Free The Night Charter by Sam Hawken Page B

into silence.
    On the deck of the Cuban boat there were three men. They cast over lines, and Camaro climbed down to help them lash the vessels together. Not a word was spoken.
    A fourth man appeared from inside the cabin. It was difficult to tell the figures apart in so much shadow, but finally one switched on a flashlight and pointed it at the deck. In the reflected light she saw them. Two were young and two were much older. The first three were dressed in ratty shorts and worn T-shirts, but the fourth man wore an ironed short-sleeved shirt, slacks, and boat shoes.
    “Señor Chapado?” Matt asked. Pieces of the quiet crashed to the water around them.
    “ Sí . You are Señor Clifford?”
    “That’s right. Come on aboard, sir.”
    Soto helped the man named Chapado navigate the gap between boats. Chapado thanked Soto and then brushed at his shirt as if the exertion had dirtied him. He looked around at all the faces on the deck. “Who is the captain?” he asked.
    “I’m the captain,” Camaro said.
    “Señorita, gracias . You are doing a brave thing.”
    “We shouldn’t stay long,” Camaro said.
    “I agree.” He turned to the Cubans. “Es hora de irse, mis amigos.”
    “Vaya con Dios, Señor Chapado,” said one.
    “Gracias. Adiós.”
    Camaro cast off the lines that held both boats together. “There are places to sit or sleep in the cabin,” she told Chapado. “There’s water in the refrigerator. It’s a long way back to Miami.”
    Chapado moved to take her hand, but she stepped away from him. She could not read his expression in the dark. “My gratitude, señorita. Thank you again.”
    “Thank me when it’s over,” Camaro said.
    The Cubans started their boat, and they churned water as they gently pulled away. Camaro climbed to the flybridge and pressed the ignition, stirring the Annabel to life. Down below she heard Chapado enter the cabin. He would find it cooler there and the ride more comfortable. Maybe Matt would offer the man one of his beers.
    She touched the throttle and turned the wheel to bring the boat about. On the radar, the Cubans’ vessel was headed away, faster going back than coming in. Camaro found her heading and eased the throttle higher.

Chapter Nineteen
    S HE DROVE THE boat on through the rest of the night, until the sky began to pink with predawn. The hour and the sameness of the invisible horizon served to blend the minutes together, and Camaro did not realize at first that a new vessel had appeared on her radar. She cursed herself and throttled down instinctively. The vessel was headed their way without deviation. They were less than twenty minutes apart.
    Parker was on the deck. “What’s wrong?” he called up. “Why are we slowing down?”
    “Someone’s coming,” Camaro said.
    “Who?”
    “I won’t know until they’re here,” Camaro said. “Get everybody out on deck. Bait your lines and get them in the water.”
    “Chapado, too?”
    “Him, too. Everybody.”
    Parker rushed to do her bidding. Camaro throttled down still further until they were almost drifting. They were some twenty-two miles offshore and fully in the grip of the Gulf Stream. Finally, she killed the engine altogether. Matt and the rest bustled on the aft deck as she switched on all the lights.
    “What’s going on?” Matt asked.
    “We’ve been spotted. Someone’s closing in on us.”
    “Can you outrun them?”
    “If it’s one of the Border Patrol’s fast boats we’ll never make it,” Camaro said. “I need everybody fishing right now. We’ve been fishing all night. You understand?”
    He did not answer her, but set about fetching his rod. Camaro directed them to the bait box, then came down to be sure they were doing it right. Chapado seemed confused by the borrowed rod and dropped his bait three times. She wanted to shout at him.
    The sun was rising when she saw the Coast Guard vessel. It was an interceptor, coming in at about thirty-six feet and moving fast, cutting the water