Devil Storm

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

Personal watercraft were made for frolicking upon, not navigating the open seas. Those who enjoyed the water jumped waves, raced friends, and drove in circles as the exhilarating experience coursed through their veins. PWCs were the water enthusiast’s version of the motorcycle.

They certainly were not meant for use during a hurricane.

Unlike boats with sophisticated electronics guiding the user through darkness and inclement weather, the riders of PWCs had to rely upon visual, line-of-sight navigation. There was no map or compass. GPS wasn’t a standard feature on a Yamaha WaveRunner. Celestial navigation using the stars was out of the question during a storm.

In a hurricane, and under the conditions created by nuclear winter, if the rider was more than a thousand feet from the shoreline, they had to rely on gut and instinct. If their mind was cluttered, or they lost focus, even an experienced rider could easily get confused, turned around, or lost altogether.

Still concerned with being caught by the National Guard, Peter opened up the throttle and rushed into Blackwater Sound. Jimmy was close behind him, riding his WaveRunner just outside Peter’s wake.

Because the pursuit was still fresh in their minds, they moved faster and faster toward Florida Bay, the body of water that was located between South Florida and the Keys. It was akin to the driver of a car who’d been flying along the interstate for several hundred miles at seventy-five miles an hour only to forget he needed to slow down as he entered the exit ramp. Peter and Jimmy were in the clear. They’d escaped their pursuers. They were less than a mile from Key Largo and a long walk home. Yet their fear-filled minds dictated otherwise.

The square-shaped Blackwater Sound was almost three miles across. It was surrounded by an almost impenetrable barrier of mangrove-covered sandbars forming a semicircle from the north at the Overseas Highway, into Florida Bay and down to the south at Dusenbury Creek, where the police had discovered one of Patrick’s victims near Key Largo.

On a typical Florida-sunshine day, the guys would’ve been able to easily see the shoreline at Key Largo as well as the Boggies, the small main channel that cuts through the mangroves, leading to the open water.

The feeder bands of the hurricane had become fiercer. Peter tried to gauge the direction the storm was traveling, but without knowing its origin, whether it was formed in the Atlantic or the Gulf, he was simply guessing.

He and Jimmy were both experienced WaveRunner riders although they knew better than to get caught out in a storm, especially at night. Residents of the Florida Keys always kept one eye on the weather. It was ingrained in every native of the island chain.

Growing up, there had been times before a hurricane was about to hit that the guys would take their WaveRunners out into the open waters for a quick joyride. They understood there was a difference between choppy water and rough water.

Choppy water referred to one-to-two-foot swells that could be caused by high winds or even a large boat passing. WaveRunner enthusiasts loved trailing a motor yacht motoring along near Driftwood Key. Their adrenaline would surge as they jumped the waves, oftentimes alongside a pod of dolphins.

Rough water was considered dangerous, as the waves were typically above three feet. Hurricane-force winds generated that kind of wave activity, and even the most daring, fearless teen knew better than to challenge a wave crest that rose taller than their PWC.

To attack waves of that size, the most important thing Peter had learned was to stand up from the saddle. Riding in a crouched or even standing position let him use his legs like shock absorbers. It also enabled him to see his surroundings better amidst the high swells of water.

Peter slowed his pace, finally recalling the best way to ride in harsh weather was to keep his speed slow and consistent. Now was not the time for fast runs or aggressive accelerations. Wave jumping could be fun, but not in the midst of a hurricane under pitch-black conditions.

As he slowed, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm Jimmy was still behind him. His friend was hunched over the handlebars like a Jedi Knight hunched over a speeder bike. The strong wind coupled with the tall waves pelted both of them but was especially painful to someone whose face was covered with open wounds, and their eyes weren’t covered with protective goggles.

Peter could only imagine how the rain mixed with salt water was stinging Jimmy’s injured face. Wind-driven rain was painful anytime, he thought to himself. As a result of his empathy, he made a critical mistake.

He wanted to let Jimmy catch his breath and allow his face to get a respite from the deluge. He slowly released the throttle and held his right arm out to let Jimmy know he intended to stop. The waves, which were cresting at nearly two feet in the protected sound, had been battering the hulls of their WaveRunners, and even as he slowed, the rollicking water caused him to sway back and forth.

It also turned them around, causing them to lose their bearings. Key Largo was no longer to their left, as it had been when they’d exited Jewfish Creek. It was, well, they had no idea.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Friday, November 8

Driftwood Key

Jessica had to yell to overcome the roar of the wind. “Hank! The wind keeps shifting, so I can’t let it carry us alongside the dock. I’m gonna take it in bow first. I need you to loop the line around the cleat a couple of times. Then I’ll bring the stern about.”

“On it!” he hollered back. Hank positioned himself by kneeling on the seat cushions near the open bow and readied the rope. Jess had already tried to fight the wind and waves to parallel park the vessel. The hurricane wasn’t gonna let that happen.

Jess pointed the bow so that it was perpendicular to the dock. This allowed her to reverse direction if they were blown forward. Her careful touch and finessing of the wheel did the job. Hank leaned forward and threw the line so that it was around the cleat at roughly half the line’s length. Then he pulled the line to tug the boat closer to the dock until the bow almost touched it. A wave rolled over the boat, forcing Jessica to reverse the engine’s power slightly to prevent the bow from crashing into the dock.

Once Hank gave her a thumbs-up, using the secured line as leverage, she swung the rear around and quickly raced to the stern line. Her technique minimized the turning effects of the wind by her aggressive use of the throttle coupled with quick-reaction steering.

After securing the bumpers so the boat didn’t get pummeled during the hurricane, they disembarked and immediately checked on the Hatteras. Apparently, Sonny had beaten them to the task. He’d battened down the hatches, as the saying goes, by closing any openings below deck and covering the windows with taut tarps.

The two of them fought the crosswinds and headed toward the main house. Between the blowing rain and the lack of power, it was difficult to make out any of the buildings near the shoreline of Driftwood Key.

The twenty-nine-acre island was on the leeward side of the Keys to the storm, but it didn’t really gain the benefit of a buffer. It was located along one of the thinnest stretches of Marathon. The narrow strip of land did nothing to slow or weaken a hurricane.

Many of the hurricanes entering the Keys from the Caribbean pass over quickly, as there is little in the way of land mass to slow them down. Naturally, a storm stalls on occasion based upon atmospheric conditions such as a high-pressure area to the west. Hank had an innate ability to analyze winds based upon their velocity, direction, and moisture content. He feared this storm might be slow moving, which meant it would take its sweet time before it moved into the Gulf.

Their feet hit the sand, which was soaked from the constant battering of the storm surge. The three Adirondack chairs that had provided the Albrights a place to wind down at the end of their hectic days had been turned on their sides and gradually buried by the migrating beach.

The younger, more athletic Jessica raced ahead of Hank toward the steps leading onto the porch of the main house. Once gently swaying palm trees were bent over. Their dying, lower fronds, which had been scheduled to be pruned, were ripped away by the hurricane. Each one became a whipping, boomerang-like projectile capable of knocking a person down.

Before Hank could reach the steps, Jessica announced that the front side of the main house, which would bear the brunt of the storm, was already boarded up. She raced down the porch past the windows of Hank’s office overlooking the rain-soaked lawn.

“Let’s try the kitchen entrance!” she shouted as she reached the edge of the porch and leapt onto the wet sand below.

Hank pivoted and willed his body to move faster to keep up with his sister-in-law. Part of him was impressed with her speed and agility while part of him cursed his aging body. By the time he rounded the corner of the house near the kitchen entry, Jessica stood in the crossroads of the path that led to the bungalows in one direction and the Frees’ cottage in the other.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his chest heaving and his heart pounding within it.

She pulled her hair back and wiped the rain off her face. “It’s locked. I knocked hard, too. Nothing.”

Hank was glad to catch his breath. “Sonny knows what to do when a storm is approaching. He probably felt it coming before anyone in the Keys. I don’t understand locking the doors, though. Unless…” Hank’s voice trailed off. They’d been threatened by outsiders multiple times since the nuclear attacks. His eyes grew wide as a feeling of dread came over him.

Jessica was one step ahead of him. “You check the greenhouses to make sure they’re secure. I’ll try their cottage. Let’s meet at the front gate.”

Without waiting for a response, Jessica was off in a flash, ducking to avoid a bundle of coconuts that had been dislodged above their heads. With a deep breath, Hank broke off toward the greenhouses, when a heavy gust of wind smacked him in the back, causing him to face-plant on the sandy path.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

“This is brutal!” Peter shouted to Jimmy as the two of them attempted to keep their WaveRunners upright. The waves rolled over them, causing their machines to rise and fall with each crest. Notwithstanding their efforts to shift their weight over the rolling water, the guys struggled to maintain their balance while adrift.

“My face feels like it’s peeling off!” Jimmy yelled back.

Peter sat down on his WaveRunner and wrangled the handlebars in an attempt to point into the continuously blowing wind. Lowering his center of gravity helped stabilize the machine, but sitting still made the task near impossible. His mind hearkened back to Fairfax when all of this had started when he’d attempted to ride a bicycle for the first time in many years. He’d almost run into multiple cars despite his best efforts.

He wiped the moisture off his face as he stated the obvious. “There’s no way we make it to Driftwood Key like this.”

Jimmy was similarly wrestling with his WaveRunner. When he wiped moisture off his face, it was tinged with pink because of the blood oozing from his wounds. Yet he soldiered on and was in good spirits.

“Agreed! Let’s go straight to Key Largo and hunker down until it passes. I can deal with walking fifty miles. What about you?”

“Piece of cake,” replied Peter, who meant it. He’d mentally prepared himself to walk from Fairfax at one point. A combination of methods of transportation had shortened his trip by many weeks. He took a deep breath and shouted his question. “Ready?”

“Lead the way!” Jimmy yelled his response over the roar of the storm.

