53

Standing on the main deck, Connor clutched the rail, the wind whipping at his face and hair. Below him, the water rushed past like a surging torrent and the Orchid left a huge foamy wake in her trail. But fast as she was, the pirates doggedly closed the distance: 1,000 feet . . . 800 feet . . . 600 feet . . .

“Those are powerful engines,” remarked Brad. “They’ve got to be doing over thirty knots.”

He spoke into the two-way radio. “Captain, you need to fishtail.”

There was a crackle of static. “We’ll lose speed,” came the reply.

Brad pressed the Transmit button. “We won’t outrun them in a straight sprint. We need to make it difficult to board.”

“Understood.”

A second later, the Orchid lurched off course, veering hard to port. Connor gripped the rail, then was thrown against the chrome bar as she cut back toward starboard. Each switch sent a heavy wash in the pirates’ direction. The skiffs rode them like bucking broncos, seawater breaking over their bows and sending spray high into the air. The pirates clung to their seats, in danger of being tossed from their craft. But, like a waterborne wolf pack, the skiffs hounded the Orchid on all sides. As one fell back, another took its place.

Connor’s mouth became dry, a mix of adrenaline and fear. He licked his lips, but tasted only salt water. He could feel his heart pounding and imagined this to be like the blind rush of panic a fox felt during a hunt.

A skiff came level with the Orchid’s port side. A pirate waved an AK-47 for them to slow down.

“He’s got to be joking,” said Brad, turning to Connor. “Do you have the flares ready? Looks like we’ll be needing them sooner rather than later.”

Connor nodded and primed a flare gun. The other deckhands were stationed around the boat, ready to fend off any attempt to board.

Seeing that their prey had no intention of stopping, the pirate leveled his AK-47 and fired indiscriminately at the Orchid. Connor ducked, sheltering behind the gunwale as the deadly zing of bullets whizzed over their heads.

“They’re trying to kill us!” cried Jordan, cowering on the deck farther down.

“Warning shots,” Brad replied. “To scare us.”

“Well, it’s working!”

Taking the flare gun from Connor, Brad waited for a break in the hail of bullets, then stood up and fired back at the skiff. A red blaze zoomed through the air. The pirate dived into his boat as the flare streaked across his bow, almost knocking him into the sea. But this single attack didn’t deter him. He immediately rose and retaliated with another burst of gunfire. Bullets ripped into the fiberglass hull. The Orchid’s crew cringed in terror behind the gunwales, their hands covering their heads.

The Orchid swung hard to port, forcing the attacking skiff to back off.

However, another skiff immediately came up on her starboard side. Brad and Connor rushed across. A pirate crouched in the skiff’s bow; on his shoulder was the long drainpipe-like barrel of a rocket launcher. Connor flashed back to the shaky video from Alpha team’s briefing and felt a chill run through him . . . This time he was a part of it.

Brad snatched up his radio. “Captain, skiff to starboard. Ram them!”

“Too risky.”

“They have an RPG!”

The skiff had pulled level with the bridge and the pirate was taking aim.

“I see it,” replied the captain. “Oh my—”

His transmission cut off as the pirate launched the rocket. It scorched through the air, blazing a trail across the open water. Connor watched in wide-eyed horror as the ball of hellfire rocketed straight toward them.

To be continued . . .