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If he'd wanted to observe and learn more about these particular tourists, Gator now sat in the ideal position: the bow of their own boat as it bounced and cut rapidly toward shore. Wasn't real proud about how he'd gotten there—but if Monty hadn't hurled himself against the wheel, the boat wouldn't've tipped like that. Gradual turns, that's what they needed. He'd have it out with Monty later about trying to seize control of any part of the operation. For now, Gator cataloged what he'd learned.
The woman wasn't just pretty, she was athletic, smart and ready to literally jump into danger. That had been an interesting re-assessment. The guy jumped in, too, if not with the same efficiency, then he argued against Gator for Joe's health. Maybe the dude was right. Kid didn't look so good, and hadn't really been prepped for his earlier free dive to get the sensor. Too bad the thing had been deeper than Gator thought.
Hey, that was the job. Couldn't always know what they were getting in to—that's why they needed intel. Didn't need to lose people over it, this operation was pretty slim to begin with.
Must be time to make nice. Gator hunkered down and faced their hosts. "Thanks!" he called, adding a thumbs-up, since he couldn't be sure he'd even be heard over this wind. Juan just stared at him, but the white guy gave a nod of acknowledgment. He looked a little on the pale and shaky side himself since he'd wrapped up Joe like a burrito, now sandwiched between the white guy and Monty. Dude couldn't have much weight on Joe himself, lanky, but strong, with vivid blue eyes that returned swiftly to the man at his side. Looked like he was murmuring or something.
Not a great atmosphere for convo anyhow.
"I need a lookout," Juan said, and the woman immediately moved toward the bow, half the heads in the boat turning to see her go. Her man-style hiking shirt now draped in all the right places.
"No worries, I got it," Gator said, shifting position to make room for her and get his own eyes on the water ahead.
She surveyed him then she settled, cat-like, leaning a little forward of the bow. "If you have it, I'm worried," she said.
"Ooooh! Ouch." He drew back as if he'd been burned. Tyrone and Flick, crouching nearby, snickered. Fair, that was a good shot. "Just wanted to get a look at the whale, that's all."
"Most people try to do that from the boat." She put her hand in the air, then cocked her elbow, pointing. "Rock ahead, starboard! Two lengths!"
The boat slowed a little, probably as best it could, given the underpowered motor and the driving wind: the lost vessel had been three times the boat this was. Still, it steered to port, avoiding the hazard.
"The building, can you see it?"
Gator scanned along with the woman. The driving rain turned the entire landscape into a weird, misty mountain range. Then a darker patch emerged to starboard, high on the dunes. The woman's head pointed in that direction, but he shouted, indicating both direction and height. "At your one o'clock! Ten lengths and closing."
She flicked him a glance, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she'd spotted it first, then waited to see what he did. Question was, did he pass the test? Didn't matter, these people were just transport.
"What's with the fancy cameras?" Gator indicated the one mounted nearby with a little clamp to record the water ahead.
The woman didn't look again, focused on scanning the water. "Rocks continue starboard. Stay straight!" Then she said, "My boss is a video star. Thinks he's quite the celebrity." She shrugged. "I just run the camera."
"And save a guy's life. Saw what you did back there. Thanks." He tried his grin. He wasn't a full-on looker, but he was buff, clean-cut. He could turn some heads.
Not this one, apparently. The line of stones took shape through the mist, probably a jetty left over from the restaurant's building.
"Needed doing." She shrugged again. "Three lengths, closing! Shallow ahead!"
"I run onto the beach for landing," Juan called back. "We need to make secure the boat."
"Gotcha covered!" Gator said. He turned from the recalcitrant woman to his crew. "Boys, we can carry this tub. Leeward side of the building."
Smitty slowly raised his eyes to the building as if he had to drag his gaze across every inch of elevation, but he said, "Aye-aye, Gator."
The woman snorted, and her lips quirked. "Gator?"
He gave a toothy hiss, and she gave a laugh, then moved lower in the boat, holding on. "Impact in five! Four! Three! Two! One!"
Their perch scraped up onto the sand, and they jumped out to either side as Juan killed the motor.