Peter thought for a moment. Earlier, they’d seemed to be riding parallel with the wave crests as they left Jewfish Creek. From his recollection of the geography of the Keys, that had them pointed in a southwesterly direction. He wasn’t sure how far they’d taken the WaveRunners into Blackwater Sound, but regardless, if they began riding head-on into the wind and the storm surge, they’d eventually find Key Largo. The ride would be rough, as they would be constantly fighting the gales and the choppy waves, but by his calculation, they were only a mile or so from shore.

“Let’s hit it, but slow and easy this time!” Peter shouted. He barely heard Jimmy’s response over the howling wind.

While the Yamaha WaveRunner was capable of traveling nearly sixty-seven miles an hour depending on the model, Peter tried to ride at a speed that kept him in control of the watercraft rather than cede its maneuverability to the storm surge.

Fighting the waves, they bounced along, with Jimmy trailing Peter over his right shoulder. The two had maintained this separation to prevent running into one another if they were running parallel. They took off directly into the wind, braving the elements, in search of land. The guys had been cut off from their families and the Keys where they’d grown up. Neither was certain what the future held for them and their family, but without a doubt, they felt they could survive together as a group.

Peter remained focused on the task at hand. He constantly monitored his speed, trying his best to find that sweet spot, as he thought of it, that was not too fast and not too slow. Although it was a fruitless exercise, his eyes constantly scanned ahead in search of the shoreline. Even if the power was out, he hoped any harbor buoys operated by battery or solar power would provide him some kind of navigational beacon to guide him.

He imagined himself riding a horse around a ring. Rising in the saddle to prevent his nether regions from being pummeled, he was also able to take the jumps over the increasingly tall waves.

Naturally, Peter’s calculations as to time and distance couldn’t be precise. He couldn’t see his destination, and he was unaware of his starting point. From recollection, he suspected they had been a mile or so out when they began their push toward Key Largo. Even riding at low speeds, especially necessary at night to minimize contact with floating debris stirred up by the storm, he expected a fifteen-minute trip before making landfall.

It had been at least fifteen minutes, maybe more, when he began to question whether the winds had shifted, sending them in the wrong direction. Regardless, at some point, they had to hit the four-mile-long shoreline of Key Largo that stretched from Dusenbury Creek up to where the bridge had been destroyed at Jewfish Creek.

Peter was beginning to doubt himself. He was certain he was riding in the same direction, as the waves were breaking as he’d expected. Unless he’d miscalculated and took them farther away from Key Largo, toward the Boggies and hammocks bordering the north and west side of Blackwater Sound.

Perplexed and angry with himself, he decided to stop and get Jimmy’s advice. He slowed and then turned to look over his shoulder to get Jimmy’s attention.

However, Jimmy was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Friday, November 8

Driftwood Key

Trying to do anything outdoors in the throes of a hurricane was damned near impossible, especially at night. Even when the Keys experienced power outages, Driftwood Key had numerous generators and solar-powered security lighting to provide some form of illumination. At the very least, for someone like Hank, who’d spent virtually every moment of his life walking the island, a pathway light or the steady glow of the string lights near the bungalows would provide him some point of reference.

However, these conditions were like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was pitch black. No ambient light whatsoever. The air was an odd mixture of salt and soot, as if the ocean had caught on fire.

Without warning, unseen gusts of wind swept over him as he fought his way through the vegetation lining the paths leading to his sustainable gardens and hydroponics operation. Thanks to Sonny’s diligent supervision, they’d been able to continue to grow their own food despite the minimal sunlight. The greenhouses might have been their single most important survival asset other than a roof over their head. Now a vicious hurricane threatened to destroy it.

“Help me, Sonny!”

It was Phoebe.

Hank furrowed his brow and pushed his way through the hammocks that writhed and turned under the constant stress applied by the winds.

With the assistance of a wind gust at his back, Hank raced into the clearing, where he found Sonny and Phoebe struggling to board up the greenhouses.

“Sonny! Hang on!” yelled Hank. Sonny was standing atop a ladder propped against the side of the tallest greenhouse. Phoebe was standing below him, trying to slide a precut sheet of plywood up the aluminum extension ladder.

Years ago, Hank and Sonny had purchased a hundred sheets of three-quarter-inch marine-grade plywood. They’d cut the pieces to fit the dimensions of each pane of the greenhouses. When a storm approached, they’d take the numbered pieces, secure them over the greenhouse panes, and remove them when the threat passed. They’d never attempted to do it in the midst of the storm. This storm, like nuclear winter, had come without warning.

Hank arrived by Phoebe’s side. He grabbed the bottom of the plywood and slid it up the ladder. He climbed up the first several rungs in order to prevent Sonny from reaching down.

“Hey!” shouted Sonny, who grasped the board and slid it up onto the roof. “Can you believe this crap?”

Hank and Phoebe exchanged hugs. He’d gotten close enough to her face the see the stress that consumed her. He immediately wondered if it was the storm or concern for Jimmy. Hank wished he had better news. Hell, any news would’ve been better than nothing.

“How much ya got left?”

Sonny gripped the ladder and the steel frame that made up the edge of the greenhouse roof. “One more on this side and then all of the back. We’ve got everything else covered.”

Hank spun around and rushed over to the covered shed the two of them had built to store the panels. Each one was numbered, and Sonny had taken the time to create a diagram inside the shed door, showing where the panels were placed.

Several battery-operated puck lights illuminated the interior of the storage shed when there was a power outage. Hank studied the diagram to select the right panel. He paused to remember all the times he’d worked with Sonny and Jimmy to board up the buildings around Driftwood Key. Their lives were intertwined, and now all of their children were missing.

“Hank!” Sonny hollered for him to snap him out of his trance.

“Comin’!”

As he arrived and began climbing the ladder to slide the panel to Sonny, Phoebe stood to the side so he could see her.

“Hank, what did you find out?”

He hurried down the ladder and held it firmly with both hands as Sonny secured the final panel. He turned his head to Phoebe although the two of them could barely see each other in the dark.

“I couldn’t get any answers, Phoebe. Lindsey ordered the bridges to be destroyed, and now they’re losing their minds over this storm.”

Hank could hear Phoebe break down in tears. As Sonny made his way down the ladder, Hank waited until he was on the ground to explain. When he was done, the grieving parents directed their ire at their former sister-in-law for her callous attitude toward their son, her nephew.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, Jessica appeared by their side. “The gate was secure. I thought you might still be here.” She and Phoebe exchanged hugs.

Over the next several minutes, the group worked together to place the last of the plywood panels on the greenhouse. After a quick check of the fuel levels in the generator operating the hydroponics facility, they made their way back to the main house.

Phoebe explained that she’d been locking the kitchen door since the night Patrick had attacked her. She also showed Hank and Jessica the paddle holster secured against her waist. She vowed to never be caught off guard like that again.

After a quick meal and a few stiff drinks, the group’s batteries were recharged as they prepared to ride out the storm.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

“Jimmy! Jimmy!” Peter shouted at the top of his lungs. He wrestled the handlebars around and began riding back in the direction he thought he’d come from. The wind was at his back now, allowing him to travel a little smoother than previously.

Riding at just above idle speed, Peter shouted Jimmy’s name until he was nearly hoarse. There was no ambient light whatsoever, as the stars had been obliterated by the smoky, soot-filled skies of nuclear winter and, on this night, by the throes of a tropical cyclone that hovered over the heart of the Florida Keys.

He rode with the waves, certain he was backtracking along the route he’d been riding. Peter cursed himself for losing touch with his friend. He had been singularly focused on leading them to shore. The safety of the land. An ordinary task made complicated by the conditions, but in his mind, relatively safe compared to being shot at by men with automatic weapons.

“Jimmy! Come on, man. Where are you?”

Peter became emotional as reality set in. He’d lost Jimmy in the middle of Blackwater Sound. He tried to remain calm.

His dad used to say that panic was an energy thief. While you drag on your nerves with negative thoughts, meaningless regrets, and fatalistic thinking, you’re starving your body of the energy it needs to problem solve. Staying calm in a life-threatening situation might not guarantee your survival, but it will enhance your chances.

However, for all intents and purposes, he was blind. Think. Think. Think, he said to himself repeatedly in an effort to approach the dangerous situation logically. Do I continue to shore? Was I even going toward shore? Why was it taking so long to travel a mile or even a mile and a half?

“Jimmy!” he shouted again as he began to travel with the wind at his back again. He rode for several minutes, screaming his friend’s name until he thought he’d gone too far. Then he did a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and rode into the wind once again.

“Dammit, Jimmy! Where are you?”

It happened in an instant.

Jimmy was riding to the back side of Peter’s WaveRunner. He’d focused on mimicking Peter’s speed and direction. For twenty minutes or so, the ride had become routine. Mundane. Tedious and tiresome.

The monotonous bouncing caused by the oncoming waves had taken a toll on his tired body, yet the splashing of the waves into his face coupled with wind-driven rain kept him alert despite his lack of sleep. Unlike Peter, who’d rested for more than a dozen hours before rescuing him from the Infield Care Center, Jimmy had been kept awake. His interrogators had used sleep deprivation in addition to the beatings in an effort to extract information out of their prisoner. Jimmy had held firm against the onslaught of the CIA’s best. However, the lack of sleep and physical exhaustion was catching up to him.

Accidents can occur in a blink of an eye. A car suddenly stops in front of you. Perhaps a child chases a ball into a street. A toddler is left unattended near something hot. Without warning, a lack of focus or attention can result in lasting and irreparable damage. Even death.

Jimmy’s mind began to wander as he followed Peter just outside the WaveRunner’s wake. He thought of his parents and his life on Driftwood Key. He had no regrets for the path he’d chosen. Mr. Hank had offered to pay his tuition to go to college as if Jimmy had been a member of the Albright family.

