I suspect that some of our world has.”
“Yes, I think you’re right,” she said, turning to look at him. For a moment their eyes locked, and in that split second, like the instantaneous green flash that sometimes seen with the setting of the sun over water, something passed between them. Christina broke the gaze, turning back to the silver shoals of baitfish. “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
Moments later, Jan came through the hatch. “Sensei wants to see you down below—something about our course. I’ll take the wheel for a while. I promise not to get too far off.”
Travis found the sensei at the chart table. As he approached, the Japanese turned and bowed ever so slightly. The American returned the bow. It was a courtesy to the man, he told himself. But quite frankly, it just seemed like the right thing to do around him.
The sensei grinned with that half smile of his. “If I had time, I could make you a good Japanese.”
“I’m barely managing to be a good American. Don’t confuse me.”
The sensei gestured to the chart. “Come, let me show you where I believe we are. I estimate us to be here, forty miles south-southwest of Miami.”
“Okay,” Travis said. “I think you’re right about that. Now what do we do? With the water depth we’re anticipating, we could practically sail into downtown Miami.”
The older man frowned and started to speak. Travis raised his hand and stopped him. “I’m only kidding. That would be like trying to sail the Bahamas without charts. We’d lose the bottom of our boat on the roof of somebody’s house.”
The sensei nodded. “There are a number of things to be considered—” Shouts from the deck interrupted him.
As Travis reached the deck, he saw the focus of the commotion. A sailboat floated perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Jan set a course for it while Travis prepared to board. As they neared the boat, they could see it was sinking, but not from damage by nature alone—along the water line were two neat rows of holes. Travis had seen that many times in Vietnam—automatic rifle fire. The breaches in the hull and the shattered portholes indicated some sort of firefight. Who , thought Travis, as they slid up beside the craft, and why?
Before boarding the other boat, Travis went back down to his cabin and pulled out the nine-millimeter pistol from under his mattress. He checked the magazine, shoved it back in with a satisfying snap, put the gun in his belt at the small of his back, and went topside.
“Everybody hold tight,” he said to the excited group as he came out. “I’m going over and check it out. Everyone else stays right here.” Before anyone could argue, he moved to the rail and jumped across to the other boat. His sense of self-preservation was jammed into high gear when he got to the cockpit and saw all the blood: The Fiberglass siding was splashed dark red; there was a quarter-inch of dried, black blood on the floor.
He pulled the gun from his back and chambered a shell, with a “watch your ass” feeling crawling all over his spine like sugar ants on an Eskimo Pie. The semidried blood squished and stuck to his shoes as he moved across the cockpit to the hatch doors. He kept his attention on the cabin and did his best to keep his breakfast where it belonged.
The first thing he saw when he opened the hatch was the woman. Her head was leaning back against the stairs that led down to the interior of the cabin, looking up at him—eyes filled with the shock of death. She’d been tied spread-eagle to the base of the stairs. Whoever killed her had used her first, and they’d taken their time on both counts. Travis stepped over the woman, into the dim room. It appeared that the boat had been badly buffeted by the wave, but it had also been thoroughly ransacked, and gutted of anything valuable. He moved slowly, cautiously, working his way forward. In the front berth, he found a man lying on a blood-covered bed, his hands tied behind his
“Yes, I think you’re right,” she said, turning to look at him. For a moment their eyes locked, and in that split second, like the instantaneous green flash that sometimes seen with the setting of the sun over water, something passed between them. Christina broke the gaze, turning back to the silver shoals of baitfish. “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
Moments later, Jan came through the hatch. “Sensei wants to see you down below—something about our course. I’ll take the wheel for a while. I promise not to get too far off.”
Travis found the sensei at the chart table. As he approached, the Japanese turned and bowed ever so slightly. The American returned the bow. It was a courtesy to the man, he told himself. But quite frankly, it just seemed like the right thing to do around him.
The sensei grinned with that half smile of his. “If I had time, I could make you a good Japanese.”
“I’m barely managing to be a good American. Don’t confuse me.”
The sensei gestured to the chart. “Come, let me show you where I believe we are. I estimate us to be here, forty miles south-southwest of Miami.”
“Okay,” Travis said. “I think you’re right about that. Now what do we do? With the water depth we’re anticipating, we could practically sail into downtown Miami.”
The older man frowned and started to speak. Travis raised his hand and stopped him. “I’m only kidding. That would be like trying to sail the Bahamas without charts. We’d lose the bottom of our boat on the roof of somebody’s house.”
The sensei nodded. “There are a number of things to be considered—” Shouts from the deck interrupted him.
As Travis reached the deck, he saw the focus of the commotion. A sailboat floated perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Jan set a course for it while Travis prepared to board. As they neared the boat, they could see it was sinking, but not from damage by nature alone—along the water line were two neat rows of holes. Travis had seen that many times in Vietnam—automatic rifle fire. The breaches in the hull and the shattered portholes indicated some sort of firefight. Who , thought Travis, as they slid up beside the craft, and why?
Before boarding the other boat, Travis went back down to his cabin and pulled out the nine-millimeter pistol from under his mattress. He checked the magazine, shoved it back in with a satisfying snap, put the gun in his belt at the small of his back, and went topside.
“Everybody hold tight,” he said to the excited group as he came out. “I’m going over and check it out. Everyone else stays right here.” Before anyone could argue, he moved to the rail and jumped across to the other boat. His sense of self-preservation was jammed into high gear when he got to the cockpit and saw all the blood: The Fiberglass siding was splashed dark red; there was a quarter-inch of dried, black blood on the floor.
He pulled the gun from his back and chambered a shell, with a “watch your ass” feeling crawling all over his spine like sugar ants on an Eskimo Pie. The semidried blood squished and stuck to his shoes as he moved across the cockpit to the hatch doors. He kept his attention on the cabin and did his best to keep his breakfast where it belonged.
The first thing he saw when he opened the hatch was the woman. Her head was leaning back against the stairs that led down to the interior of the cabin, looking up at him—eyes filled with the shock of death. She’d been tied spread-eagle to the base of the stairs. Whoever killed her had used her first, and they’d taken their time on both counts. Travis stepped over the woman, into the dim room. It appeared that the boat had been badly buffeted by the wave, but it had also been thoroughly ransacked, and gutted of anything valuable. He moved slowly, cautiously, working his way forward. In the front berth, he found a man lying on a blood-covered bed, his hands tied behind his
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