Gator and the woman immediately lay hands on the boat, pulling it higher with the help of the waves. Like the well-oiled machine that they were, Flick, Smitty, Tyrone and Monty piled out, splitting to each side to help with the hauling.
The video star took longer, kneeling in the boat, holding Joe, until they'd solidly landed, then he scrambled awkwardly over the side, and helped Joe out after him, taking Joe's arm over his own shoulders, keeping the space blanket close. Without a word, he started up the slope at a diagonal: slower, but safer. Dude wasn't an idiot, anyway. Seemed like he had some kind of wilderness training, if not the hard-core stuff Gator and his boys knew.
Monty still had the drybag slung over his back after all of that. Seemed to have recovered from the hit he'd taken as they collided when the boat went over. Smitty dragged a little, but he'd do the work, no complaints.
Juan gathered a few things from the bottom of the boat, camera and bags already sloshing in the accumulated rain and ocean water inside.
"Let's clear—"the woman began, but Gator shouted, "Three, two, hup!" and his boys grabbed the boat at the thwarts, two spaced along either side, one at the back.
He grunted as he took his part, then they slogged uphill, against the sand, the wind and rain battering them from behind. The woman rushed ahead, grabbing a few pieces of jetsam from their path and tossing them aside.
"You think we could," Monty began, but Gator said, "Think we could stop bellyaching? Yeah, I do!"
Seemed to be taking forever as they stumbled and slid a little, getting the boat up the slope to the crumbling concrete patio of the abandoned restaurant. They quick-marched around the corner, the wind slacking almost immediately, then Gator and Tyrone stepped back, joining the others to roll the boat at the back of the building.
Water rushed out, and the woman said, "That," indicating the sudden stream.
"We didn't have to carry it," Monty said, as if he were finishing her sentence. They exchanged a glance, and she looked a bit less disdainful than before, at least when she looked at Monty.
"Give it a rest, Monty." Gator wanted to have it out with him right then. Beat the snot out of him and chuck him down the dunes to be tossed in the waves. Then he'd head down and give the guy a hand back up again. Couldn't hate him for being right, really, just wished he wasn't so friggin' sanctimonious about it.
The real problem was: they'd lost the laptop, and half the rest of their gear, probably everybody's cell phones but his—not that he was letting on for the moment. That was gonna come out of their payoff, and he didn't even know where, in this backward place, he'd even get the replacements. He slicked his hands back through his hair. "I might've been distracted by the fact we just lost thousands of dollars worth of tech when the boat went over."
"Oh, dang." Tyrone recoiled, his excitement for the storm itself waning as the reality struck home. "What do we do now?"
Gator spread an imperious glance over his crew. "We'll manage. We always do."
"Hope we can manage some grub," said Flick. "I'm getting hungry."
As if this were some kind of whistle, the woman alerted immediately, looking around, head cocked. "Nigel!" she shouted.
A warped wooden door in the side of the building jiggled, then scraped open, and the dude from the boat poked his head out with a smile in spite of the wet hair plastered to his face. Nigel, apparently. "Welcome to Chez Rowe. Have you made a reservation?" He stepped aside, ushering them through, then went outside to help the captain with the gear.
Shaking out his hands, Gator stepped through, getting the lay of the place. Two dining rooms came together in an "L", and they'd entered from the landward side of the long part. Big window frames fronted toward the ocean, some of them boarded up with old pallets. A few were empty to the elements, wind blasting through with drenching gouts of rain. Have to do something about that if they needed this for living space the next twenty-four hours.
Leftover Formica tables and a handful of chairs scattered the floor, everything covered with the sand and blown debris of a couple decades. Must've been impressive back in the day. For Baja, anyway. Big double doors toward the ocean hung off their hinges, and burdened footprints led through toward the remaining door at the back of the short section, showing the direction Joe had been taken. Must be the kitchen.
Nigel passed him by, carrying an arm load of wet pack and a couple of cameras, the woman following as he led the way into the kitchen. With its lack of windows, and another outside door, this one metal, the kitchen stood secure in spite of the storm. Joe slumped against the far wall, and Nigel tossed down his gear, placing the cameras aside more carefully on the tables down the center.
"Well, then," he said. "Let's get cooking."