However, Jimmy had turned down the offer. He loved the life he’d grown up with. His passion was the outdoors, whether diving or fishing, camping or swimming. He was very much like Lacey in that respect. For Jimmy, it was not about how much money he made. It was the freedom he enjoyed, living and working on what amounted to an island paradise.

When he had been forced to join his aunt Lindsey’s team of militia guarding the roads leading onto the Florida Keys, he did so with great trepidation. He understood the need to secure their border, so to speak. The Florida Keys were not large enough to accommodate a massive influx of refugees who had nothing but the clothes on their backs.

When he first reported to duty, he’d carefully positioned himself to handle tasks that didn’t involve carrying a weapon or dealing directly with the refugees. While he didn’t want them flooding the Keys, he also lamented the suffering and angst they were subjected to.

The last straw was the day they’d looked for volunteers to conduct a diving exercise. He had no idea what the purpose was, but his gut told him not to volunteer even though he was one of the most-respected skin divers in the Keys. Very few people could hold their breath under water for ten minutes or more. Jimmy was one of the best at it.

While he had been manning the barricades and performing mainly menial tasks, his mind remained focused on the whereabouts of Peter and Lacey. He and Peter had been inseparable growing up. It had been difficult to stay behind on Driftwood Key while Peter went off to college. As for Lacey, while they were always friendly in a brother and sister sort of way, their age difference had prevented them from playing together growing up.

He had no doubt his close friends and quasi-siblings would survive what had happened to America. Lacey, like himself, could make the best of any situation posed by Mother Nature. Peter had an ability to read people that was unparalleled. He could talk his way out of anything and convince others to see it his way.

Wave after wave. Bounce after bounce. His WaveRunner kept pace with Peter’s. Jimmy, however, lost focus for just a split second. His hand slipped off the throttle, and he lost sight of Peter. He tried to maintain his positioning and adjusted the handlebars to point into the wind, as he had been during the first part of their ride.

Concerned he might not be able to catch up with Peter at the slow speed that was barely above an idle, Jimmy sped up. He gave it a little too much throttle. It didn’t take much, but when he did, the WaveRunner crashed hard into an oncoming swell, forcing the hull of the WaveRunner upward.

He gripped the handlebars and released the throttle to maintain control of the watercraft. Holding his breath, his body tensed as he attempted to rectify his mistake. He started again, certain he was traveling in the right direction toward Peter. Just like before, in an effort to catch up, he squeezed the throttle to gain speed.

The second attempt was less forgiving.

The additional speed forced him high into the air as the next wave rolled through. His left hand slipped off the handlebar, causing the machine to lurch to the right. As it did, Jimmy was thrown into the violent, murky water of Blackwater Sound while his WaveRunner drifted into the darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

Peter was becoming agitated and panicked. He’d adopted a different way of searching and had produced nothing in the way of results. He began to take the WaveRunner in a series of concentric circles, starting at a point and gradually making the size of the circle wider and wider. He hoped to expand his search area without aimlessly wandering atop the water in the dark.

He had a plan. He thought it was well executed. He shouted for Jimmy periodically. Then he lost his voice completely.

The salty air and water he’d inhaled had entered his larynx. This, combined with his constant yelling for Jimmy, caused his vocal folds to hemorrhage. The tissue in his voice box had ruptured and filled with blood. In addition to not emitting any sounds, it became extremely painful to try.

Peter slammed his fist on the center post of the WaveRunner’s handlebars. He rubbed the rain mixed with salt water from his face again, although within seconds the moisture would return. He looked to the sky and prayed for it to end.

It didn’t, so he continued his quest. He rode for thirty more minutes in an effort to locate his friend, to no avail. He stopped to regroup; then he widened his arc. The minutes turned to hours, and Peter Albright began to cry in despair.

He couldn’t believe he’d allowed this to happen to Jimmy, who was like his brother. He was responsible for his safety, and Jimmy had trusted him to deliver him to shore. And during it all, he’d lost track of where he was. One minute he was just behind him. The next, he was gone.

Peter contemplated going to shore and coming back with a search team. He inwardly chastised himself for waiting so long to make this decision. Could Jimmy have been saved hours ago if he’d sought help? Maybe, but Peter still couldn’t see any part of the shoreline that enclosed Blackwater Sound, much less Key Largo. For all he knew, he could be riding the WaveRunner toward the hammocks or, worse, back toward the Overseas Highway and a contingent of guardsmen.

He decided he had no choice but to abandon his search and seek help. Even if he rode consistently in the wrong direction, he could at least find land and, along with it, his bearings. From there, he’d stick close to the shoreline, where his biggest concern would be running aground.

With a new sense of purpose, he set his jaw, strengthened his resolve, and raced into the darkness, focused on keeping a straight line as he traveled across the three-foot swells. He had barely traveled five minutes when he grazed the side of Jimmy’s WaveRunner, causing his to tilt on its side until he fell off.

Peter struggled to stay above water. He flailed for a bit, and then he began swimming in the direction his WaveRunner’s forward momentum would’ve taken it. With the aid of the waves, he crashed hard into the WaveRunner, cracking his forearm on the stern platform. Pain shot through his body, but he quickly shook it off. He was relieved that he had been able to find it so quickly, and was elated at locating Jimmy’s watercraft.

He fought the waves to climb back onto his WaveRunner. He slowly turned and steadily pushed the throttle to head back in the direction that he came. Excited that he’d made contact with Jimmy’s WaveRunner, albeit the hard way, Peter fought the elements to locate it. Minutes later, he came upon the WaveRunner rocking back and forth in the waves.

He tried yelling again but was unable to hear himself. His throat felt as if someone had rammed a twig into his lungs only to repeatedly jerk it out with a sadistic twist.

He had to make a decision, so Peter internally processed what he knew. Jimmy has to be close by, right? I mean, how far could he drift from the WaveRunner?

He was straddling his own WaveRunner while bending over to hold Jimmy’s handlebar. The waves continued to roll past him, causing him to lose his grip at times. Peter realized this was unsustainable, so he dropped into the water and got a firm grip on the grab handles affixed to the back of the seating area. His arms were stretched from time to time, but he was able to hold them together.

Peter thought by allowing his machine to idle, it put out sufficient noise for Jimmy to follow if he heard it. Also, the two WaveRunners, together with his outstretched arms, made a larger footprint on the water compared to him sitting atop his watercraft. With a little luck, they’d collide with one another just as Peter had unexpectedly come across Jimmy’s WaveRunner.

Peter tightened his grip, closed his eyes, and prayed.

The first thing Jimmy did was kick his shoes off. It was infinitely easier to tread water and swim without any shoes.

The shock of suddenly being thrown from his WaveRunner with little hope of finding it in the dark caused his survival instincts to kick in. He was an excellent swimmer and considered swimming to shore. Even if he used the waves from the hurricane-force winds, he could find his way to some part of Blackwater Sound to wait until daylight.

He continued to tread water, hoping the WaveRunner would somehow float back toward him. He knew it was a long shot, but treading water was something he’d practiced since he was old enough to walk. In calm waters, Jimmy had learned to float on his back, allowing the natural buoyancy of his body to do the work. The only tension he’d have to exert in calm waters was holding his head above the waterline.

Rough water floating was more dangerous. Jimmy routinely practiced lying facedown in the water, allowing his body to float. That was how he’d taught his body to hold air in his lungs for more than ten minutes. For years, he’d learned to float this way, stretching his need for air until the last minute, when he’d lift his head above water long enough to take a deep breath.

He’d exhale underwater as necessary and eventually learned he could use this technique to float for an hour, only coming up half a dozen times during that period of time. Rough water front floating, as it was called, was a means to survive in the open water without any form of floatation device.

Jimmy didn’t know how long he’d waited for his WaveRunner to miraculously find him, but he eventually gave up on the notion. At last count, he’d come up for air twelve times from front floating. He might have been at it for two hours, more or less. He wasn’t sure, but he’d made up his mind it was time to try something different.

He decided to swim to shore. Any shore. Whichever way the current and the hurricane-generated waves would take him. So he began swimming.

At first, he tried the traditional long crawl method of swimming. He stretched his body flat and horizontal atop the water and took long, consistent strokes with his arms to propel him forward. Despite the assistance from the waves, he quickly began to tire. His body was spent from the mental and physical trauma it had been through.

Jimmy treaded water for a while, and then he started swimming again, this time using the breaststroke. Swimming like a frog, as he used to say as a kid, he used a combination of leg kicks and outward arm strokes to propel himself forward. He focused on timing his strokes with riding the crest of a wave. He eventually found a rhythm that allowed him to pick up speed without exerting extraordinary effort.

Jimmy was beginning to make progress although he was not sure where he was headed. He didn’t care as long as he found something to hold onto. His limbs were tiring. His muscles were screaming. His lungs were beginning to burn. And his bloody, swollen face was becoming numb.

Then the winds picked up again. A roaring sound filled his ears that was so loud, he stopped swimming and turned in all directions, believing a large vessel was headed toward him. He began to tread water in part to ease the soreness that had come over his shoulders, and to confirm he wasn’t in the path of a boat.

After looking in all directions and twisting his body to confirm he was safe, he became slightly disoriented. He sensed that the wind had shifted, but he had no point of reference to confirm it. He’d been through many hurricanes in his life. Rarely did they stay in one place, hovering over land or sea as it pounded everything around its eye. Jimmy expected the storm was on the move, which meant he might have entered it at one quadrant, but the passage of time had placed him another.

That meant only one thing. He could’ve been swimming in circles if he was relying too much on wind and wave direction. Or he might have been close to making landfall only to change his course as the wind shifted.

Frustrated, he simply stopped swimming. He continued to tread water, hoping to make it until the sun rose. He and Peter had been out in the open water for hours. Surely, daylight would make an appearance soon. He could make it until then. He was sure of it.

