Cuervo wheels them into the marina lot, their headlights sweeping past the pedestrian entrance and fixing on the black Expedition parked next to it. Ram it! Chubasco yells. Smash the fender into the wheel! Disable the fucker!
Cuervo does it with a loud crash. Chubasco tells him to stay with the truck in case the bastards try sneaking back out. The other men get out with him, leaning into the wind, weapons ready. As they get to the entrance they hear engines start up somewhere within. They rush out onto the main dock as a boat rumbles on the other side of the marina. Puño shouts that it’s heading for the exit—and the boat roars and the Sinas fire flaring bursts into the gloom in that direction.
Enough! Chubasco says. They made the turn out and we’re shooting blind, wasting ammo! Did you hear those engines? They’re no match for our boat’s! We’ll catch them!
Roughly twenty minutes later La Ninfa arrives and the two crewmen—the pilot Tuco and the mate Javier—toss bow and stern lines to Sinas who lash the big boat to mooring posts just outside the marina entrance. The crewmen swiftly top off the fuel tanks with jerry cans of gasoline as the boat bobbles on the incoming waves, thumping against the pilings, its engines growling like enormous carnivores. They fling the empty gas cans up onto the dock, and then Chubasco, Puño, Moisés, and Nico carefully lower themselves aboard. Left behind to take the truck back to the Finca, Cuervo frees the mooring lines and tosses them into the boat.
La Ninfa makes a quick turn to port and begins running parallel to the waves, weaving through them as the Espanta did. Chubasco is seated between the two crewmen and watching the Sangrero boat’s blip on the radar screen. It’s twenty-five miles ahead of them and moving at an erratic fifty miles an hour—which, all things considered, Chubasco reflects, is an impressive speed. They’ve evidently got an excellent pilot. But of course Tuco’s an excellent pilot, too, and has the more powerful boat. Under his expert hand La Ninfa crisscrosses the grueling waves at a steady sixty.
We’re gonna catch those bastards! Chubasco says.