9

 

Meshach entered open water and pushed the throttle to the stops. The 300hp engine romped. The Kevlar-reinforced hull planed out on the glassy ocean surface immediately, like cruising a sheltered lake. The boat handled well, responding to the slightest movement of the wheel.

The craft wasn’t a Rolls Royce, but it had a hood ornament. Shanteel was perched upon the bow, her lithe, tanned body gleaming in the sun she seemed not to get enough of. So far, he liked her. She was a display, eye-candy for any man who wished to gander, and not a talker. Give her a smile and she’d preen and pose as though pageant judges were critiquing her movements.

He steered east toward the mouth of the Mississippi. The muddy highway held freighters, fishing boats, oilfield workboats, crew boats, tugs, barges, and the occasional cruise ship whose home berth lay adjacent to downtown New Orleans.

The Laurel Lee, a small freighter, as freighters go, had her bow pointed out to sea. He pulled in behind her and slowed to match her speed, keeping five hundred feet between them. The ship travelled steady at twelve knots—a little over thirteen miles an hour.

He turned the horses loose again, pushing fifty-eight miles an hour, what looked like max for the boat, and sped toward her stern. The six-foot wake from the steel beast rose slowly on each side as he neared. He eased in close, into the edge of the turbulence produced by the twin screws churning just below the surface on each side of the massive rudder. The bay boat wallowed in the roiled water.

Shanteel faced aft, away from the freighter. She seemed oblivious to the change in wave motion until the shadow of the freighter engulfed them. Then she twisted in the seat and raised her eyebrows at Meshach.

He shrugged and turned right, scaling the moving wave with ease. As the ship’s bridge loomed above them, he slowed again to match her speed. The hull was slick, no ladders, nothing to get a toehold on between the sea and the handrails skirting the outer edge of the ship. The deck stepped down in height from a good thirty feet tall at the bow to the lowest point aft, behind the bridge, no more than eighteen feet. Closer to fifteen. Loaded, those heights would be significantly less.

The deep, vibrating bellow of the ship’s horn shook the air. Shanteel gave her best wave to three men standing on the uppermost landing. Goofy broad thought they’d honked at her, and maybe they had, but Meshach knew his boat was close, too close. The bay boat would splat against the hull of the Laurel Lee with no more notice than a bug hitting the windshield of a speeding car. No one would feel the impact or notice a scratch on the paint.

The men outside the bridge looked official. Blue coveralls, blue ball caps with white patches on the crowns, and all three stood at ease, military style. The ship’s crew compliment ranged from eighteen to thirty persons of various responsibilities. Chief engineer, able-bodied seamen, electricians, motormen, mechanics, and the most important in Meshach’s mind, at least one certified radio operator worked twelve-hour shifts.

He edged the boat ahead and veered right, angling south away from the vessel. A siren penetrated the wind and engine noise. From the left side of the freighter, a Coastguard boat moved to cut him off. Where had they come from? He could kick himself. He’d missed them.

Running would be dumb. Shows guilt and there was nowhere to go. He might outrun the much larger boat in the narrow lanes in the marsh, but out here, no way. They had a chopper at their disposal, only a radio call away too.

They’d seen him approach the freighter, or someone had reported him. In either case, they had him. He pulled the throttle back to neutral. The bay boat settled. A second later the siren stopped.

He made a mental note of the location of the lifejackets in the compartment under his seat and the two fire extinguishers mounted on each side of the center console. They would ask. Safety was always first and missing lifesaving equipment would warrant additional snooping. He had nothing to hide physically. The gun was legal. Everyone carried firearms. They could give him a ticket if something was missing. An Internet search would reveal the citation, and he’d be a blip on the radar screen.

Shanteel took her seat in the front and eyed the large white boat speeding toward them.

The boat slowed then turned and stopped two hundred yards away. A small crane lowered a rubber-craft with four puddle pirates dressed in blue coveralls over the side. It sped Meshach’s direction. A woman’s voice blared over a bullhorn, “Sir, please turn off the engine. We’re coming alongside.”

Two coasties moved to grapple the bay boat.

Meshach gave his best smile to their commander, a short attractive woman with her hair in a perfect bun topped with a blue USCG cap. “Something wrong, officer?”

Shanteel leaned back against the side of the boat, spread her arms wide across the top railing, and stretched her long legs out in front of her. She didn’t hide her head-to-toe assessment of the other woman.

