Piranha (Oregon Files 10)
With the knife, Juan hacked the three elastic rubber tubes from each side of the speargun and tied them together to make a pair of longer tubes. With a screwdriver from the tool kit, he rapidly detached the back of the rotating fishing chair and dropped it on the deck. He tied each tube to one of the chair’s metal armrests. He lashed the other ends of the tubes to the leather fighting belt, which he could fold together to form a perfect pocket for gripping a beer bottle.
His slingshot was ready. And because the chair rotated, he’d be able to aim anywhere in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. Now he could fire the Molotov cocktails without raising his head more than a few inches above the transom.
Of course, that assumed the thing actually worked. Only one way to find out, but he couldn’t give away his element of surprise.
Juan sneaked back up to the bridge.
“Max, I want you to turn around.”
Max was incredulous. “I’m sorry. I thought I just heard you say that you want me to turn around.”
“Running away only delays the inevitable. I’ve got a little surprise for those pirates. Molotov cocktails, and I’m ready to launch them.”
“That means we have to get them in close.”
Juan nodded. “I’d say no more than fifty yards.”
“Oh, good. I thought you were going to make this hard.”
“I know you like a challenge.” Juan went back down to the aft deck as Max brought the Cast Away about.
Juan would have two minutes at most before they were within range. He loaded an unopened beer bottle into the pocket of his slin
gshot and pulled it back until the rubber wouldn’t go any tighter without breaking. The well-oiled chair rotated easily when he moved the pocket back and forth.
With the Oceanaire directly in front of them, it was unlikely their attackers would be able to see what Juan was doing. He took aim on a mountain peeking over the horizon, held his breath, and released the slingshot.
The beer bottle rocketed away from the boat with a twang of the rubber tubing. It flew in a graceful arc and landed in their wake over sixty yards away. Juan practiced twice more until he had the hang of it. Now he needed a real target.
“Get ready!” Max shouted.
“Stay low!” Juan replied.
He pressed himself against the bulkhead and lit the first Molotov cocktail as the Cast Away slewed around in another half circle. The gunman on the deck was already firing his rifle in the careful three-shot bursts of a trained soldier rather than unloading his magazine on auto. Bullets peppered the bridge, his primary target.
The Oceanaire swung around on a pursuit course. When it was directly behind them, Juan placed the flaming bottle in the pocket and drew it back. He aimed and let go.
The bottle soared into the air, but he immediately saw that he hadn’t compensated enough for the speed of the boat following them. The Molotov cocktail flew over the Oceanaire and landed harmlessly astern.
Juan lit another and lowered his aim. The gunman, realizing that he now had a more important target than the bridge, adjusted his fire to just above the transom. If the water had been smoother, he might have been able to hit Juan more easily, but the small waves made his rounds impact the bulkhead above Juan’s head.
Juan loosed the second cocktail and this time his aim was too low. The bottle smashed into the prow of the Oceanaire above the waterline, but the flames were doused by the spray of water.
Either the driver of the Oceanaire didn’t see the Molotov cocktails or he didn’t care because he kept coming without deviating from his course. Juan had only two bombs left.
He lit the third and loaded it into the slingshot. This time, he took the risk of putting his head up higher to improve his aim. He released the bottle as bullets zinged past his head.
Both Juan and the gunman knew it would hit as soon as he let it go. The man got to his feet to dodge the tumbling bottle, but he was too late. It smashed into the deck a foot in front of him, splashing him and the boat with the flaming jelly mixture.
An inferno engulfed the gunman. His screams echoed across the water as he danced in agony. For a moment, Juan thought the man would ease his suffering by jumping into the water, but a single shot came from the Oceanaire. The burning gunman slumped to the deck, put out of his misery by the boat’s driver.
Juan readied the final bottle, but he wouldn’t be needing it. The hijacker must have realized the odds were now even instead of in his favor. The Oceanaire veered away and made a beeline for the closest beach. He’d be lucky to make it to shore before he could put the fire out or the boat sank.
The Cast Away wasn’t in shape for much more of a fight anyway. The engine was sputtering in fits and starts. A few of the rounds must have penetrated the hull and damaged the engines or nicked a fuel line. They’d be lucky to limp back into Montego Bay themselves.
Juan climbed back up to the bridge.
“Nice shootin’, pardner,” Max said.