When the radar spots the rogue wave coming at their starboard side, Chubasco asks Tuco if La Ninfa can go up and over it. Tuco’s sure she can. Chubasco laughs and punches him on the arm. Do it! he says.
Tuco steers the boat toward the coming wave and revs the engines. Just before they meet it head-on, he veers to port and speeds up even more, and they climb the wave at an angle. As La Ninfa steadily ascends the wave, every man of them cheers. But then just shy of the crest, the boat slows and falters, and the bow begins rising like a rearing horse. Realizing they’re going to overturn, Puño grabs Chubasco from behind and lunges with him out of the cockpit just before La Ninfa topples backward and falls free of the wave. The boat hits the water topside down, crushing both crewmen and the two gunmen. The prow narrowly misses Chubasco, but it clouts Puño’s shoulder and shatters both it and his collarbone.
Puño howls and struggles with one arm to stay afloat. He calls to Chubasco for help. Chubasco starts toward him, then spies one of the cockpit’s white flotation pads and strokes over to it and hugs it to his chest, gasping with relief.
Help me, chief! Puño yells, trying to keep his head above water. He goes under for a long moment before he resurfaces, coughing and gagging. Chieeeef! he cries. Then goes under again. And comes up no more.
The storm passes.
The waves diminish to easy rolls.
The wind gentles to fitful gusts, and the remnant clouds come apart in gray tatters.
The flotation pad under his torso bears him easily. Its side straps are a comfortable fit over his shoulders and they afford his arms ample freedom to stroke through the water toward the pale beach he estimates to be less than two miles away.
Despite his exhaustion he maintains a steady rhythm of stroking and kicking, fueling his strength with his hatred, with thoughts of the retribution he will take on the Sangrero sons of whores—all of them, not just the two deliverymen they sent with the guns, but, yes, those two in particular, who killed two of his men and stole one of his women. He grins as he envisions the reckoning to come, the bastards chained to a wall or bound in chairs in one of the special rooms designed specifically for the purpose of introducing certain enemies to varieties of pain greater than any they’ve ever imagined. They’ll beg for mercy. They’ll plead for death.
He’ll laugh at them.
Just above the mountains, the lower sky has slowly transformed into a long bright band of interwoven reds and pinks. He pauses to admire the lovely sunrise and smiles at its assurance of yet another day. He rests for a moment, then strokes even harder toward shore.
He’s within a half mile of the beach when he hears a peculiar sound behind him. He pauses and turns, holding tight to the pad, and stares in icy terror at the huge black dorsal fin hissing through the water toward him.
His scream is shrill and short.