Free Cuban Death-Lift by Randy Striker Page A

God,” she said. “Oh my God. . . .”
    It was what the reporters would probably call an appalling sight.
    And they would have been right. His face was contorted, locked in the horror of his final conflict: teeth bared, eyes wide, wolflike. Quickly, I moved the woman away from the body, over by the built-in couch.
    â€œIt’s awful,” she said. Her hands still covered her mouth.
    â€œFeel like you’re going to be sick?”
    She shook her head and braced one elbow on the box of ship’s hardware that had never quite made it to the Mako. “No,” she said. “I’ll be okay. Just give me a second.”
    With my foot, I rolled the corpse over. It was already bloated, spongy.
    I was looking for a bullet wound, but found none.
    It didn’t make sense. Why had the black man slit the throat of his own partner?
    Or maybe it wasn’t his partner. Maybe it was the guy who had owned the boat. And maybe some drug runners had gotten to him first. . . .
    I opened the narrow compartment below the wheel where the ship’s papers should have been kept.
    Empty.
    Somebody had beat me to them.
    I decided to check the skiff.
    I took the woman gently by the arm. “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “This boat isn’t going to last much longer. One good wave and she’ll turn turtle.”
    She seemed to be still in a daze. Shooting the pirate hadn’t seemed to bother her. But the way this guy died, it even made me a little queasy myself.
    â€œLet’s go,” I said again. “We’ll cut the Mako loose and call the Coast Guard—”
    The moment I said it, the couch seat I had not gotten around to checking came flying off. It knocked me back against the wall and, in slow-motion realization, I knew what was happening. The pirate’s partner was hiding in there, hoping to hell we’d just leave. But I had forced his hand—said I wanted to free the Mako, his only means of escape from this sinking boat.
    I didn’t see him or his pistol, but I heard the first shot—and saw the woman drop to a heap on the water-slick floor.
    â€œHold it right there, or I’ll kill you, too!”
    High voice, on the edge of hysterics. It was a kid. Not much older than twenty. Blond hair, tan face with a sneer that showed a row of bad teeth. When your life is on the line, you don’t take time to reason. The instincts take over and the brain digests visual information at near superhuman speed all in a glance: Androsa Santarun was not dead—slightest movement of chest, no blood; the kid wasn’t comfortable with a weapon—held it awkwardly, like a snake; whether I halted or not, the kid would kill us both. He had to.
    I tossed the couch seat at him and dove for his feet, hearing, as I dove, the pistol explode and the crash of window glass. I jerked his feet out from under him and tried to smother his arms.
    Didn’t do a very good job. He got another shot off, right by my face. It made my ears ring and my head roar. But it missed.
    â€œWatch out!”
    It was the woman, on her feet again. There was a thin trickle of blood down her left cheek. She had recovered her .38 and had it leveled at the kid’s head.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?”
    I saw her pull back the hammer, a strange, starry look in her eyes. But before she had a chance to fire, I hit the kid’s blanched face with a heavy overhand right, knocking him cold.
    I stood up, pointing at him. “There you go—an easy shot. Go ahead and shoot if you want to kill someone else so bad!”
    She lowered the handgun slowly, trembling.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “I just . . . just . . .”
    I took her by the arm and steered her back out onto the deck.
    â€œDo you know how to use a radio?”
    She nodded.
    â€œGood. I’m going to tie up the kid and stick him and the other guy in the Mako. You call the Coast Guard. Don’t