Kill Zone by Loren D. Estleman

clearly chafed, and Cap’n Eddie feared the inevitable blow-up.
    â€œI always had the impression the captain ran this tub,” Don said, breaking the reverie. “You’ve got a man on the wheel, a man to look out, and another man to look out for what the lookout missed. What do you do, just stand around waiting for someone to say ‘Ahoy, the white whale’?”
    His tone was bantering, with no animosity in it. The old sailor answered without rancor. “When there’s a big blow or a pleasure craft coming the wrong way downriver, eight men up here wouldn’t be too much.”
    â€œYeah, someone has to blow the whistle.”
    â€œCaptain Fielding is the best skipper on the river,” Holliday snapped.
    Don crinkled his eyes at Cap’n Eddie. “Kind of like having the best-looking legs on a girls’ Olympic weightlifting team, huh, Popeye?”
    â€œIt’s been claimed that if you can navigate the Detroit River, you can sail any body of water in the world,” said the old man.
    â€œIt isn’t like waving a pistol around and saying stick ’em up.”
    Lazily the armed man turned his attention to the first mate. “We don’t need you, Wyatt. We’ve got a lookout and Barney Fyfe here to look out for the lookout.” He inclined his head toward the young security guard seated glumly on the turning stool near the starboard hatch.
    â€œI might not be as easy to hit as a fat bass player.”
    â€œPhil, for Christ’s sake!” the captain exclaimed.
    â€œYou tell him, Popeye. Old Wyatt’s quick on the draw for someone with dust in his holster.”
    The captain changed the subject. “Why do you call him Wyatt?”
    â€œâ€™Cause his name’s Holliday but he looks more like Earp.”
    â€œI guess he does at that, with that handlebar.” Cap’n Eddie kept his tone light. “But maybe not as much as you look like Wild Bill Hickok.”
    He had struck the right chord. Don smiled slowly behind his own moustache. “You won’t find my back to any doors on this bucket, old man.”
    â€œThese bulkheads weren’t built to stand up to Coast Guard bullets,” put in Holliday.
    Don said, “They’ll have to find us first.”
    The fog had remained uniformly dense all day, as if the boat were towing its own cloud. Once they had heard the beating of helicopter blades overhead, but the noise hadn’t returned and Don supposed that if it was a Coast Guard craft they were waiting for the curtain to lift before searching in earnest.
    Holliday said, “This soup can’t last forever. What are you going to do when the wind comes up and takes it away?”
    â€œThat’s up to the Governor.”
    Cap’n Eddie adjusted the hearing aid attached to his glasses. Moist air was hard on the transistor. “Do you really believe the Governor will release those prisoners?”
    â€œYou better hope so, Popeye.” Don lifted and resettled the Luger under his belt. “You better get down on your knees and pray to King Neptune he does just that.”
    The security guard stood up suddenly. The gun leaped into Don’s hand. “What’s wrong, Barney, you got a bite?”
    â€œI have to go to the bathroom.”
    â€œHead,” Holliday corrected automatically.
    â€œHead, whatever. I have to go.”
    â€œSo go.”
    The guard edged past Cap’n Eddie and descended the short flight of steps to the captain’s quarters above the crown deck.
    That had been the most complicated part of Siegfried’s plans, seeing to the functional needs of the passengers and crew. There was a head for the captain and one for the crew and two on the dance deck for the passengers, and after they had been searched for weapons the hostages were allowed to visit them two or three at a time. The two-man teams on each of the three main decks took turns relieving themselves and watching