Comforted in knowing the storm would pass and the sun would rise in the east as always, Jimmy rolled onto his back and allowed the waves to lift him upward before dropping him again. He closed his eyes and thought about his parents. He relaxed his body and allowed his mind to drift to a happier place.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Friday, November 8

Tarpon Springs, Florida

That night, Lacey, despite being exhausted, slept in fits and starts. Her imagination ran wild as she envisioned the two of them battling a hurricane alone. She considered paying Andino or someone to accompany them to the Keys. She even thought about promising them the boat together with topping off the two one-thousand-gallon tanks with diesel.

After tossing and turning a few more times, she’d chastise herself for worrying needlessly. It was the middle of November in a world in which temperatures had dropped to levels well below record seasonal lows. Hurricanes were not only implausible, they were most likely impossible.

Yet the thought nagged at her as she awoke early that morning. She lay in bed and ran all the possibilities through her head. She’d make a point to speak with Tucker alone before making the offer to Andino to either accompany them to the Keys or allow them to stay a few days until the inclement weather, or hurricane, as the case may be, passed.

It was before dawn when someone began banging on the Andinos’ front door. She could hear excited voices outside her window, which faced the street. Lacey scrambled out of bed and rushed to the window. Pulling the sheer curtains open, she pressed her face against the glass to see who was at the door.

The teen boys who’d helped dock their boat yesterday were milling about near the stoop, the illumination of their flashlights darting about or shaking as a result of their excited state of mind.

The front door opened, and Andino addressed the boys. The next thing Lacey knew, the boys had taken off through the gate into the street, and she could see Andino rush after them, wearing jeans, sneakers, and no shirt. He was also carrying a shotgun. At the gate, like the teens, he appeared to turn left in the direction of their boathouse.

Tucker gently knocked on her door and then respectfully cracked it open. “Mom! There’s something going on.”

“I heard. They ran toward the boats. We should help.”

“On my way,” said Tucker, who immediately turned toward the stairs.

“Together, Tucker! Wait up!”

The two of them rumbled down the oak treads without regard for anyone who might’ve been sleeping. The teens’ banging on the door had most likely woken up the entire household already.

Seconds later, Tucker led them outside into the cool, dawn air and picked up speed as they turned the corner past the gate down the street. They were running as fast as they could when they slowed at the entrance to the boathouse. The beams from several flashlights could be seen dancing around the walls and ceiling of the structure as well as across their boat.

Their chests heaved, begging for fresh air. Lacey and Tucker slowed their pace to a fast walk as they made their way through the chain-link gate. Sandros greeted them as they entered the boathouse.

“We got lucky this time,” he said ominously.

“What happened?” asked Lacey.

“In recent days, many of us have noticed an influx of strangers making their way into Tarpon Springs by water. One of the town’s larger operations, located at Port Tarpon, was hit last week by fuel thieves. They snuck into Anclote River in the middle of the night, siphoned diesel into their containers, and then snuck out into the Gulf.

“They managed to steal twenty to thirty gallons at a time. You know, it’s a cost of doing business that we accept, but things are different now. Diesel is like liquid gold.”

“Was somebody trying to steal our diesel?” asked Tucker as he looked over the shorter man’s shoulder.

“Yes, and we caught them. Since this started, we’ve all joined together to take overnight shifts. We patrol one another’s docks and then administer justice to the thieves.” He turned around and glanced toward the dark boathouse.

“Justice?” asked Lacey.

Sandros spread his arms wide and moved forward in an attempt to herd them away from the boathouse. “Let’s go back to the house and get some coffee. Would you like that?” He was trying to shield them from what was about to happen next.

Lacey held her ground. “Okay, but, Sandros, what’s going to happen to the thieves?”

“The boy will be given a stern warning. His father will receive a harsher punishment in front of his son. Lessons will be learned by both of them.”

“But they’re just trying to survive, right?” she asked.

Sandros dropped his chin and stared at his feet for a moment. “They weren’t trying to steal food or even fresh water. Do you understand where I’m coming from? If these two had come to us and asked for a meal, we would’ve gladly helped, just like we opened our homes to you. They took the cowardly way out by stealing.”

“What will they do to him?”

“My brother is taking care of it. Do not concern yourselves. Now, please. Let’s go.”

Lacey’s eyes darted from Sandros to their boat. She was seeing a different side of the Andino family, which was surprising based upon their prior interaction and was completely unexpected. They seemed like a fun-loving, generous group. Yet there were lines that couldn’t be crossed, and they didn’t hesitate to punish those who crossed them.

Despite all of her mental machinations and internal debates from the night before, Lacey had made up her mind. It was time to go home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

It had been a long, boring and uneventful day for Mike Albright, who was already plotting his escape from the evil clutches of the medical staff at the Lower Keys Medical Center. He was a well-known figure around the Keys, and the staff there were working overtime to give him the best possible care. It wasn’t their fault he was a stubborn mule of a patient.

As the hurricane winds picked up, Mike noticed the flurry of activity outside his door. He was still dressed in a hospital gown. You know, the kind that allows your butt to catch a draft if you got out of bed. When he was finally allowed to go to the bathroom without an escort or the use of a walker, he vowed to find something else to wear that might be hospital approved. They forbade him from putting on his regular clothes, which Hank had dropped off earlier.

So, during a shift change earlier in the day, he’d snuck into the hallway and entered a storage closet, where he’d secured a set of all-white scrubs. He wasn’t sure what the color designation meant because the nurses and doctors wore some shade of blue or green. Hopefully it didn’t mean he was designated as a psych patient.

In any event, as the nurse visits to his room became less frequent, he dressed himself and then kept the blankets pulled up to his neck whenever someone looked in on him. The last several visits by the nursing staff involved nothing more than a glance at the monitors and a question that was some variation of how’re ya doin’? His answer was always twofold. Fine and can I leave now? Their response was always the same. Good and not yet.

Truthfully, Mike was feeling much better although it still hurt to take a deep breath. He imagined he could make his way to the sofa in their room at the inn or even wander around the main house to get a little exercise. Cocktails were a possibility, but his beloved cigars would have to wait a while. He’d never forget the disapproving look he had been given after he regained consciousness and the doctor had asked him if he was a smoker.

Only cigars.

He was read the riot act about how cigars caused cancer of the mouth and throat even if he didn’t inhale. The doc droned on and on about how cigars were not a safe alternative to cigarettes. Cigars have twenty times the amount of nicotine as a cigarette.

Blah-blah-blah.

If Mike didn’t need the medical team to keep him alive, he would’ve correctly pointed out that it was a homicidal maniac with a knife who had landed him in the hospital with a hole in his chest. Not his occasional Macanudo.

Mike was no longer hooked up to the monitors. His blood pressure was checked periodically, and he was required to show the nurses that he’d been staying hydrated. He was always thirsty, so that wasn’t a problem.

He was also told to use a volumetric exerciser on a regular basis. The handheld device was frequently required for patients who were recovering from surgery or lung illnesses. The spirometer device helped keep the lungs free of fluid. Mike did it because he was incredibly bored, and the process became like a game to him. It also enabled him to perform a self-assessment as to his eligibility to be discharged.

He’d been given a pen and notepad. Using the battery-operated clock on the wall, he recorded the time and the volume of air, and using a few dots that wouldn’t make any sense to the medical staff, he recorded his pain level. As his stay in the hospital wore on, Mike found his ability to take deep breaths increased, and the pain associated with the ordinarily simple bodily function decreased.

As far as he was concerned, he was ready to be released despite the hospital’s anticipated refusal to sign off. It would be the sound of gunshots that hastened his exit.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

The report of a large-caliber handgun was unmistakable. Mike’s trained ear could make out the sound of a .45-caliber bullet being discharged from its weapon despite the echoing effect of the hospital corridor.

Just moments ago, the halls had been filled with hospital personnel trying to take care of people suffering from out-of-the-ordinary illnesses like dysentery and complications resulting from malnutrition. It had been over three weeks since the nuclear attacks and about that same length of time since nuclear winter with its sooty fallout had overtaken the keys. Residents were not faring well due to the lack of water, food, and clean air.

Now they faced a threat that could end their misery unexpectedly—a gunman. Mike jumped out of bed and rushed to the door. He knelt down to keep his body low and poked his head into the corridor to get a look toward the nurses’ station.

Several hospital personnel had crowded behind the counter and workspaces. Another was crouched behind a rolling cart full of medications due to be delivered to patients. Half a dozen or more raced past his room to the far end of the hallway in an effort to get farther away from the ER entrance.

Mike pulled back into the room and considered his attire. It was purely speculation as to what the gunman’s motives might be. He could be looking for a particular target, or perhaps he was frustrated that a loved one had died while in the care of the medical center. He felt he’d have a better chance of survival should he come in contact with the shooter if he was dressed in his own clothing.

Without regard to the pain that seemed to worsen as his adrenaline kicked in, Mike quickly changed into blue jeans, sneakers and a turquoise blue sweatshirt with the words I heart Key West emblazoned across the front. The word heart was actually the symbol, not that it mattered. He didn’t particularly heart Key West, anyway.

Satisfied he didn’t look like any of his presumed targets, Mike Albright did what every dedicated first responder did in the face of danger. He ran toward it rather than away from it.

At first, he raced thirty or forty feet until he reached the nurses’ station, where he crouched behind the counter alongside a large contingent of staff members. Several of them shot him a puzzled look of recognition. They’d attended to Mike on and off throughout the day, but with him dressed in street clothes instead of a drafty gown, they couldn’t quite place him. Mike managed a smile as he wondered if he should pull down the backside of his jeans and shoot them a moon. Perhaps they’d recognize him then.

More gunshots rang out, but this time, deep concern entered Mike’s mind. They had been fired in rapid succession and appeared to come from two different weapons. Multiple shooters.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he grimaced. He turned to the frightened nurses and doctors. “Do you have armed security on this floor?”

