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"D'you see that looker? Hubba hubba!" Gator called into the wind as he swung the boat about, his hair lashing with the breeze of their trip, on top of the rising storm.
"Yeah—looked like she might clock you with her camera," Flick hollered back.
"Thought you were sleeping."
"Given the wind speeds," said Monty, "and the marked change in temperature, I'm gonna advise we head inland before we're overtaken."
"Oh, look at him pulling out his science and crap." Flick sat up at last, propping his elbows on his knees. "Betcha didn't even notice the hottie."
"She'd be hard to miss, even with your head stuck in your tech," Gator said. "But the guy was a looker too."
He frowned as his crew cat-called. Smitty agreed with Gator's assessment—he'd pretty much go after anything with only two legs—and was willing to break some heads, but Gator's own words rolled through his memory. "Looked familiar, actually. Could've been one of those green warriors. There any way those guys could've made us, figured out who we are and what we're up to?"
"They had some pretty sophisticated equipment," Flick pointed out, and Gator gave a nod.
"Didn't like the way Juan was scoping us out," Smitty said. "Like he suspected something."
"I'm coming about. See if we can get a better look. Tyrone, hard eyes."
"Gotcha." Tyrone pulled back from the bow, stowing the binoculars in a duffel bag and pulling out a compact camera instead. "Whale gives us cover for cameras."
"Gator—I don't know about this," Monty said. "If they are greens, maybe it's better to leave them alone, let them think we're just a party boat. Besides, he said fifteen minutes maybe before the whale surfaces again. If want cover from the whale, that means just hanging around, hoping for the best, and I don't know if that's gonna hold off long enough." Monty tipped his head toward the mass of clouds gathering on the horizon.
"What are you, my grandmother?" Gator said, earning a snicker from a few of the others. A few, not all.
Wrapped in a beach towel, his lips still a little blue, Joe fidgeted on his bench.
"You got something to say, kid, you better say it." Gator shot him a hard look.
Joe opened his mouth, then shut it, shaking his head and hunkering into the towel. Kid needed to toughen up if he was gonna survive on this crew. On Gator's team, you earned the right to speak or kept your mouth shut.
"Just saying maybe staying out here is inadvisable, for a couple of reasons," Monty continued. "Likewise, pursuit might draw attention we could do without."
Guy was smart enough, good at his job—he'd earned the right to some back-talk. Didn't mean Gator was planning to listen. "Threat assessment, Monty. We do another sweep, get some footage and see if we get a match when we're back to base."
The waves grew larger by the moment, the wind now urging them onward. Up ahead, the smaller, lower eco-boat, or whatever it was, puttered back port-wise, toward the entrance of the lagoon. To starboard, the mangroves began, forming the channel closer to the shore where they'd come from. Dead ahead, mostly sand and the decrepit hulk of an old restaurant that looked like it emerged from the dunes once in a century. The other boat cruised closer to shore, coming out and around. Gator could catch up, no problem. Just pretend they were heading to the same harbor. Guerrero Negro, had to be.
Big raindrops splatted on the canopy, just a few.
"Here comes the rain!" Smitty pushed to his feet, stepping out into the rain. He braced one hand on the metal pole supporting the canopy.
"You start singing," said Flick, "I'm kicking you overboard!"
No pursuit? Fine, seemed like a good compromise. "I'll do an overtake. Tyrone, get ready on the camera. Everybody else, we're just heading for home, same as them. No interaction."
"You want eyes on the bow?" Smitty gestured.
"If anything makes us look suspicious, it's that stuff, that level of preparedness. Remember, we're a party boat."
"Gotcha, Gator." Flick popped the cooler. "Time to break out the beer." He broke the six-pack, tossing a can to each in turn.
When Joe struggled to get his hand out in time, his can smacked his chest instead, and Flick cackled, toasting the kid with his own can.
"You all right, Joe?" Monty, on the bench near the kid leaned to get a better look just as they hit a rough patch. The boat bounced hard and slewed sideways.
"Woot!" Gator shouted, punching the cab over his head. He gunned the engine, letting the bow rise, slashing through the waves. Somebody cursed. Probably Monty. Screw 'im.
Then Monty leaped up and grabbed the yoke, wrenching it to the side and all Hell broke loose.