Hunter's Moon by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online Page A

each other dumbly as our vessels revolved, then bumped again.
    That roused them. They lunged for their weapons; I threw my hands out as if to fend them off. It’s a reflexive, defensive posture, and why most people shot in the face at close range are also missing fingers. That’s what came into my mind as they stabbed rifles at me—I’d be missing fingers when my body was found. An odd, final vanity for a man who was about to die.
    I lowered my hands to hide them . . . or perhaps because, even as a victim, I remained a determined disciple of the clean kill. I released my breath, curious, at some remote level, how my brain would signal the intrusion of a bullet. Darkness or a shattering light? If these men were pros, they wouldn’t hesitate . . . but they did hesitate.
    Why?
    I realized that my eyes were closed. I opened them. I gulped for air and voiced the first finesse that came to mind. “Don’t shoot. You need me. I can start your engine.” My voice was improbably calm.
    The men replied with threatening gestures that I interpreted as commands. I raised my hands again, still expecting the killers to fire. They didn’t. I became more confident when a voice asked, “Who are you ?”
    The man was whispering for a reason. He didn’t want to give away their position.
    From the distance came the rumble of engines: a patrol boat, Coast Guard probably. The hunters were now being hunted and here they were with a motor that wouldn’t start.
    My confidence grew.
    A red beam drilled a smoky conduit through the mist. The flashlight panned across my face, the canoe’s deck, my backpack, my clothes duffel. “You are Secret Service?”
    I laughed, careful not to force it. “Me? I’m a . . . mechanic .”
    The man’s English was spotty. I had to repeat the word twice.
    â€œWhy you then following us?”
    He kept his voice low. I raised mine as if we were a hundred yards apart.
    â€œFollowing you? In this fog? I couldn’t follow you if we were in the same boat and your ass was on fire.”
    They didn’t laugh. But they didn’t shoot, either. That was the way to play it, I decided. Stay aggressive.
    â€œNot so loud. Not necessary to be shouting.”
    â€œI’ll speak any damn way I want. I paddled over trying to be a nice guy, help you start that engine. And this is the thanks I get?”
    There was a pause of reconsideration. They were desperate, I realized. Escape mode.
    The man doing the talking was next to the throttle—their leader. I watched him focus for a moment on the patrol boat. It sounded closer.
    He began to hurry . . . turned and pulled the outboard’s starter cord. Nothing. He adjusted the choke, then pulled again, three times fast—it wouldn’t start. He made a blowing sound.
    â€œIf you are mechanic, why this boat for rowing?”
    â€œBecause I don’t want to go to jail for drunk driving. That’s why.”
    I reached toward my feet, found the vodka bottle, and held it up. At the same time, I palmed a flare from my open bag and slid it into my pocket. “I figured you were cops. But that can’t be. So why you got those guns in my face?”
    In the silence that followed, I wondered if I’d pushed too far. I was relieved when a man with better English interceded.
    â€œWe are soldiers. Guests of your military—but this is secret. You know war games? But we can’t get goddamn engine started. We are supposed to be at a certain location by midnight but now we have this goddamn trouble.”
    He used slang like an ornament, profanity learned from a book. I couldn’t place the accent or his static progressive verbs. Indonesian or Middle Eastern. It meshed with the million-dollar reward.
    â€œYou’re foreigners.”
    â€œYes . . . Singapore. America’s friends.”
    He sounded friendly, but I didn’t buy it. I’d worked with Singapore’s Special