Chapter 36
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North of Havana
The boat had been running for just under two hours when the first drops fell.
Flint stood near the stern. He watched the dark horizon, one hand resting lightly on the salt-crusted railing for balance.
The deck vibrated beneath his boots from the steady thrum of the diesel engine pushing them northward into open water.
Behind them, Cuba was long gone. Nothing remained visible but dark sea and black sky.
He checked his watch. Just past 4 a.m.
The rain started light. A few cold drops tapped against the canvas above his head. Then more. Within minutes, it was falling steadily. The wind picked up, not fierce yet, but restless. The kind that made experienced sailors secure loose gear and check safety lines.
He crossed to the wheelhouse where Drake stood beside the weathered captain studying the radar screen. The captain’s beard was streaked with gray and white, matted with salt spray. Deep lines carved his face from decades of squinting into ocean glare.
“We’ve got a front building from the southeast,” Drake said. He kept his eyes on the screen. “Pressure’s dropping fast.”
“How fast?”
Drake’s expression said they were in serious trouble.
Flint nodded and stepped back into the weather.
Lizzy sat curled on the bench under the canopy. Her knees were drawn to her chest, soaked through from spray and rain. She didn’t flinch when he approached.
“We’ll be out of this soon,” he said.
“Sure,” she replied flatly. Lizzy Pace had come full circle. She was no longer a sixteen-year-old girl thrust into a tough situation she couldn’t control.
Flint crouched beside her. Her eyes were red rimmed from exhaustion and strain, but still alert.
“You know, back at the Fisher house, you could’ve gone back,” he said. “You got the kids out. The investigation ended. Nobody knew what happened to you and the kids. So why not lay low for a couple of years and then bring the kids back?”
She didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the rain sliding off the canopy in wide silver streams.
“If I’d come back, they’d have taken the kids from me,” she said finally. “I had no legal rights. No proof of anything. I crossed state lines with three children and a fake name. Best case, that’s several felonies, even if I was trying to protect them.”
“You didn’t think you could fight that?”
“Against who?” she said. “The Fishers? The state? Cole? I didn’t know who helped start the fire or who was covering it up. And if Cole ever found out we were alive, he’d have finished the job.”
Her voice was flat, unemotional. She recited the facts like items from a grocery list.
Flint studied her face. That wasn’t the full story. Maybe not even half. Her answers came too smoothly, like lines from a script she’d rehearsed and replayed for years.
Maybe true. Maybe not. Either way, she seemed to believe what she said.
That made her desperate. Or dangerous. Possibly both.
Before he could press further, Drake’s voice cut through the rain.
“Flint!”
He stood and moved toward the bow. Drake pointed portside toward lights on the horizon. Low. Fast. Closing the gap.
“Friendlies?” Drake asked.
“Doubtful.” Flint grabbed the binoculars and focused on the approaching vessel.
No running lights. No flag. Just a long, narrow hull and an engine that growled like it wasn’t built for fishing. The boat rode low in the water, built for speed rather than cargo.
“They’ve been tailing us since we left the Cuban coast,” Drake said. “Pacing just outside radar range. I clocked them twice, both times same bearing.”
Flint turned and ducked into the wheelhouse. He pulled the sat phone from its waterproof pouch and dialed Gaspar’s number.
“You’re up early,” Gaspar answered.
“Fishing trip’s not going so well. Weather turned bad and we’ve got company.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that we need a ride home. Soon.”
Gaspar was quiet for a moment. “Where are you fishing?”
Flint checked the GPS. “About sixty miles south of Key West.”
“Got it. Let me make a call. Stay on this line.”
The phone went quiet for two minutes. Then Gaspar was back. “Your ride’s coming. Look west. Few minutes out.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Literally.”
He stowed the phone and stepped back onto the deck. The captain was lashing a coil of line to the cleat near the rail. Flint crossed to him.
“You should come with us,” Flint said, raising his voice over the wind. “Storm’s getting worse. That other boat might not be friendly.”
