Pilot Error (23 page)

Jaw clenched so tight it hurt, Micki watched the pair of red-hulled speedboats close in like circling sharks. Now that she and Luke had ceased trying to escape, they didn't seem in much of a hurry to finish the job, just easing in slowly and carefully as if they were waiting for something. Looking up at the sound of another high speed engine, she realized that the 'something' was a third speedboat skimming toward them from its position at the back of the pack.

It slowed to idle as it reached the circle, jostling all with its wake, its crew under the command of the same fat little man whom Luke and Fizz had taken out on the beach. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he drew attention to this by wiping it with the back of his hand.

At the boat's helm was the black man with the ponytail who had almost thwarted their escape in Captain Crude's boat. Slumped in one of the rear seats, ludicrously bare-chested and clad in Luke's discarded jeans, was the man they had left unconscious in the underbrush. Cradling his head in his hands, he shot a sour glance up at Micki. None of the men, she noted with a sharp trill of fear, looked particularly happy to see them.

One of the circling boats moved to block their bow while the larger one with its crew of six edged to starboard. There was a shout not to move, and then more guns than Micki cared to count were trained on her and Luke as they stood in the rocking midship. Keeping her hands on the back of her head, she swallowed hard against the fear that threatened to choke her.

Fizz gave a low growl and pressed against her legs. Luke shifted slightly at her side, brushing against her in what may have been no more than an accident brought about by the pitch of the boat, but which felt more like wordless reassurance. When she looked at him, however, he did not spare her a glance. His gaze was riveted to Captain Crude as the final boat glided closer. Escape was now impossible.

Stepping down from the stern, the squat little man traded his gun for the radio mike and, as he began to talk into it, turned a vindictive expression on them. He listened then nodded sullenly, taking orders he didn't like from an unseen superior.

Bulldog.

Snarling something incomprehensible into the mike, Captain Crude ended the call by slamming it back onto the radio mount. Abruptly, Micki wondered who Bulldog really was; who held the leash of these hired killers and brought them to heel? And did he hold it tight enough to keep them alive?

She struggled to emulate Luke's expressionless demeanor as Captain Crude, who was obviously in charge of these pirates, put one foot on the gunwale of his boat as it slipped along the port side. He was preparing to board them.

Micki was concentrating so hard on not showing the quaking fear she felt that Fizz's attack took her totally by surprise. As the intruder took his first step into their vessel, the border collie launched himself, teeth bared, at his throat.

"Fizz, no!" Micki shouted as her dog's teeth clamped about the arm the privateer had lifted to protect himself.

Swearing, Captain Crude fought to shake off the dog. When Fizz righted himself and, snarling, came back for more, the man picked him up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him overboard.

It all happened too fast. It was only when he snatched up the AK-47, that Luke had made a point of placing in the open, and brought it to bear on the dog—now frantically paddling in the water and still barking—that Micki found she could react.

Despite the four other armed men who had boarded them, she launched herself like Fizz had done, grasping Captain Crude's bleeding forearm and forcing the muzzle of his gun off-target, just as he squeezed the trigger.

The AK-47 spat half a dozen harmless rounds into the azure blue water, although not without causing several of his subordinates to duck for cover.

"What the—?" The fat little man tried to shrug her away.

Determinedly, Micki held on. "Don't hurt him! He's a quarter of your size, you lousy coward!"

Other hands were grabbing at her now. The boat swayed and pitched under the violent movements but she refused to let go. Finally, someone behind pulled her free and, cursing, she turned to take them on as well.

It was Luke. "Easy, Micki."

"Let me go!" Angrily, she twisted free of his hands and spun to go back to her desperate attack.

But Captain Crude had regained his footing and was ready for her, meeting her onslaught with a harsh backhand across her face. "Stay down, bitch, or I'll pitch you in too!"

The force of the blow sent Micki slamming against Luke and made the world spin sickly about her. Nearly as furious at him as she was at the man who had hit her, she fought the darkness at the edge of her vision that threatened unconsciousness. Dimly, through the haze of pain and shock, she saw Captain Crude pivot in the direction of Fizz's barking. As he raised his gun and took aim, a protest came from the larger boat.

