Douglas Preston - Impact

As the boat moved from the protection of the Muscle Ridge Islands into the exposed seas of Penobscot Bay, Burr found himself struggling with the wheel. One massive swell after the other marched toward him out of the darkness, each one honeycombed with foam and chop, lashed by sheets of rain. He turned on the spotlight mounted on the hardtop and swiveled it around, peering into the stormy murk. The beam illuminated mountains upon mountains of water as far as the beam could reach. It frightened him.

This was crazy. Maybe he didn't need to do anything--they'd probably sink on their own and solve his problem for him. But there was no guarantee of that and God knows what they would say to the Coast Guard in the meantime. They might have an emergency radio beacon on board--his boat did--which would go off automatically even if they didn't call the Coast Guard. No, he could not take the chance--not even the slightest--that they would survive to tell their tale. All three had to die. And the storm provided cover.

The radar screen was awash with static return from the rain, high seas, and blowing spume. He fiddled with gain but the radar was useless. The GPS put his speed at six knots and at least the chartplotter was working perfectly. He edged the throttle up to eight knots, the boat bucking and kicking through the sea, rising precipitously on each wave, ploughing through the foaming crest, and then dropping with a sickening falloff, almost as if going over a waterfall. He clung to the wheel, trying to keep his balance and keep the bow headed right, when all the forces in the world seemed to want to shove the boat sideways to the terrifying sea. As if to underscore his fright, a comber broke over the bow, green water racing along the gunwales, slopping into the cockpit and boiling out the scuppers. Losing his nerve, Harry eased his speed back down to six knots. The girl wasn't going anywhere--and the father was his ace in the hole. The bitch would never abandon her father.

He considered the possibility that this might be some kind of ruse, an attempt to lure him out into the open ocean where the storm would sink him. But surely that wasn't her plan: he had her father on board. Beyond that, he had the bigger, more seaworthy vessel. If anyone would sink, it would be them.

Did they plan to ambush him? Maybe. If so, that was the stupidest plan of all. He had a gun and he had the father shackled to a rail, the key in his pocket. Did they plan to lure him onto the rocks? Not with the state-of-the art GPS and chartplotter he had on board.

No, Harry Burr figured they were probably telling the truth about their fuel problem. They were so freaked out that they were willing to believe his lame promises. He had run no less than five loads through the Desert Eagle, thirty .44 mag rounds in all, and it seemed quite possible that at least one would have damaged the fuel system. Devil's Limb was on the way to Rockland, and it also made sense that getting around the Nubble into Owls Head would be way too dangerous in this sea. Everything they said held up.

Hanging onto the wheel with one hand, he took the four empty magazines and laid them out on the dashboard, next to a box of rounds. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he awkwardly thumbed the bullets into each magazine until all were filled. He slipped the heavy magazines into his pants pockets, two on each side. There would be no dicking around here. His plan was simple: kill them, sink their boat, and run for Rockland Harbor. There he would tie the boat up and walk away. Nothing was in his name; Straw had rented the boat by himself and picked him up in another location later, in a nearly deserted cove up the coast. Nobody even knew he was on board. Sure, in a few days or weeks they might find Straw's fish-eaten corpse with a bullet through the brain, but by then he'd be long gone. And he'd make sure Straw received a proper sea burial, with plenty of anchor chain and rope to keep him down.

As for the girls, well, he'd give them a similar burial, and sink their boat as well.

It was probably too late to get the hard drive and make his two hundred grand, at least on this go-around. But it was never too late to clean up--nor was cleanup optional. He felt the anger boiling up again and he tried to keep a lid on it. All in a day's work , he said to himself. Win some , lose some. This wasn't the first job he'd failed, and it wouldn't be the last. Take care of loose ends and you'll live for the next job.

He fished the cigarettes out of his pocket and realized they were, of course, soaked. The boat bucked over a wave and dropped down the other side, the engine roaring, and he grabbed the wheel and held on. Jesus Christ, he'd be glad when those three sons of bitches were at the bottom of the Atlantic.

79

As the Marea II moved farther out into the open ocean, the wind increased to a roar and the seas rose up in monstrous hills and valleys, the foaming crests of the combers like dim gray ridges coming at them. Abbey let Jackie remain at the wheel, grateful for her seamanship. Jackie had a trick of riding up each wave at a thirty-degree angle, gradually increasing speed, and giving the boat a turn and a goose to bust through the breaking water on top, then throttling down as they sank into the trough. It scared the hell out of her but Jackie seemed to pull it off, again and again.

"Oh shit," said Jackie, peering ahead. A line of white came rumbling toward them, higher than the others, so high it looked like something detached from the sea, a freakish low cloud. The boat sank down into the preceding trough with stomach-churning speed, falling into an eerie silence as they entered the lee of the approaching wave. Then the boat began to rise, tipping up as the face of the wave loomed above them, striped with foam.

"Ease off!" Abbey cried, losing her nerve.

Jackie ignored her, pushing the rpms up to three thousand, turning the boat more diagonally to the wave as it surged up the face. The comber suddenly appeared above them, hissing loudly, a tumbling wall of water, and the boat's prow slammed into it as Jackie gave the wheel a sudden turn. Seawater broke over the bow with a roar and raced across the deck, slamming into the pilothouse windows and jetting off into space; the boat gave a shudder, hesitated as if about to be pushed under, and broke free with a roar, tipping forward and suddenly descending. Jackie instantly throttled back almost to idle and let gravity take the boat down into the next trough.

"There's another ahead," said Abbey. "Even bigger."

"I see it," murmured Jackie. She gunned the engine and climbed the face, busting through the breaking top, the entire boat groaning from the stress, before sinking back down. They fought through the massive series of waves, one after another, mountains of water on a march to nowhere. Each time Abbey felt sure they were going under; but each time the boat shed the water and righted before plunging down to start the terrifying process all over again.

"Jesus, you learn that working on your dad's boat?"

"We used to fish beyond Monhegan in the winter. Got caught in a few northeasters, no big deal."

She was trying to keep her voice steady but Abbey wasn't fooled. She thought of her own, overprotective father, who had never let her drive his boat. She felt sick with fear for him, shackled to the rail, out in this sea with that maniac. Her plan was crazy, in fact it wasn't even a plan. Surrender? And then what? Of course he would kill them all. That was his intention. What was she thinking, that she could talk him out of it? Should she make an emergency call to the Coast Guard? He'd hear it and kill her father if she did that. And even if he didn't, the Coast Guard would never go out in this weather.

She had to think of something.