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

Operations Forces. Pros, very tough, and they didn’t carry AK-47s.
    â€œIf you’re friends, lower those goddamn guns.”
    The friendly terrorist thought for a moment, then pretended not to understand. “We must find location named ‘Palm Island Resort.’ ”
    â€œIn this fog? Palm Island’s six or seven miles of thin water and oyster bars. Good luck.”
    â€œYes, good luck. Already too much bad. You know way?”
    He’d missed my meaning, but I replied, “Palm Island? Sure.” I nodded, and made a vague gesture with the vodka bottle, maybe pointing east toward the mainland or west toward the Gulf of Mexico. I didn’t have a clue. “It’s not far. I could run it blindfolded.”
    The men were getting impatient. One of them held my canoe’s forward thwart. The boat rocked precariously as he reached beneath his seat. “Engine. You fix?” He was holding an object vertically. A small knife.
    â€œThey haven’t made the engine I can’t fix.”
    He touched the blade to his neck. “Then fix. ” I pretended to take a gulp of vodka, then thrust the bottle toward him. He was so surprised he nearly dropped the knife. “Have a drink. You’re not mad, you’re just thirsty. But move your ass first. I need room to work.”
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    I LIVE NEXT TO A MARINA AND IT’S A RARE WEEK THAT I don’t help some newcomer start his boat. The problems are typically minor because small outboards require only three essentials: fuel, air, spark. It simplifies troubleshooting.
    The plastic gas tank was full, fuel hose connected. I removed the hose from the engine and sniffed. The smell of gasoline should have been strong. It wasn’t.
    As I said, “I need a screwdriver or a knife,” I felt the boat shift. I turned. Knife guy had moved behind me, close enough that his knee brushed my back. He had a full, black beard, heavy glasses.
    He was positioning himself to cut my throat—probably as soon as I got the engine going.
    â€œPerfect,” I said. “Thanks.”
    The man didn’t react for a moment when I reached to take his knife. Then he knocked my hand away.
    â€œHey, you want your motor fixed or not? I need a knife. ”
    The friendly terrorist was listening to the patrol boat, trying to gauge its heading—not easy because of the fog, but also because the diesel engines now blended with a familiar, rhythmic thumping. It was the sound of an approaching helicopter.
    Tampa Coast Guard was joining the hunt. Or maybe a military chopper from nearby MacDill Air Base.
    The man snapped, “Folano!,” then added a few anxious words I didn’t understand.
    Folano slapped the weapon flat-bladed into my palm, then was silent, letting his anger fill the boat. The knife had a polished handle and a short, curved blade. Nice. I touched a finger to the edge—sharp. No wonder he didn’t want to loan it.
    I said, “Appreciate it, Folano,” then turned and removed the engine cowling.
    Once again, I found the fuel hose. It had a standard quick-clip connector with an inset brass bearing. The bearing functioned as a valve. I squeezed the primer bulb, then used the tip of the knife to push the valve open. Gas should have squirted. It didn’t.
    I unscrewed the gas tank’s plastic cap and heard a vacuum rush. Open a fresh jar of pickles and the sound’s similar.
    A vacuum. That was the problem. They hadn’t opened the air vent, so gas couldn’t flow. A common oversight.
    I opened the vent; replaced the cap.
    The engine would start. But I wasn’t done.
    â€œHand me that red flashlight.”
    I was working on a forty-horsepower outboard, an older OMC, with the throttle and gearshift built into the tiller. A lot of power for a small boat. I searched until I found the internal safety switch. It had distinctive wiring, yellow and red. Bypass the safety switch and an engine