Nobody answered at first, and then the charge nurse rose from her crouch to join Mike’s side. “One per floor but they’re unarmed. The hospital never thought guns were necessary since the sheriff’s office is down the street.”

Mike shook his head in disbelief. “How does that help you now?” he asked, immediately feeling guilty for berating the RN in the midst of a crisis. It wasn’t necessarily her decision to avoid arming their security personnel.

He leaned out into the corridor again and decided to move closer. Thus far, the gunshots seemed to emanate from the large, open entry corridor near the emergency room portico. A set of double sliding doors separated the outside from the intake center of the ER. With the levels of soot in the air and the hurricane barreling down upon them, Mike would’ve expected them to remain closed in favor of the normal swinging doors flanking both sides.

Without communications lines, he questioned whether anyone had the presence of mind to run to the sheriff’s office. He considered doing it himself if his lungs would allow it, but first he had to get out of the building. Like most hospitals, manners of ingress and egress were limited to two or three locations at most.

He couldn’t count how many times he unconsciously reached for his service weapon. Instincts had taken over, and he knew exactly what needed to be done. He simply didn’t have the tools to do it.

Hank broke cover and quickly moved forward until he could slip inside the open door of a patient’s room. Inside, an elderly woman lay perfectly still with the covers pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were wide with fear, and Mike had learned enough about heart rate monitors from staring at his own to know she was on the verge of cardiac arrest.

He was closer to the ER’s reception area, and he was clearly able to make out two men shouting. Screams filled the corridors of the hospital. Mike needed to get closer to get a handle on what he was dealing with. Before he left the woman’s room, he tried to reassure her, speaking softly so as not to be heard. Then he exited her room and pulled the door closed behind him.

That was when the lights went out.

Mike would never learn what had caused the sudden power outage at the Lower Keys Medical Center. The storm could’ve been identified as the culprit, but the facility had been drawing upon its generators for power already. Perhaps it was the hospital’s security team’s only plan to thwart the gunmen.

It might have been a tactic employed by the MCSO’s SWAT team to gain an advantage over the gunmen. He hadn’t been directly involved in their training, and frankly, they’d rarely been used in the last several years. It didn’t take a SWAT team to clear a bunch of drunks off Duval Street during Fantasy Fest. Regardless, it gave him an opening, and he took it.

In the chaos, Mike used his vague familiarity with the corridor from his exercise trips back and forth to his room under the watchful eye of a nurse. Each time, he’d pushed his body a little harder until he was able to reach the ER’s patient registration area before being asked to turn around.

It was dark, but he used that to his advantage to quickly close the gap between himself and the source of the gunfire. He’d just reached the large double doors that separated the recovery wing from the reception desk when two bullets zipped down the corridor and slammed into the medications cart behind him.

Mike pressed his body against the door of a utility closet, using the eight-inch doorjamb to provide some semblance of ballistic protection. His heart was pounding, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, as he could feel the presence of the shooters in the dark not more than thirty feet away.

Seconds later, one of the gunmen fired again. The muzzle flash grabbed his attention first followed by the sharp smell of gunpowder that filled his nostrils. The sound of brass casings clattering across the floor provided Mike the ability to identify the man’s location. He used the opportunity to dart across the corridor so that he had a view of the entrance, which was slightly illuminated by a battery-powered EXIT sign.

The gunman was standing in front of the reception desk and shooting at anyone who tried to enter the ER from the outside. The two sliding doors in the center of the outer wall had been forced open, and a gurney was toppled over on its side in between them. Between the gunfire and the open doors, smoke and haze mixed with wind-driven rain filled the reception area.

Panicked screams could be heard over the howling wind outside. They were coming from the direction of the ER’s trauma rooms. Mike knew the surgery suites were on the floor directly above them. However, for less serious wounds like his, the trauma rooms enabled physicians to provide all manner of treatment short of extensive major surgeries.

Mike couldn’t see the entire reception area, but the lack of chatter between the gunmen was an indication that the man standing just around the double doors from his position was acting as a lookout while the other one undertook whatever his goal was.

He took a deep breath and winced. The rush of adrenaline was wearing off as he calmed his nerves, and the pain medication he was due to take had worked its way out of his nervous system. All of his rushing about made the pain excruciating as he sucked in air. It felt as if someone had pushed a hot fireplace poker into the same spot Patrick had stuck him.

Mike took a chance to ease his head around the open door. Like before, he dropped to a low crouch. A nervous shooter tended to surveil his surroundings by searching for faces and eyes to determine if they were a threat. Rarely did they focus their field of vision below their waist.

In the dim ambient light, Mike could make out the man’s hunting rifle. While he couldn’t pinpoint the brand or caliber, it looked like a Remington-style rifle that used .223-caliber ammunition, very popular for hunting and home-defense use. For Mike, under these circumstances, it was a bulky weapon that couldn’t be wielded with accuracy by a nervous gunman.

He pressed his back against the door and listened. He had to get eyes on the shooter, so once the man turned his attention and the barrel of the rifle toward the other corridor, Mike could make his move.

The collision would hurt like hell and quite possibly break open his sutures, but at least he was in a hospital, where they could quickly patch him up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

The opportunity came less than a minute later. Someone made the mistake of breaking through the swinging double doors leading into the trauma corridor. Startled, the gunman swung wildly toward them. The bullets ricocheted off the stainless-steel doors and embedded in the drywall inside the hallway. The woman shrieked and fell to the floor, making Mike think she’d been hit. The gunman raised his rifle and walked toward her body.

He didn’t hesitate as he quickly moved around the propped-open safety door and lowered his head. He hit the back of the gunman at full speed, driving the crown of his head into the center of the man’s back.

The shooter cried out in pain before the ferocity of Mike’s attack knocked the wind out of him. The two men crashed to the floor in a heap, with Mike further punishing the man with the full weight of his body landing on top of his back. The rifle had been dislodged and flew several feet ahead until it came to a rest near the woman who’d emerged from the trauma wing.

Instinctively, Mike reached for his waistband in search of a weapon, pepper spray, or handcuffs. Anything to subdue the man until he could be restrained. The pain of the collision shot through his body. As predicted, blood began to ooze onto his fleece sweatshirt.

The shooter had regained his ability to breathe and was beginning to squirm under Mike’s weight. Mike looked forward and realized he’d be putting everyone in further danger if the shooter was able to shout for his accomplice. He used the only weapons available to him to subdue the attacker. His fists. With several well-placed blows to the man’s temple, he successfully knocked the man unconscious without using too much force that might lacerate his meningeal artery. Mike wanted him subdued, not dead. He wasn’t in the mood to hang around and explain his use of force.

Mike pounced onto his feet and grabbed the gun. He shook his head in disbelief when the people hiding behind the reception desk gasped as if he were just as dangerous as the shooter. He knelt down and helped the distraught nurse off the floor and led her against the wall adjoining the trauma corridor. He forced her to look at him instead of the dead security guard who lay ten feet away.

He spoke to her in a loud whisper. “Do you how many shooters there are?”

She was breathing fast and shallow, most likely on the verge of hyperventilating. Mike needed to get answers before she panicked. He leaned toward the door opening and checked the hallway. There wasn’t any movement, so he turned his attention back to the woman.

“Please, I need you to tell me what you know.”

She took several long, deep breaths and then nodded. “They’re in trauma three. A man had multiple GSWs. He was helped inside by another man about his age. Forties. Tanned or dark skin. I’m not positive.”

“Which one is trauma three?” asked Mike.

“Third door on the left across from the trauma nurses’ station. He’s got several doctors and a couple of nurses locked in the room. I was the last one to leave the trauma wing.”

Mike was pleased that the woman had recovered from her hysteria. “Okay. One more thing. We need to seal off the recovery wing. Pile furniture in front of it, whatever needs to be done. Just don’t let anyone abandon the patients. There’s an old lady just past the entrance on the right who needs attention. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“One more thing. Find the fastest, most reliable person you can and send them to the sheriff’s office for help. Tell them to use my name—Detective Mike Albright.”

She nodded rapidly with her eyes locked on Mike’s. He took a quick glance down the hallway before sending her on her way. He waved to the other hospital personnel and loved ones who’d crouched beneath the reception desk to get out of the building. He admonished them to be quiet so the other shooter wasn’t alerted.

Then he turned his attention to the gunman and the victim of the gunshot wounds. There must’ve been a reason they felt the need to shoot up the hospital to get him treated. Mike intended to find out.

He dropped the magazine out of the carbine-style rifle and tried to count the rounds remaining using the light provided by a cigarette lighter offered to him by one of the desk personnel. He asked if anyone knew why the generator had cut off. There was no explanation offered. Clearly, the cavalry in the form of the SWAT team wasn’t responsible, as they’d made no effort to come into the building once the frightened people filed out. It would be one of the mysteries Mike didn’t care to solve.

He turned his focus back to trauma room three and the hostages who were being forced at gunpoint to treat the wounded patient. Mike had no idea how surgeons could extract bullets and deal with the internal damage associated with them in the dark. There had to be some kind of lighting, perhaps battery operated.

He slowly approached the curtains leading to the space that happened to be adjacent to where he had initially been treated. He paused to recall the layout of his trauma room. It was a tight fit between the many pieces of equipment, the patient’s bed, and the personnel who’d be standing alongside to perform the medical procedures. The room, the hospital staff’s word for the open area divided by curtains, might’ve been expanded depending upon how many medical personnel the gunman had elected to take hostage.

Somehow, he had to get eyes on the gunman. He imagined a panicked man wildly waving the .45-caliber handgun Mike had heard earlier. He’d only get one shot at the gunman. He contemplated waiting for the sheriff’s office to send help, taking the burden off his shoulders for the hostages’ lives.

But despite the pain searing through his chest and the blood soaking his sweatshirt, Mike wanted to get into position to take the shot.

A man’s desperate voice could be heard. “What are you doing? You have to do something!”

