Free Caribbean's Keeper by Brian; Boland

nowhere. They talked to each other softly, some holding hands, and seemed to reassure each other that things were going well. There were two men, but the rest were women and two appeared to be teenage girls. After the last one was onboard and down below, Kevin jumped back to the wheel and reversed out. The motors churned up an immense cloud of sand and the water was clear enough that Cole could see it under the moonlight. Not good for an engine , Cole thought.
    “Drive it like you stole it, huh?” Cole was looking at Kevin as he said it.
    Kevin grinned.
    They backtracked out of the bay the same way they’d entered. Kevin was cautious around the coral heads as a hole in the hull this far from home could spell disaster, and both knew Cuban prison was no fun. After clearing the bay and pointing due north, Kevin opened up the throttles again and the Grady-White surged up and into a rhythmic plane as they screamed back to the north. Cole looked at his watch and saw it was after one in the morning. With the added weight below, they were making 25 knots over the ground. Kevin explained that they wouldn’t stop on the way back like they had heading south, because if they were stopped now, they’d be screwed. This was simply a mad dash. On the trip south, they could have always claimed stupidity or error as their reason for heading into the Florida Straits in the middle of the night. But with eight illegal migrants in the cabin, there was no bullshitting their way out of this one.
    Cole knew that many smugglers would find themselves the subject of hot pursuit as they neared the Florida coast. Customs, Coast Guard, local police, even Florida Wildlife Conservation officers often joined the chase to catch smugglers and defend the integrity of the U.S. border. Cole had been on more than a few chases himself and knew that more than half of the migrants made it to dry land, meeting the “Wet Foot/Dry Foot” policy of the United States. If a Cuban touched dry land, he or she was welcome to stay. That was the goal, and it didn’t matter if they were in handcuffs ten seconds after setting foot on solid ground. They just needed to touch sacred American soil.
    Cole also knew that many made it to the coast without ever being detected. Planes, helicopters, ships, and boats patrolled the waters every day and night, but it was a vast expanse to cover and smugglers knew their routes well. Their chance of success was quite good, or else they wouldn’t bother with the risks. The Cubans who built homemade rafts and attempted to paddle their way north with a trash bag full of their worldly possessions were the unfortunate ones who often died of dehydration or found themselves caught in the Gulf Stream, unwillingly pushed east, then north and into the Atlantic. Cole had seen every stage of death as a boarding officer. He’d carried men and women reduced to skin and bones, many too weak to even stand. In some ways, he knew more than he realized about the eight souls in the cabin below.
    g
    In all likelihood these migrants onboard the Grady-White were well connected in Florida. Someone, maybe a dad or an uncle, had found their fortune in America and paid a hefty sum to give their family the best shot at reaching Florida. The Cubans who took to rafts and paddled the 90 miles were the most desperate. The eight below were fortunate, and they knew it. Cole looked down at them from time to time and saw the fear of uncertainty on their faces as they were jolted back and forth by the boat as she screamed north.
    He smiled at one lady who kept staring at him and gave her a thumbs up. “Bueno.”
    She relaxed a bit, but kept an eye on Cole, looking for the first signs of trouble as they edged closer to Florida. Two hours went by at full speed. Cole scanned the horizon and then the fuel meter on Kevin’s console. They had a quarter tank left. Kevin exchanged a look with Cole and then back down at his GPS.
    “Thirty minutes, bro.”
    It was now four in the