Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

“Then I’d say better safe than sorry.”

Juan looked up at Reed. “You know, you’re probably right that there’s nothing to worry about, but it might be prudent to take some precautions. I noticed you have a speargun mounted on the wall with the rods and tackle.”

“That old thing? I don’t even know how to use it. I bought it because I thought some of my clients would want to spearfish, but nobody was ever interested. Now it’s just a conversation piece.”

“Do you mind if I keep it handy? Just in case?” Juan’s combat leg was back on the Oregon.

“Are you kidding?”

“I like to be prepared for the worst.”

“Have you fired one before?”

“A few times.”

Reed gave him a dubious look, then glanced at the radio and nodded reluctantly. “Just remember that you can’t sue me down here, so be careful with it. I only have one spear for it. To tell the truth, I’m not even sure it works.”

Juan ducked into the cabin and went to where the spare rods were lined up on the wall. At the very top was the five-foot-long Riffe speargun with a pistol grip. In the water, its effective range was little over twenty feet. Even though the air provided less resistance, the range wouldn’t be much greater, but it was better than nothing.

Juan plucked the spear and its gun off the wall. The spear, which had a wicked notched steel tip, was propelled by three rubber tubes on either side of the teak shaft. Juan loaded the spear and cranked the tubes back until the clasp attached to the spear’s shaft. He didn’t bother with the spear’s retractable line. If he ended up using it, he didn’t plan on reeling anything in.

He headed back up and saw that the Oceanaire was closing on them. He leaned the speargun against the bulkhead, out of sight but within easy reach.

“Max, why don’t you join Craig up on the bridge?” If things got hairy, Juan wanted Max ready to take the wheel. Max climbed up and stood next to the controls.

The Oceanaire slowed and turned so that it could come alongside. Less than a boat length separated it from the Cast Away. Both boats idled on the calm sea. Juan stood on the balls of his feet, his arms loose and unencumbered.

Four men were visible, two on the bridge deck and two on the aft fishing deck. While the one at the controls was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, the three others were oddly out of place in pants and light jackets, not the attire Juan would expect tourists to wear. All of them stared intently at the Cast Away, not a smile to be seen.

“Porter, what are you doing out here?” Reed shouted to him.

Colin Porter, Oceanaire’s owner, had to be the one in the T-shirt. He looked at the man next to him as if he were contemplating how to answer. A muscular guy with close-cropped hair and a military bearing, the man stood with a posture that conveyed his status as the person in command. He had angular cheekbones, a jaw carved from marble, and a glare that could freeze molten lava.

Who was he? Juan wondered. A local policeman? Someone in the Jamaican armed forces? Juan immediately discarded both those possibilities. Neither would use a radio jammer.

Before he could speculate further, the Oceanaire’s engine died. Porter yelled at the top of his lungs, “Reed, they’re going to kill you!” He reared back and threw what looked like a set of keys overboard.

The man next to Porter turned and without so much as a flinch shot him in the head with a pistol. Porter’s body tumbled over the railing and splashed into the water.

While he was shooting the boat’s captain, his men snatched assault rifles from their hiding places in front of them and brought them to bear on the Cast Away.

At the same time, Juan grabbed the speargun and aimed it at the closest gunman. They all fired simultaneously.

The spear struck the aftmost gunman in the center of the chest, caus

ing him to fall backward as his weapon spewed bullets into the air over Juan’s head.

The gunman next to him was aiming at the bridge. As Juan dived for cover, he could see Max shove the throttle forward. The sudden movement saved Reed’s life. A round hit him near the shoulder instead of in the chest. The remaining bullets stitched their way across the ceiling of the bridge.

They kept their heads down as more rounds raked the Cast Away’s hull. In less than a minute, they were out of range and the shooting ceased. The Oceanaire was dead in the water behind them.

Juan scrambled up to the bridge and found Max putting pressure on Reed’s shoulder with a rag that was already soaked with blood. Juan took over so that Max could pilot the boat.

Reed was awake and alert. His shoulder was a crimson mess. He didn’t seem to be in shock. Probably had been through more dire situations as a firefighter.

Juan inspected the damage. Reed winced but didn’t complain.

“No exit wound, and the bullet seems to have missed any arteries,” Juan said. “You got lucky.”