That had to be the gunman, Mike thought to himself. His buddy must be losing the battle, and the guy was losing it. A panicked fool with a gun takes innocent lives. Mike determined there was no time to wait for the cavalry.

One of the doctors shouted back, “Sir, we’re doing all we can under the circumstances.”

Mike stepped forward until he could locate where the outer curtains came together. There was a gap of about twelve inches that enabled him to see into the room. He had to be careful because the temporary lighting mounted on portable towers cast its warm glow under the curtains, which would enable the gunman to see his feet.

The man was acting just as Mike had predicted. He had one arm wrapped around the neck of a short nurse with the other pointing the pistol in all directions. He alternated between the nurse’s head and anyone else in the room who crossed him.

From this angle, Mike couldn’t get a clear shot. However, the curtains separating trauma three and the adjacent space had been pushed toward the wall to accommodate more equipment and surgical trays to be brought in.

He stepped away from the curtain as the argument between the two men escalated and became more heated. He quickly moved down the corridor until he could find the gap in the curtains marking the opening of trauma four.

He eased his head in and evaluated his options. He had a clear shot at the man’s back. Chivalrous? No. Was the scumbag deserving? You betcha.

Mike prepared his weapon and slipped the barrel between the curtains. He waited until the man was distracted or pointed his weapon somewhere other than directly at one of the hostages. With his finger on the trigger, he took a deep breath and exhaled.

Wait for it, Mike. Steady.

His inner thoughts became mute, but his muscle memory didn’t fail him. Just as the gunman began to swing his weapon from the surgical team back toward the nurse’s head, Mike squeezed the trigger. The report of the rifle frightened everyone in the confined space, causing them to scream and duck for cover. Only one body remained upright, albeit for a brief moment.

The now-headless gunman.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Friday, November 8

Gulf of Mexico

1013 millibars.

“We’re really on a roll, Mom!” exclaimed Tucker as Lacey emerged from taking a nap. Her poor night of sleeping had eventually caught up with her. That, plus the steady drone of the diesel engine and the gentle rocking of the Gulf waters, had resulted in her eyes drooping until she was almost asleep standing up.

Earlier that morning, as soon as the sun rose enough to create a brighter shade of gray across the horizon than the early-dawn level of lightness, Lacey and Tucker had prepared to leave Tarpon Springs.

Andino and his brother had given them a refresher course on the use of their barometer and also performed some fuel calculations for them. Unless something happened out of the ordinary, they would have sufficient diesel to make it all the way to Key West if they chose to go that far. Otherwise, they were facing a four-hundred-mile journey down the west coast of Florida until they reached the Everglades. From there, they could easily make their way to Marathon and Driftwood Key.

As they’d entered the Gulf, they’d set a course using the GPS that took them outside the range where most of the fishing boats were operating. They’d manned the helm together to grow accustomed to the boat’s navigational panel as well as how it reacted to certain wind and wave conditions. During their trip from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs, they’d relied upon the expertise of Andino to operate a fishing vessel of this type. Lacey had only marginally paid attention to the intricacies of this boat. When she was in the wheelhouse, she compared it to her dad’s Hatteras, which Lacey was familiar with.

As they sailed due south, they’d both kept a wary eye on the boat’s barometer. Registering in millibars, the digital device fluctuated only slightly as they reached the open water and set their course. The normal barometric pressure at sea level was 1013 millibars. That had risen slightly, according to Sandros, because of the consistently low ceiling caused by nuclear winter. He’d cautioned them to monitor the barometer to determine if it was falling into the nine hundreds, an indicator a weather system was approaching.

Andino said one of the ways they could determine if there was a change in the barometric pressure was to notice the onset of a headache. The closer the pressure dropped to 1003 millibars, the more likely people susceptible to migraines or headaches would take notice.

While Lacey napped, Tucker had been diligent about monitoring the boat’s digital readouts, including the barometer. Every time he looked, the reading was similar, so he eventually grew tired of the exercise.

“Wow, I feel so much better,” his mom responded to his greeting. “There’s nothing better than sleeping on a boat.”

“It’s easy because it’s so low-key,” said Tucker. “I’m ready to get there.”

“Me too, son. Me too.”

“I’m gonna hit the head,” he said with a smile.

Lacey laughed. “Spoken like a true sailor. Say, do you wanna get some sleep now? I was gonna talk to you about riding through the night until we get there.”

Tucker stopped midway down the steps into the galley. He turned slightly as he spoke. “I just assumed we were going all the way. We have GPS, so it doesn’t really matter if we can see, right?”

Lacey gave him a disapproving glance. There were a lot of factors to be considered when driving a boat on the open seas. One of them was seeing if anything was in your way. Inexperienced boaters at night created a recipe for disaster.

“It’s not quite that easy, son. Go hit the head, and we’ll talk when you come back.”

1008 millibars.

While Tucker was away, Lacey got her bearings. They were approximately fifty-five miles off the coast of Sarasota. She couldn’t see the barrier islands of Longboat Key or Siesta Key as they motored past. The ever-present haze of soot seemed to blend in with the water, resulting in a feeling that they were completely alone in a sea of fog.

Tucker returned with a sixteen-ounce can of Monster energy drink. The fact that he was guzzling it down told Lacey all she needed about her son’s plans for the rest of the trip. He was going to remain jacked up on B vitamins and caffeine until he crashed on the dock below the Conch Republic flag at Driftwood Key.

They talked for a while, alternating between reminiscing about boat trips she and Owen had taken Tucker on when he was young and speculation about how the Keys had fared following the nuclear attacks.

They shared their recollection of how Hank operated the Driftwood Key Inn and the role everyone played. The McDowells were healthy eaters, so they were looking forward to eating the organic-grown vegetables from Sonny’s greenhouses and eating the fresh fish that Jimmy was so adept at catching.

The conversation turned to Mike and Jessica. Lacey and Mike were always close. He was more of a big brother to her than an uncle. When he married Jessica, who was slightly younger than he, Lacey had immediately found a sister to commiserate with following the death of Lacey’s mom. The trio had become tight, and Lacey looked forward to seeing them both.

1001 millibars.

Their conversation bounced around as they continued heading south-southeast along the coast. Their course took them along Captiva and Sanibel Islands off the coast of Fort Myers. After they’d gotten married, Lacey and Owen had honeymooned by going camping in several of Florida’s state parks, including Cayo Costa, a sand-filled barrier island accessible by a small boat or kayak. It was one of the largest barrier islands and had afforded the newlyweds plenty of privacy.

As daylight turned to dusk, Lacey began to develop a slight headache. She asked Tucker to bring her one of the Monster drinks. It would never be her beverage of choice under any circumstances, especially since it was not chilled. But his inability to find any pain relievers or analgesics on board necessitated the alternative method of using caffeine to narrow the blood vessels leading to the brain, which restricted blood flow and alleviated the pain.

The wind had begun to pick up occasionally. As pitch darkness overtook them, the occasional breeze turned to unexpected gusts that were strong enough to rock the fishing boat from side to side. They’d pass without Lacey or Tucker giving them a second thought.

The two had grown complacent and comfortable during the uneventful trip. They were more than halfway to Driftwood Key when they sailed past Marco Island. However, everything suddenly changed.

Lacey’s head was pounding from an incessant headache. The wind gusts had become more frequent. The sea spray turned to rain. The previously uneventful trip was about to become far more interesting.

998 millibars.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

995 millibars.

In Greek mythology, Cymopoleia, daughter of the sea god Poseidon, was the Greek goddess of violent seas and storms. The boat had been renamed by its original owner several years ago to pay homage to the thirteen people who’d died when their commercial liftboat capsized during a hurricane in the Gulf. The death of anyone on the Gulf waters tugged at the heartstrings of commercial fishermen who made a living there.

The fishing boat had a padded captain’s chair designed for comfort. However, it was positioned far enough from the helm so the captain of the vessel didn’t, as they say, fall asleep at the wheel. The wheel of their fishing boat was the size of a bicycle tire with stainless-steel spokes. It had signs of wear and tear from the many hands that had gripped it, fighting the waves and navigating to the most-fertile fishing waters.

The wheel was mounted waist high. Behind it, a number of essential devices were mounted at the helm, including radar, the LORAN, and a control panel dedicated to navigation. Embedded amongst all the dials and switches and displays was the boat’s barometer. Ironically, it was located near the marine radio, which would ordinarily have been set to monitor the weather in the region. Now it was turned off, as static was the only thing being broadcast.

The barometer had dropped precipitously, but Tucker, who’d cozied up in the captain’s chair as they sailed just off the coast, had stopped monitoring it early on when it had shown no evidence of dropping as the Andinos had suggested it might.

Yet it had. Tucker wasn’t a seasoned boater. Every once in a while, he’d look down toward the helm to see if any warning lights were flashing. Mainly, he’d glanced at the GPS to determine where they were in relation to landmarks on the coast. Like a passenger on a long road trip, he’d become more interested in his surroundings and calculating the answer to the question are we there yet?

Nonetheless, Tucker considered himself a seasoned boater by this point. He’d spent hours under the tutelage of Andino together with hands-on experience as they’d crossed the Gulf from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs. His familiarity with the controls caused him to become overconfident and lackadaisical. Like on a highway, things can go wrong when on the open seas.

The Gulf waters had become tedious to look at. Waves rolled past as the bow of the commercial fishing boat crashed through them. The conditions created by the fallout of nuclear winter resulted in the water and the sky visually merging into one.

Dull. A shade of gray without form except for the hints of darkness both above and below the whitecaps, which were becoming more frequent.

They say a good sailor knows when to stay in port, but that axiom was based on the ship’s captain knowing the weather conditions around him. Lacey and Tucker were sailing blind into a storm that had a full head of steam as it roared across the Florida Keys. An experienced boater might hear their story and say, “Well, I’ve never been caught in bad weather.” They’d either be lying, or it just hadn’t happened to them yet.