"Hey, come on, Reynolds, let the mutt go. It's not gonna do anything but drown, and if you cut loose with that thing again you're gonna hit one of us for sure."

Unwillingly, Captain Crude—now identified as Reynolds—lowered the weapon and turned back to Micki. He reached out to grasp the front of her stolen gray jogging suit and viciously jerked her to him. "You've caused me enough grief already, lady. So sit down and shut up, or I'll shoot you regardless of orders. You got that?"

"Bastard," Micki spat back.

Ignoring her, Reynolds glared at one of the other armed men who stood silently astern. "For God's sake, get a hold of Hardigan. He's standing there way too quiet."

Hardigan. Micki's gaze went to Luke as her captor shoved her into one of the rear chairs. They knew who he was. So did they know what he was, too?

Luke's eyes flicked over her coldly, unemotionally, as if her discomfort mattered nothing to him. The truth of it hit her like a blow to the chest. It was all an act to camouflage his true feelings. He didn't want these goons to know he cared for her because he didn't want them hurting her in an effort to get information from him.

Cared for her?

The black man with the ponytail relieved Luke of his Beretta then handcuffed his hands behind his back. That done, he shoved him into the seat next to Micki. Reynolds, who was now standing at the helm of their speedboat, put the gun back down on the passenger seat and cradled his injured arm. Fizz had ripped a nice gash. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to use as a bandage, Reynolds nodded brusquely toward Micki.

"Cuff her too, and don't feel you have to be gentle about it." His pale blue eyes smoldered with resentment. "Bulldog can't complain about a few bruises here and there. We're bringing her home, after all."

"Who do you think you are?" Micki shouted as the pony-tailed thug jerked her to her feet. As he spun her around to slap the cold steel around her wrists, she caught a glimpse of Fizz, scrabbling at the boat's slick sides to find a way in. "Get my dog in here, you pig, or I'll—"

Her threat was cut off abruptly, as Ponytail turned her about and slammed her back into the chair with a force that drove the air from her lungs.

Laughing, Reynolds finished tying his makeshift bandage and caught up his gun again. "I don't think so, honey. Not today."

With a quick jerk of his head, he ordered Ponytail to take the helm. As the other pirates dispersed back to their vessels, leaving only Reynolds and Ponytail to deal with their bound captives, Reynolds sat in the passenger chair and rested the muzzle of his weapon on the back of the cream vinyl seat, pointing it directly at Luke. Shoving his hand, palm up, at Ponytail rewarded him with Luke's Navy issue Beretta.

As Ponytail started the boat, and Reynolds examined the handgun, panic of another sort leaped to Micki's throat. They were leaving! But Fizz was still in the water!

"Get my dog," Micki demanded. Then she begged. "Please!"

"So, Hardigan," Reynolds said, ignoring her, "we heard you were looking for us. Now that you've found us, don't you have anything to say?"

Luke's stony gaze was focused straight ahead, as if oblivious to both Captain Crude's amusement and Fizz's frantic, terrified yelping coming from between the two boats.

"No problem," his tormentor said easily. He cocked the Beretta, loading a fresh round into the chamber, and leveled it at Luke. "Bulldog has a way of loosening tongues."

Ponytail nudged the prop into gear and the boat inched forward in the circle.

"PLEASE!" Micki shouted in desperation, hearing Fizz whine and scratch one last time against the red hull as it moved away.

Reynolds' gaze shifted her way and eyed her with lewd interest. "If there's one thing I like more than tying up a beautiful woman, it's listening to her beg. If it doesn't work out with the boss, honey, you and me can always have a go." He leaned on the seat back, closer. "Would you like that, Micki? I bet you're a real wild one."

Micki wasn't even listening to his vile taunts. "Please, get my dog. He'll drown.
Please."

