Last Day by Luanne Rice Read Free Book Online Page B

overall with a graceful shear and an elegant waterline. At first, he thought the boat was becalmed, but after a few seconds, he saw that it was underway, motoring at a slow speed.
    Seconds after spotting the sailboat, he lost sight of it. The vessel passed Block Island into the open ocean, and with no light behind it, the silhouette dissolved. Although the last three days had been calm, a gale was forecast, and by dawn the Atlantic would be roaring.
    Glasses held to his eyes, Tom radioed Luis Santiago, the deck watch officer, up on the bridge.
    “Twenty degrees off the port bow,” Tom said. “A sailboat running south-southeast without lights. I had her but I lost her.”
    “I got her on radar. A smuggler or just a goddamn idiot?” Luis asked.
    “Going south is the wrong direction for smuggling drugs,” Tom said.
    “Then check box number two. A goddamned idiot who missed the September exodus. His voyage to Saint Barts or wherever will have to wait. We’re going to ruin his night.”
    Nehantic sped toward the invisible boat and minutes later approached what appeared to be a ghost ship. The yacht glided across the glassy sea, its wake white and rippling in the floodlights of the cutter. Its transom was illuminated, and Tom read the name and port: Rembrandt , Newport, Rhode Island. The cockpit was empty, but the boat steamed along, obviously on autopilot.
    “Yacht Rembrandt !” Luis said, his voice booming out the speaker. He didn’t have time to say anything else—two heads poked out of the companionway, and a man and woman scrambled up on deck.
    “Hello!” the man called. “We’re fine! Everything’s okay.”
    “Running lights,” Luis said.
    “Oh, shit,” the man said. “Sorry—it got dark so fast we didn’t even notice. Flip them on, will you, Sally?”
    And the yacht’s running lights—white masthead and stern lights, the red port and green starboard lights—came on. That should have been enough. Maybe a citation for ignoring rules of the road. It might have been stupid to be heading south in November, but it wasn’t illegal.
    But in the spotlight’s glare, Tom spotted firearms, and not just any: just behind the nav station were two AK-47 assault rifles. They looked like the Chinese Norinco Type 56s they’d taken off the narco-sub a week before. The man glanced at Tom, noticed his line of vision, and inched toward the wheel, moving toward the guns. Tom drew his sidearm and pointed it at the captain and Sally.
    “Hands up!” he said.
    “You’re making a mistake,” the man said. “We’re heading south for the winter, and we . . .”
    “Hands up!” Tom shouted. The man and Sally complied. The entire Nehantic crew had responded. Several crew members were standing along the port rail, weapons drawn and pointed at the two people aboard Rembrandt ; others were hurrying down to the deck where Tom stood. A call was made to headquarters—a request for air-and-sea backup. The raid boat was readied and lowered. Tom led the boarding party.
    They handcuffed and searched the two people on board Rembrandt —Joshua Anderson and his wife, Sally. Both had Glock 9s in hip holsters hidden beneath their red fleece jackets. The hands of both suspects were covered with deep scratches. Tom took photos of their hands to show that with the blood already coagulating and scabbing, the injuries couldn’t have been caused during the arrest.
    The boarding team secured the weapons. The yacht was a Nautor Swan, one of the most luxurious and seaworthy production sailboats made. Tom heard Joshua babbling about pirates, how you can’t be too careful these days, how the Glocks and Chinese AKs were for self-defense, how the rules of the high seas were different, how boat invasions were just as deadly and prevalent as home invasions.
    Tom scrambled down into the cabin. At first he thought the gold-framed museum-looking paintings on Rembrandt ’s walnut-paneled walls were just part of the Swan’s decor. He spotted a