As the first feeder band washed over their boat, forcing the bow to suddenly push toward the west, Lacey and Tucker realized they were headed for trouble. They began to question their present course. Together, they studied the GPS and the nautical charts. If they changed direction toward land, where could they dock, and how long would it take to get there? Would they be met with friendly, helpful people like the Andino family, or modern-day pirates who’d steal their fuel or their vessel or worse?

The longer they waited to make a decision, the more severe the storm became. The gusts turned to a steady moisture-filled wind. The conditions had turned raw. Harsh. More than they thought they could handle. Despite their fears of the unknown, Lacey and Tucker had become hardened to the threats they faced.

Suddenly, the bow rose out of the water and dropped hard, throwing Lacey to the deck of the wheelhouse. She scrambled to find her footing, and just as she did, the stern lifted and the bow dropped, creating a surfing effect as the boat dipped its nose into the canyon created between the waves.

At the bottom of the sudden drop, the crest of a breaking wave crashed into the boat, driving into them like an out-of-control Mack truck. It had all changed with lightning-fast speed.

Lacey flew across the wheelhouse again, as she couldn’t find something to latch on to.

“Mom!” Tucker shouted as he scrambled to help her to her feet.

He glanced through the side windows of the wheelhouse and was shocked to see the whitecaps. Despite his inexperience, in that moment, he felt relieved. Being eye level to the whitecaps meant they were safe. If he’d seen nothing but water, it meant they were sinking.

He held her around the waist while keeping one hand on the wheel to keep the bow pointed into the unruly waters. Lacey gripped the teak trim on the helm until she could locate the stainless-steel grab bar near the entrance to the galley.

Up they went again as another massive wave rolled past with a violence only the planet itself was capable of generating. Man may be able to conjure up destructive nuclear bombs, but nothing compares to the annihilation caused by naturally occurring catastrophes like volcanos, earthquakes, and killer storms.

The bow popped up out of the water like a cork, only to be crushed by another wave taller than the wheelhouse, forcing it back down again with a crushing blow. Two forces of nature battled one another—gravity and buoyancy. The powerful waves used their ally, gravity, to force the boat toward the bottom of the Earth. The boat’s buoyancy fought back, using its upward lift to seek air at the surface.

Over and over again, the waves, which had now caught up to the wind speed, attacked the vessel at its most vulnerable. The constant battering of the boat tossed its crew around the wheelhouse. The Cymopoleia was without a captain, as Lacey and Tucker were unable to regain control of themselves, much less the boat. Flailing about in the water as the storm had its way with her, the vessel was caught in a battle to the death between gravity and its ability to float.

Then a massive gust of wind struck her on the port side, forcing it sideways. Now, rather than the hull acting as a buffer to the incredible waves they encountered, the Cymopoleia was turned sideways to the storm.

Advantage: gravity.

With gravity continuing to use its powerful grip on the vessel to pull it down, the buoyant nature of the boat had shifted to one side. They were now broadside to the waves, beam-to, as boat captains say. Even aircraft carriers can be rolled in rough seas when they’re beam-to.

If these captains didn’t right the ship, it would capsize.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Friday, November 8

Gulf of Mexico

984 millibars.

The sound of the wind was unnerving. It had changed from scream to shriek to moan. Then it turned preternatural. It was alive, playing a macabre tune resembling a ghoulish figure angrily slamming its hands down on the keys of a church organ. Deep. Growling. Like an AI-generated sea creature rising from the dark water, throat open, ready to consume them.

Man versus the forces of nature. Tucker gave up on the prospect of making it to shore. His mind raced. He recalled the conversations around the dinner table at the Andinos’ home as well as during his hands-on training from the day before. Certain things stuck in his head.

If you can’t make it to shore in time, stay away. Waves get steeper and break more easily as they approach the shoreline. Tucker had visions of his inability to control the boat as it crashed into Marco Island.

Keep your speed, or the storm will drive you. With rain pelting him from all directions, Tucker wiped his face clear and then rubbed the gauges located behind the wheel. He was deeply focused now that he’d gathered himself. He was ready to soldier through.

After they had regained their footing, Tucker stayed with the helm while Lacey went in search of protection in the event they were washed overboard or capsized.

“Put this on!” shouted Lacey, who returned from below deck with life jackets.

Tucker continued to grip the wheel in order to bring their boat around, turning it back into the waves that were rolling toward them. He provided a little more throttle as the bow dipped into the water, using the surfer’s method of taking advantage of the wave’s energy to turn. The boat responded, and they were once again toe-to-toe with their heavyweight opponent.

Lacey held onto the stainless-steel grab bars mounted within the wheelhouse. She helped Tucker slip on the life jacket and secure the buckles before pulling the tabs to adjust for his slim waist. They both exhaled for the first time in a while.

“This is nuts, Mom!”

She shouted back to him, “Just keep doing what you’re doing! I have one more thing to get!”

Patting her son on the back as she left, Lacey struggled to keep her balance as she descended the stairs into the galley. After a moment, she returned with two safety lines. These elastic tethers had carabiner anchor points at each end. One connected to a stainless clasp at the back of their life jackets, and the other could be attached to any suitable spot on the boat, including railings or cleats.

Tucker caught a glimpse of the barometer on the water-soaked helm. The pressure had dropped to 982 millibars. The storm was continuing to strengthen, battering the boat mercilessly.

Tucker’s head was on a swivel, looking in all directions as if an exit ramp from this highway to hell would suddenly emerge. He wiped the moisture off his face and leaned into the wheel to glance at all the gauges. They offered nothing in the way of comfort. Finally, he convinced himself it would be okay speaking aloud, as if verbalizing his rationale would make it so.

“We gotta hang on. It’ll pass over us eventually. They always do, right?”

Lacey leaned against the bench seat on the other side of the wheelhouse and gripped the helm. Tucker set his jaw and continued to fight the wheel. He was gaining confidence and focus.

The waves were coming every fifteen seconds or so with a steady, almost set-your-watch-by-it predictability. The rhythmic motions allowed Tucker and Lacey to breathe when pointed toward the water and hold their breath as the bow was thrust upward, praying that the coming wave didn’t crest more than a slight whitecap.

As the period between waves gets shorter, they become steeper. The steeper they become, the more likely they are to break in the middle of the Gulf. A tall, breaking wave at that frequency could destroy their boat. They weren’t breaking yet.

Tucker’s prior obsession with the GPS and their course was abandoned. He simply steered the boat with survival in mind, hoping to outlast the storm.

Then it happened.

The bow was forced downward, deeper than normal, it seemed. The massive wave pounded its fist on the deck, snapping the antennas that were bolted to a steel mast adjacent to the wheelhouse. Losing their antennas meant they’d lost their GPS and LORAN navigation system. Any hope they had of reaching out by radio to issue a Mayday was dashed. Not only did they lose track of where they were, but they were unable to detect or reach out to any boats that might be in the area. Issuing a Mayday on Channel 16, the international distress frequency, would fall on deaf ears or be silenced by the drone of the hurricane-force winds.

The ramifications were simple. If they capsized, nobody would know until the debris, or their bodies, floated ashore.

CHAPTER FORTY

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

It was after midnight when the sea sucked Lacey overboard. Above the wheelhouse, the Bimini top that covered the upper helm had been ripped from its supports. Still holding on by a thread, the winds whipped the canvas around in circles, beating the top deck as well as the windows of the wheelhouse. The metal supports that had been dislodged from the fiberglass threatened to break the glass of the cabin with each blow. A boat that loses its windows can fill up with water in minutes.

Lacey refused to let Tucker go out of the wheelhouse to harness the flying canvas. She insisted he was more experienced driving this boat, although it was really a ploy to keep him safe. After a lot of convincing, she moved below to rummage through the stateroom and galley cabinets in search of a serrated knife. All she could do was cut the Bimini top loose without having it beat her down in the process.

“Mom, you’ve got to stay tethered!”

“I know. Just hold it steady and don’t slow down. We’ve got this!”

She leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. She held onto the cushioned seating and the ceiling as she made her way through the door onto the aft deck. The nonskid gelcoat was no match for the three inches of standing water that seemed to remain on the decks during the deluge. She immediately wondered if she’d be able to pull off the task as the wind caught her clothing and tried to lift her into the air.

Lacey reached out to grasp the ladder leading to the top deck. She gathered up the nylon rope attached to her carabiner. She clipped it to the ladder and began her ascent topside. The boat continued to pitch with the passing waves, making her task near impossible. It was hard to imagine a more difficult job than doing anything outside the protective confines of a boat’s cabin during a violent storm.

On land, hurricane-force gusts can slow anyone to a crawl. On the water, that same wind can knock you flat. The decks are soaked with water. The boat is rolling, pitching and heaving. The sea spray is pelting your body like birdshot from a shotgun. In the back of your mind, the fear of a misstep resulting in your being blown overboard begins to consume you.

Lacey climbed the stairs and emerged topside on her hands and knees. Her nylon rope had gotten tangled up in the antenna that was barely attached to the boat by a rubber-coated cable. She struggled with the cable, finding it difficult to hold onto something and untangle her safety line.

She pushed her way across the deck with the balls of her feet until her back was wedged into the corner of the side railing. Lacey started to cut through the cable with the serrated edge before stopping herself. If she did that, they’d have no hope of using their marine radio. She let out a deep sigh and surveilled her surroundings.

The Bimini top was flying overhead like a large kite trailing a commercial airliner. It whipped upward, and then, as the boat rode down the back side of a wave, the change in windspeed brought it downward, where it swirled from starboard to port across the windshield in a counterclockwise motion.

It was everything attached to the canvas that created the threat. The stainless supports were like sharp, twisted clubs seeking a target. The Garmin radar antenna had broken loose of its supports and was entangled with the canvas, adding a powerful punch each time the remains of the Bimini top struck the boat.