All four wore side arms. A stocky kid who looked like he’d played his last high school football game a week earlier put one leg over the gunnel, resting his foot on the rail of the bay boat. “Sir, you took a chance approaching the Laurel Lee the way you did. Do you have mechanical problems that need to be addressed? Or a steering or throttle malfunction?”

“Nope.” Meshach gave Shanteel—who had yet to give the female coastie a break from her evaluation—a sideways glance. “I was distracted, if you know what I mean, and I let the moment interfere with my judgment.”

The kid’s gaze followed Meshach’s to Shanteel and lingered a long moment before coming back. He gave the knowing smile of a worldly eighteen-year-old.

Meshach grinned. “Yeah, I’m testing this boat. Thinking about buying it. Thought I’d take my girl for a short cruise this morning.”

As the three men glanced at Shanteel again, he assessed them. Pistols secured, but handy. One man had his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his coveralls. All three distracted. Easy to get the jump on. Not the woman. She watched him. She’d been around.

To her credit, Shanteel grinned and, most importantly, kept her mouth shut.

Meshach nodded at the tallest man. “How’s your golf game?”

The guy blinked and patted his chest. “You talking to me? It’s OK. Have we played together?”

“No, but I see you’re a lefty and you play quite a bit.” Meshach pointed to the man’s hands. “The back of your right hand is white, with a brown V from the gap in your glove. The other is tanned.”

The coasties exchanged looks as the guy scanned the back of his hands.

The female nodded toward the center console of the bay boat. “Could I see your preservers, please? Show me that your fire extinguishers are charged?”

Meshach raised the seat cushion revealing half a dozen orange lifejackets and waited for her nod of approval before dropping the seat back in place. Then he opened the clips holding the ten-pound extinguishers and held them out so she could see the needles hovering in the green, charged area.

She tilted back her head far enough to look at him under her sunglasses. The stitching on her coveralls read Moore. “Very well. Thanks for your cooperation. Please try to observe the Rules of the Road. It’s a good practice anytime, but especially between the sea buoys. Big vessels can’t leave the lane, might run aground, and well, as you can imagine, it can take them several miles to stop. I’d hate for one to ruin your outing.”

“Yes, ma’am, as would I.” Meshach gave them a mock salute as they pushed away. He started the bay boat and engaged the motor.

Shanteel rose and moved in beside him as he opened the throttle again. She slipped her hand under his shirt and let her long nails scratch their way up his spine to the middle of his back. She said something, but the wind snatched it out of her mouth.

He leaned into her. “Darling, that little purr isn’t going to work at this speed. You’ll have to speak up.”

She looked back at the coastguard boat. The smaller boat had already been retrieved. “I said that was interesting, and you’re a big fat liar.”

He pulled his glasses down and peered into her deep green eyes. “Do you care?”

She seemed to wander his face then focused on his bad eye and flinched. “Where are we going, sweetie?” Her fingers slid down to the small of his back.

He looked ahead and replaced the glasses. Smart girl. Get closer and change the subject. “Not far. Maybe go out fifteen, twenty miles, goof off, see the sights, have lunch and enjoy the day.”

“Cool.” She glanced to their left. The Laurel Lee’s hulk had turned eastward. “I’ve never been so close to one of those big ships. What’s it carrying?”

“Nothing, she’s empty. Look at her, riding high, the top of the screws nearly out of the water. See the change in color about halfway up the hull, from dull to bright red, that’s the waterline when she’s loaded.”

“What does it carry?”

“Who knows? The ships leaving here are usually loaded with grain, soybeans, sulfur, coke, any number of things.”

“Coke? Like cokes you drink?”

He knew she was going to ask. Clueless. “No, an oil refining residue. It’s those huge black mounds you see stacked along the river here and there, near the refineries.”

She nudged her shoulder in front of his arm, one of those let’s-get-cozy moves. “You know a lot about ships. Are you a captain?”

“No, but I’m going to pilot one soon.”

“You are?” She sounded surprised, like they’d known each other for years and she’d never heard such an absurd idea.

“Yes, I am. Only bigger.” He looked toward the northwest where the Marathon refinery loomed. “Much bigger. Hopefully, one that’s full of crude oil.”

She leaned into him this time. “I didn’t hear you, baby.”

He smiled, eased his arm around her bare shoulders, and squeezed. She melted against him.

No, and for your sake, it’s a good thing you didn’t.