Laughing, Reynolds nodded at his companion, who leaned on the throttle now that they were clear of the other boats. "Nah, I bet he can doggie paddle for another ten minutes. Maybe fifteen." He shot a glance at the man at the wheel. "Whadda ya think, Carl? How long do you think he'll last?"

Ponytail shrugged with a slow smile, casting a look over the side of the boat. "Five minutes, tops. Then—" He made an obscene sucking noise with his lips.

"No!" Frantic now, Micki struggled to sit forward. "You can't leave him! You can't!"

Reynolds' smile was pure evil. "But I already have."

Giving a strangled cry of protest, Micki fought to reach him, even with her hands encased in steel cuffs behind her back. The sharp, eloquent gesture of the Beretta stopped her cold. Twisting around in her seat at the stern, the only thing Micki could do was look back through the wake for a glimpse of the dog she had raised from a pup. For a heart-stopping moment, she didn't see Fizz. Then, in a heart-breaking one, she did. Tiny in the massive waves stirred up by the powerful boats, with his head and back just cresting the water, he swam with all his might.

Tears threatened, but Micki fought to deny them substance.

Oh, Fizz...

The dog was not striving to reach the relative safety of one of the distant islands; he was instead swimming determinedly after the boats as they headed toward a stretch of empty sea.

Loyal to the end, Fizz was swimming after Micki.

***

The nightmare would not end. It just gripped her tighter, with claws of steel wrapped around her wrists and a spot of ice in her gut that was untouched by the hot Florida sun. Not long after she lost sight of Fizz in the waves, Luke pressed his knee against hers in a silent and unnoticed gesture of sympathy. Grieving, Micki pulled away, doing her best to wipe any trace of tears from her cheeks with her shoulder. She wouldn't give these hoodlums the satisfaction of knowing how much they had hurt her.

Time passed slowly in a world ruled only by the thrum of boat motors and the heat of the sun. Pretty soon her arms, confined in one position behind her back, began to feel like lead and she ignored the need to stretch them. Eventually, as they approached Vaca Key and Micki was able to get her bearings, it became clear that Reynolds and Ponytail meant to land at a deserted dock that jutted out into the calm Gulf waters beside an equally deserted concrete boat ramp.

She recognized this place, chiefly by the green shaded light pole at the end of the jetty and the
Underwater Cable
warning sign to the right of the ramp. It was 62nd Street Gulf, just a few miles from Marathon Airport, and a spot from where Dirk often launched his ski boat.

Cutting the engine, Ponytail crested in on their wake and moved to grab the wooden dock as they floated alongside. On the other side of the wharf, the two other red-hulled speedboats also docked. Despite the immediate activity three boat crews caused, despite it being Saturday morning and just a few miles outside of town, there wasn't another living soul to be seen.

Ponytail moved to the dock to secure a line to the bow cleat. Reynolds stood behind the Beretta he had claimed as his own and gestured his prisoners to their feet. Determined to be difficult, Micki stayed put and glanced at Luke to see if he would do the same. He did.

Stepping closer, Reynolds thrust the barrel of the gun into Luke's ribs, hard enough to draw a grunt. "Look, we can do this one of two ways, Hardigan. Either you do as you're told and get out of the boat, or else I'll just have to report that you put up a fight and I had to shoot you. Which is it?"

"I'll make you a deal," Luke said in calm defiance. He glared at the smaller man. "Let Micki go and I'll cooperate."

Moving over to her in a harsh step, Reynolds took her arm and hauled her to her feet. Grabbing her braid and pulling her head back, he jammed the handgun up under her chin, an action which tore a desperate whimper from her. "How about this? You cooperate, and I won't put a bullet in her pretty little head."

The gun metal bit into her throat, making it hard to swallow. For a moment there was a standoff, making Micki wonder if this was also part of Luke's act. Holding her breath, she watched the anxious ripple of tiny muscles in his jaw that was so in contrast to the mutinous look on his face. Luke knew, as she did, that even though Reynolds had orders to bring them in alive, he was just unbalanced enough not to let that little detail get in his way.