She heard the anchor hit the water and hurried her preparations, knowing she would only have one shot to do this. The speargun had a powerhead holder shaft affixed to the side. Fortunately, Steve kept a stash of .223 blanks in the cabin. Her hands trembled as she loaded the round into the powerhead and twisted it down, not yet arming it.

She examined the bands on the gun. One was a little dried out and cracked, but the other looked nearly new. She checked the spear and found it was secure.

She was out of practice, and it was harder to do on a pitching boat and with a baby belly, but she propped the gun butt against her thigh and managed to cock the band before she thumbed off the safety.

Then she armed the powerhead and backed into the alcove, wedged between the tiny galley on her right and the entry on her left, and waited.

Kern stumbled on his way back from the bow. She prayed for a splash but no such luck. He regained his footing and she followed his progress, heard him jump down from the gunwale to the deck. He paused long enough for her to wonder what he was doing before she heard him approach the hatchway.

She braced herself, holding the speargun ready. He wouldn’t see her at first, would have to come down the steps before he could turn around to see her, and she could nail him.

The cabin door opened. He paused for a moment. “Okay, Laura, where are you? Playing hide-and-seek, are we?”

As expected, he stepped down. She let out a war whoop, jabbing him with the powerhead as she lunged. He screamed as it caught him in the back of the right thigh. She nearly dropped the speargun from the shock of the concussion but managed to hold onto it in the dim, crowded cabin.

He continued screaming in agony and dropped the gun to the cabin floor.

It went off. She heard the report but didn’t know where the round hit. She realized she was still screaming, too—in rage. He fell on his back to the cabin floor, clutching his right thigh in his hands.

She fired the speargun for good measure. His screams turned into desperate, pained shrieks as the shaft pierced his abdomen.

“Go to hell, you son of a bitch!” The shaft end was still in the speargun and she yanked back, trying to free it, determined to hit him with the butt of the gun.

He wrapped his hands around the spear shaft, a gruesome tug of war going on between them. Every time she yanked the speargun, he writhed in agony, shrieking in pain. He was bleeding from his leg, and the wings on the shaft point pulled against his flesh as she yanked on it. She finally ripped the speargun free, the shaft still embedded in his gut, and he screamed again.

Kern was too busy with his own pain to fight back. Laura loaded and cocked a new shaft. The guns and shafts were normally securely stowed in the cabin’s overhead compartment. She’d stripped the other guns of their extra shafts and had the shafts propped in the galley corner behind her.

He’ll look like a goddamn porcupine when I’m finished with the son of a bitch.

An alarm went off in the cockpit, barely audible over Kern’s inhuman screeching and finally grabbing her attention.

The bilge. She looked down and realized while Kern was still squirming, he was now splashing as well. Apparently the bullet—the hollow-point doing its job well—had breached the hull somewhere below the waterline.

“Shit!” She grabbed the spare shafts and scrambled up the steps through the open hatch, snagging a life vest from where they were stowed as she passed them.

Then the engines died.

Down in the cabin, Kern still screamed.

“Shut up!” she yelled down at him. “Just fucking die already, asshole!”

Laura slammed the cabin hatch shut behind her. There was the padlock on the dash, her keys still hanging from it. She grabbed the keys and shoved them into her pocket, then padlocked the hatch.

The mic swung from the radio in time with the pitching of the boat, and just behind it she spied the EPIRB beacon. She ripped it from its holder and flipped it upside down, activating it. Then she dropped it to the dash and prayed the signal was activated. She put on her Mae West and tightened the strap before grabbing the mic.

The boat was noticeably listing now, the bilge pumps unable to keep up with the water. As she tried, and failed, to start the engines, Kern still screamed from inside the cabin.

She gave that up as she realized she wouldn’t be able to go up and cut the anchor loose in time, anyway. Laura knew from the rapid listing of the boat that she didn’t have enough time to start the GPS and wait for it to get a fix on her position.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. This is the Lemon Dive One. I have activated my EPIRB. Rapidly taking on water.”

She hoped the operator could understand her between her fear and the background scream of the bilge alarm. She was trying to remember protocol, stay calm, and failing.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, Ft. Myers Beach. Lemon Dive one. Thirty-foot, white cabin cruiser. We are rapidly taking on water through a hull breach. I have an active EPIRB beacon, and I cannot fix my location by GPS. Over.”

Laura closed her eyes and prayed and finally, through the static, she heard a woman’s voice. “Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Please stand by while we fix your EPIRB signal location. All traffic clear this channel immediately. Over.”

Laura clutched the mic and sobbed with relief.

Then she let out a shriek when the cabin hatch vibrated. Kern was up and moving and pissed off and apparently not dead yet. Not if he still had enough life left in him to hit the door.

“Ft. Myers, please hurry. There’s two persons on board, but I’ve got him locked in the cabin. He’s trying to kill me!”

* * *

They heard her distress call. Steve grabbed the boat keys and bolted for the back door, Rob and Thomas on his heels. Thomas barked orders at the deputies as he ran.

At least she was alive.

Steve jumped into the other boat while Rob and Thomas untied the lines and cast off before jumping down to join him on the deck. It was two hours before dark and the seas were building. If they couldn’t find her, they would lose her as the weather deteriorated and search choppers were grounded.

Thomas ordered Steve to ignore the no-wake signs and they flew down the channel through the deepening gloom toward the mouth of the bay.

“Rob, get the jackets,” Steve ordered as he pointed with one hand at the cabin. “It’s going to be rough out there.” He opened the electronics compartment while steering with one hand and got the GPS started.

