia’s gun?” Hooker asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

“Sure.” In theory.

I had my eyes fixed on the island. It looked relatively flat and heavily vegetated with the exception of a narrow strip of sugar sand beach. “Pretty beach,” I said.

“This island alternates between beach and mangrove. The back of the island is all mangrove.”

Hooker disconnected the autopilot and eased back on the throttle. “We’re going to have to watch the depth finder and make sure we’ve got enough water under us. My boat displaces a lot more than Rich’s, so we should be okay…if it’s my boat in there.”

Hooker brought us into the cove at idle speed and we looked around. No sign of activity. No traces of civilization. No cute little beach shacks, no docks, no Burger King signs. There were seagulls and long-legged shorebirds among the mangroves, and the occasional fish jumped in front of the boat. The water was calm. Very little breeze. Nothing moved on the palms.

We’d seen other boats when we got within fifteen miles of Havana, but they were always far away. Planes occasionally passed overhead. Not a threat since no one knew to look for Vana’s boat. Hooker and I were out of sight, at the helm, under a hardtop.

A helicopter came out of nowhere and buzzed the boat. Hooker and I held our breath. The helicopter disappeared over the treetops, and we both expelled a whoosh of air.

“It wasn’t military,” Hooker said. “Probably just some rich tourist seeing the sights.”

“Are we going up the waterway?”

“I’m going to try. I’d feel more comfortable if we had a smaller boat. I’m probably going to have to back out. I’d like to back in, in case we have to leave fast, but I’m afraid to go in propellers first.”

So here’s the thing about a NASCAR guy. He might be an asshole, but at least he knows how to drive. And he’s got cojones. Not even ordinary cojones. We’re talking big brass ones.

Hooker approached the estuary and began creeping forward.

“Go to the bow,” he said, “and watch for problems. Floating debris, narrowing of the water, signs that the water is getting too shallow. I’ve got a depth finder, but by the time it tells me I’m in trouble it could already be too late.”

I carefully walked across the white fiberglass bow to the pointed prow. I dropped to hands and knees for better stability and leaned forward, studying the water ahead.

Hooker leaned around the windscreen and looked out at me. “I know you’re trying to be helpful,” he said, “but I can’t drag my eyes off you when you’re in that position. Maybe you could try lying flat to the boat, or at least swinging your ass more to the side.”

I turned slightly to look at him. “Deal with it,” I said. And then I went back to watching the water. I was from Baltimore. I grew up in a garage. I had my own set of cojones. And there wasn’t much a man could say that would surprise me.

The width narrowed, but the depth stayed constant. Trees from both banks formed a canopy over our heads, and the sun dappled the water through holes in the canopy. Hooker eased the boat around a bend, and a boat lay at anchor directly in front of us. The bow of the boat faced us, so no name was visible. I turned to look at Hooker, and he nodded yes. He brought the boat to a standstill, and I scrambled back to the pilothouse.

“Are you sure it’s your boat?” I asked him.

“Yep.”