The entire tangled mess was being used by the hurricane as a weapon to pummel the Cymopoleia. Lacey couldn’t reach the cables and ropes that held the top to the boat because her safety line was tangled. She didn’t want to cut off their only chance of issuing a Mayday. She had an idea.

Lacey disconnected the safety line’s carabiner from her life vest. She held on to the ladder as she untangled the antenna’s wire from the safety line. Just like the frustration every Christmas decorator had ever experienced untangling string lights, she wound the rope over and then through the wire. Slowly, she was able to extract the safety line from the antenna’s wiring.

“Finally,” Lacey muttered as she gave the safety line a shake to confirm it was free. After securing it back to her life vest, she pulled all thirty feet of the slack up the ladder to give her plenty to work with. After another deep breath, she wiped off her face and turned around on her hands and knees to face the unpredictable top hurling itself around the boat.

In a tug-of-war against the changing momentum of the boat, Lacey pulled her way forward to the helm located on the top deck. The wires and ropes were wrapped through the front railings. Each time the Bimini top whipped around over her head, she could see the railing give and begin to pull away from the fiberglass. Only a couple of screws prevented the entire railing structure from joining the twisted mess.

Lacey climbed to her feet and used the chair to steady herself. The wind gusts continued to push her toward the starboard side. The Bimini top suddenly flew upward, sucked up like it was being pulled into a vacuum. This gave Lacey the opportunity to cut through the nylon lines that kept it in place.

One by one, she sawed through the ropes, each time causing the canvas to pull farther away from the boat. She allowed herself a smile as she saw the progress she was making.

“Come on. One more.”

She cut through the last of the ropes, fully expecting the canvas to fly off into the deluge.

It didn’t.

The Garmin radar antenna remained tangled with the top. She had to cut the coated wire. Lacey stood and gripped the circular antenna with her left hand and pulled the cable taut. She vigorously sawed through the hard plastic exterior and then began to sever the steel cables that ran through it until she reached the heavy-duty copper wire.

She grunted as she gave it one more full effort. Her strength surprised her as she cut through the final obstacle that threatened to break every window in the wheelhouse.

It only took the blink of an eye. Less than a second. A freakish event caused by the mind failing to coordinate one hand with the other.

But the second the cable was cut, and the tangled Bimini top was released from bondage, Lacey had unconsciously kept her death grip on the Garmin radar antenna a little too long.

She was suddenly airborne and flying over the back of the Cymopoleia.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

The transition from crisis to catastrophe came in an instant. Once Lacey was sucked into the air, her release of the Garmin antenna was of little consequence. The hurricane took control. As her body was heaved upward and then flung over the stern, she let out a primal, guttural scream. Her arms flailed like a windmill as if she were trying to swim in the wind-driven rain.

None of this mattered as she was body-slammed into the water just twenty feet behind the boat’s transom. Stunned, Lacey lost her breath momentarily as she was drawn underwater by the forward momentum of the Cymopoleia, which was riding another wave to the bottom of a trough.

Lacey struggled against the water that wanted to drag her away from the boat. She caught her breath when the boat topped the next wave, hull exposed, only to crash down the other side of the crest. The nylon rope whipsawed as the boat picked up speed on the descent, pulling her five feet out of the water.

The momentary respite allowed her to catch her breath. She wanted to scream in an attempt to get Tucker’s attention. However, the boat entered another swale, and she was sucked below the surface again. The normally warm waters of the Gulf were cold, but not paralyzingly so. The chills that came over her body during the ordeal were more from the wind when she was airborne than when she was being dragged below the surface.

As another wave crested, the Cymopoleia’s bow rose into the air until it came crashing down, followed by the fish on a line—Lacey. She thought of Owen. His face. His touch. His kiss. She fought to live for him. For their son.

She gripped the nylon rope with both hands until they bled. The stinging salt water sent pain throughout her upper body. It also helped her stay focused. She was beginning to time the waves. In her mind, she could count the seconds between the boat’s rising and falling. She’d caught her breath, and she willed her body to respond. She was going to survive.

“Help!” Lacey screamed as loud as she could when she was pulled out of the water. “Tucker!”

Then she was sucked below again and dragged along. Sometimes tumbling as she rolled over and over. Other times, simply pulled out of control, the life jacket squeezing her ribs and belly. Another ten to twelve seconds passed. She readied herself. Out she flew.

“Tucker, help meee!”

Tucker thought he’d imagined hearing his mother’s voice. As he fought the wheel and the never-ending waves trying to crush their hull, he pressed his face against the starboard windows and the windshield. He’d noticed that the Bimini top was no longer pounding the boat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that the barometric pressure had stabilized at 980 millibars. The storm was no longer strengthening, at least for now.

Then he became concerned. He knew his mom was most likely being deliberate and careful, but she should’ve been back inside the relative safety of the wheelhouse by now. He was becoming frantic as he searched for her through the windows.

At one point, he made the mistake of releasing the wheel just to take a quick look on the aft deck. In a matter of seconds, the boat was shoved to the right, and if not for his quick reflexes and upper-body strength, the Cymopoleia would’ve been slammed in the side.

The second time Tucker heard her cry for help, he had to do something. He couldn’t leave the helm. Releasing control for a moment could get them rolled. Early on, before the seas turned angrier, he’d tried deploying autopilot to guide them through the waves. That didn’t work.

He needed to find a way to lock the ship’s wheel in place. The only way was to tie it down using his safety line. Tucker ignored the admonitions of his mother to remain tethered to the boat while they rode out the storm. After reducing the boat’s speed but not too much so it couldn’t climb the oncoming wave, Tucker unclipped the safety line from his life jacket. He quickly proceeded to wrap it through the ship’s wheel and around the stainless grab bars until it was tight. Then he used the carabiner to secure the line again. He gripped the spokes and gave it a good back and forth tug. To confirm it would work, he let go for a few seconds as the boat powered through another wave.

He heard his mom scream again. This time, he was certain of it. Tucker put all the risks out of his mind and raced out of the wheelhouse. His first inclination was to look up where he’d noticed the Bimini top was gone. The Cymopoleia rose high into the air and came slamming down, as it had hundreds of times before during the night. Tucker was airborne as weightlessness overcame him. His legs kicked and his arms were outstretched, looking for anything to grab onto to keep from going overboard.

That was when he found his mother’s lifeline. Taut. Stretching. Holding onto the boat’s ladder for dear life. And now, it had become Tucker’s lifeline too.

He fell hard to the deck, but he managed to hold the nylon line with his right hand. A searing pain shot through his shoulder as the boat’s motion fought against his grip. But he knew his mom was still attached. He just knew.

Unable to gain his footing, Tucker grasped the line and slowly allowed it to slip through his hands, rubbing his palms raw. Not that it mattered. It was almost as if he could feel his mom’s beating heart on the other end. No different than when she’d fed him in the womb.

The outstretched line bent over the half-wall at the stern. The heat of Big Cam, the powerful diesel motor, rose through the engine compartment hatch as it struggled to propel the boat against the waves.

Suddenly, as the boat’s bow rose to ride another crested wave, Tucker slid hard to the rear, crashing into the stern wall with his back. He managed to crawl to his knees just as the bow reached its apex and came crashing downward again into the trough.

This was unsustainable, and Tucker doubted his makeshift autopilot would hold.

During the lull between the crest-to-trough series of waves, Lacey screamed again. “Help!”

Only this time, she got a response. Tucker saw her emerge from the darkened water, illuminated only by the boat’s running lights. He shouted to her, “Hold on, Mom! I’ll pull you in.”

“Tuck—!” The second syllable was garbled as she was dragged below the surface again.

In those next few seconds, Tucker thought through the dynamics of what he faced. He’d have to time it just right. And he’d have to hold on.

Without delay, he climbed onto the transom with both hands on the rope. He pressed his back against the stern, fighting off the searing heat generated by the diesel engine.

Cymopoleia rose toward the sky again. He fought gravity to keep from being thrown past his mother and a likely death. At the top of the wave, he tensed his muscles. He firmly planted his feet and gripped her lifeline, waiting for the right moment.

The bow dropped. The stern began to lift. His mother emerged from below the surface. Tucker yanked the rope, pulling hand over hand as he quickly reeled her onto the transom just as the boat reached the bottom of the swale and started its upward climb.

He wrapped his left arm around his mom and draped his right over the stern’s half wall. She tried to help but lost her footing, which almost dragged them both back into the water. Tucker told her what to do.

“Wait ’til the top!”

The boat made its way up and over. As it hit the crest, the momentum shifted, and gravity became their ally. Tucker hoisted his mother and flung her onto the aft deck. A second later, he leapt upward and flew over himself, belly flopping on the water-covered decking and sliding hard into the wheelhouse.

Lacey was clinging to the ladder, somewhat stunned by the sudden turn of events. Tucker wanted to hug his mom. Comfort her and make sure she was okay. But he’d noticed the battering of the Cymopoleia’s bow had forced it off course so that it was no longer hitting the waves head-on.

He grabbed his mother by the life jacket and jerked her through the door of the wheelhouse. He allowed her to lie on the floor as he pulled her safety line inside. Then he slammed the door shut with a snarl directed toward the beast that had tried to swallow them.

Tucker stumbled toward the helm, crashing hard into the captain’s chair as the boat lurched toward starboard. Now he had to quickly undo the tightly wound security line meant to hold the boat on course, not beyond her captain’s control.

At the top of the next wave, the Cymopoleia pivoted slightly. It was as if she’d become stuck in the center of its gravity on a ball. The next trip down the wave was more of a sideslip than another descent on the water roller-coaster ride from hell.

Tucker reacted quickly. He loosened the safety line enough to turn the wheel back to the left so that the bow was hitting the next wave head-on. He also gave it more throttle at the same time. He’d saved them from being turned, and he was once again attacking the waves head-on.

Days later, Lacey and Tucker would recall this as the moment they knew they’d survive.