The captain shook his head. “This old girl’s been through worse. I’m not leaving her.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. She’s mine. Besides, they’ll be after you, not me. I stay off their radar.”
Flint hesitated. “You get into trouble, you’ve got Gaspar’s frequency.”
“I know where to hide if I need to.”
They locked eyes for a moment. The captain gave a tight nod, then turned back to securing the deck.
The wind had shifted again. It sliced sideways now with real force, carrying salt spray that stung his face. The boat climbed one wave and slapped down the other side with bone-jarring impact. Rain hammered the cabin roof like machine gun fire. Lizzy gripped the rail. Her knuckles were white.
“Hold on,” Flint said. “We’re not out of it yet.”
Lightning split the sky. For an instant, everything was bright as noon. Drake on the bow, the boat lurching, the dark water boiling in every direction. Then darkness slammed down like putting a lid on a flame.
Thunder cracked overhead. Close and deep. The kind that punched the ground and left bystanders dead.
The helicopter materialized out of the storm almost like magic. Low, black, riding the wind currents. As it came closer, rotor wash hit the boat like a physical blow, driving salt spray across the deck in stinging sheets.
The aircraft hovered twenty feet above the deck. Pontoons skimmed the wave crests. The open bay door swung wide, revealing the red-lit interior and a co-pilot in tactical gear.
Ropes dropped. They whipped in the wind like angry snakes.
Drake moved first. He grabbed Lizzy around the waist and half-carried her toward the stern. She stumbled once and nearly went down on the slick deck. Flint caught her by the elbow and steadied her.
“Look at me,” he raised his voice to be heard over the rotor noise. “We’re getting on that bird.”
Her eyes were wide with terror.
The pilot fought to hold position as the waves bucked below. The helicopter rose and fell with each swell, pontoons lifting clear of the water, then slamming back down.
Drake boosted Lizzy onto the skid. She scrambled up, her soaked sneakers slipping against the slick metal. Wind howled around her, whipping the rain sideways like needles.
She dropped to her knees, clutching the cold steel bar with both hands, locking her fingers as if they were glued to the steel. Terror etched deep lines across her pale face. Her hair, drenched and heavy, clung to her scalp like a dark helmet, plastered flat by the storm.
But she held on. Every muscle in her body trembled as she crouched on the narrow ledge, the black void of the sea yawning just inches below.
Flint stepped up behind her. He hooked her arm and hauled. She came up with a gasping cry, soaking wet and shaking.
Drake’s boot slipped on the wet skid. He pitched sideways toward the churning water.
Flint lunged forward, caught Drake by the collar, and pulled him bodily into the helicopter.
Before he jumped into the helo, Flint glanced back at the deck. The captain stood near the wheelhouse, a hand braced against the swaying frame.
Flint shouted over the storm and the rotor noise, “You sure you won’t come?”
The captain’s reply was steady, shouted back through the wind: “She’s my boat. I ride her out.”
Flint gave him a final nod, the kind men exchanged when there was nothing more to say.
The boat dropped beneath them, disappearing into a wave trough.
Flint didn’t wait for an invitation. He turned and leapt.
For half a second, there was nothing but air and motion and the deafening roar of rotors. Wind tried to tear him sideways. Then the steel slammed into his boots, and he scrambled inside the cabin.
The pilot peeled away hard, angling the aircraft westward, rotors screaming against the storm.
Below them, the boat vanished into the gray.
Flint lay flat on the cabin floor. Water dripped from his clothes onto the non-slip decking. He struggled to breathe.
Lizzy was pressed into the corner, curled tight, shaking. Her eyes were squeezed shut.
Drake leaned back against the bulkhead. Blood leaked from his knuckles where he’d scraped them on the helicopter’s frame.
No one spoke.
The co-pilot handed out towels and bottled water. He checked each of them for injuries and found nothing requiring immediate medical attention.
Above them, the helicopter climbed into the dark, carrying them away from Cuba and toward whatever came next.