Breaking the Line

I clambered out of the fighting chair and stumbled towards the ladder leading up to the tiny bridge, the motion of the craft threatening to throw me off my feet at each step.

“What?  Who was that?  Que paso?” I hollered, holding fast halfway up the ladder.

He spared a glance down over his shoulder.  “Raymon, un narco.  Very bad man.  He catch us, nos mataron.”

“Then don't let him catch us,” I said, though a quick look behind us showed the more powerful boat closing the distance with ominous rapidity.

“Don't matter.  He see name on boat.  He find me.”  The captain managed the neat trick of sounding simultaneously resigned and panicked.

The Marlin III's mate was apparently only panicked.  He elected to hazard the swim to shore – a half mile at a rough guess, leaping into our wake, perhaps in hope of going unnoticed or dismissed as of less consequence than the rest of us.





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