Rob dug three life vests out, taking the wheel for Steve while he donned his. The smaller boat didn’t have as large a cabin as the cruiser, and with a narrower beam it wouldn’t fair nearly as well in the rough seas.

But the twin outboards had at least three times the speed of the slow and steady diesels on the larger boat.

Over the radio, the Coast Guard operator broke in. “Security, security, security. Hello all stations. This is the United States Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. We have a report of a vessel in immediate distress and taking on water with activated EPIRB beacon. The vessel is the Lemon Dive One, a thirty-foot white cabin cruiser, two persons on board. All vessels in the vicinity are asked to render assistance if possible…”

The message repeated, giving the lat-long coordinates again.

Rob scribbled them down and punched them into the GPS, swearing while it took its time refreshing.

Finally, he was able to plot the course. “Four miles out.”

Steve adjusted his heading and pushed the engines as hard as he dared in the deepening swells. They couldn’t help Laura if they cracked the hull.

Thomas got on his radio and called in the coordinates to the sheriff’s boat on stand-by. “And somebody call the Coast Guard and warn them about Kern. Tell them he’s armed and dangerous and to be apprehended and taken into custody on suspicion of multiple counts of murder, as well as assault and attempted murder.”

A man’s voice broke through on the radio. “Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers, this is the shrimper Pelican Bay. We are two miles north-northwest of that location, and proceeding to render assistance. Over.”

* * *

Laura heard the exchange on the radio and screamed as Kern banged into the cabin hatch again. She keyed the mic and, ignoring protocol, yelled into it.

“Please, hurry. He’s not dead yet. He’s got a gun and he’s trying to kill me!”

Despite her training she abandoned all attempts to remain calm. The deck was now awash. At this rate, with the seas as high as they were, they’d flounder in a few minutes. “You’ve got to hurry. Please.”

She dropped the mic and yanked the life ring free from its Velcro straps holding it to the outside of the cabin wall. Then she pulled herself to her feet and stuck one foot through the ring to keep it in place on the deck. The EPIRB beacon now rolled back and forth on the dash as the anchor dragged and the wind took the boat and pushed it crossways to the swell. She grabbed the beacon and stuffed it down the front of her shirt, hoping the life vest would keep it in place.

Rob’s voice came through the radio. “Laura, honey, we’re on our way. Stay calm. We’ve got the coordinates. We’re coming.”

The Coast Guard Operator broke in. “Vessel, clear this channel immediately.”

She grabbed the mic, beyond caring who heard her. “Sir, he’s got my gun. I shot him with a powerhead, but he’s got my gun. We’re swamping.”

“Vessel Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Ma’am, stay calm. We have a rescue chopper en route and a commercial vessel is close by. Do you have a life jacket on? Over.”

“You bet your fucking ass I do, Ft. Myers!”

It wasn’t raining yet, but the wind was picking up and the temperature dropping, so it wouldn’t be long.

She turned around and in the distance, the compass showed northwest, she spied vessel lights. Hopefully the shrimper. It was hard to tell from the brief glimpses she got before the boat dropped hard into each trough.

Laura keyed the mic again. “I think I see the shrimper.”

She screamed at the loud bang. The cabin hatch exploded, a huge hole appearing in it. Kern stuck his arm through, blindly waving the gun. She dropped the mic and lunged with the speargun, impaling his wrist. She fired and yanked the speargun free from the shaft.

He dropped the gun and she reflexively grabbed it, tossing it overboard without thinking and mentally swearing at herself as it disappeared beneath the surface of the stormy Gulf.

Kern’s voice roared over the sound of the wind, inhuman. “I’m going to kill you, you fucking bitch!” He flailed against the door, his other hand appearing as he tried to free himself but the shaft was long and kept him from twisting his arm.

That’s when Laura felt the baby move. She slipped a hand under the life vest. Sure enough, she felt it again.

A sudden, unexpected calm descended over her. Laura dug another .223 round out of her pocket and fumbled it into the powerhead. She spun it down onto the shaft, arming it.

“No you’re not, you bastard.” She jabbed the speargun through the hole in the door and his scream nearly drowned out the sound of the report.

He stopped moving. She stepped back, trying not to stumble as the boat rolled again. She didn’t look, didn’t want to see. From the new angle of his arm through the door, he had to be dead. She must have caught him in the chest or head. Wherever it was, it was dead-on.

She dropped the speargun and grabbed the mic with one hand, the life ring with the other.

Her momentary calm quickly dispersed. “Ft. Myers Beach, this is Lemon Dive One. I’m swamping. I don’t have much time. I’ve got the EPIRB beacon on me. Repeat, I have the EPIRB beacon on my person. Over.”

“Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Roger. We have vessels and a rescue chopper en route to your location. Over.”

“Roger, Ft. Myers. I have to go up to the bow. I won’t be able to transmit. I’m sending up flares. Over.” She turned up the volume on the radio and dropped the mic.

The water sloshing around in the stern had reached her ankles. The batteries, in a dry compartment in the dash, wouldn’t last much longer. She didn’t have a life raft on board, but the flare kit was stowed in the dash. She grabbed it and jammed it into her shirt, too. It was a tight fit between the life vest and the EPIRB beacon, but it was her only choice. With the life ring over one shoulder, she kicked off her sandals and carefully climbed onto the slippery gunwale, working her way up the pitching boat to the bow, gripping the wet handrails with all her strength. The cabin was higher, would keep her out of the water a few minutes longer.