In fifteen minutes they reached the bay, emerging on the ocean side of Prince Key. To their west the nuke plant was hidden behind the tall trees of the island. Farther to their south was the long span of Card Sound Bridge, and beyond that, out of sight, lay Key Largo, with its channels and back bays and creeks, a hundred familiar places to hide. But Key Largo was at least ten miles off. An impossible distance.
The shortest route to safety was to head a mile south, duck into the main channel at the Ocean Reef Club, and get his ass to the dock at the oceanside marina, where armed security officers patrolled day and night.
“Okay, smart guy,” Pauly said. “Do your thing.”
The wind was light, the water close to shore with barely a chop, while farther out the ocean was a polished slab of cobalt spangled with silver coins of light, a flawless slick that stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
A dying wave from the wake of a distant cabin cruiser lifted the four kayaks and rolled on toward Prince Key, carrying with it a mat of seaweed and a battered styrofoam cup. Six feet down the bottom was visible, a couple of coral heads and spatters of white sand where minnows darted across the open ground, exposed for a blink before disappearing into the swaying patches of turtle grass. The hot summer air was thick with the vinegar scent of barnacles on the roots of the mangroves exposed by the not-yet-risen tide. And a sharp stink came from the trees along the shoreline where roosting pelicans had smeared the upper leaves with white streaks of guano.
Thorn scanned the adjacent waters, choosing a spot as distant from Prince Key as he thought he could sell to Pauly.
“Over there,” he said, motioning south.
“Get on with it.” Pauly fell in behind him.
Passing Flynn, Thorn glanced his way, but couldn’t read him.
Pauly kept pace with Thorn, allowing no distance to grow between their kayaks. Stroke by stroke Thorn led them farther from Prince Key.
One cast, that’s all he needed. Best cast he’d ever made.
Thorn pictured the perfect layout of the four kayaks, and how it would work, step by step, a sharp, vivid scene without a lot of fuss. Cast the bait net once, then when everyone’s guard was down, he’d turn and lasso Pauly, hit the handline hard, cinch the rope, add a hard knot, and Pauly would be trussed up like a holiday turkey.
While Pauly fought the netting, deal with Wally. Whack him overboard, shove his kayak out to sea. And get the hell out of there.
Just one good cast, something he’d done a thousand times.
Thorn pointed toward a patch of ruffled water. “Bait,” he said, giving Flynn a quick look. You with me?
And got no response.
A mass of gunpowder-gray clouds was scudding out of the west, dimming the sun and turning the blue sea to pewter as if nature were having the same grim mood swing as Thorn.
The arrangement of the boats he’d been picturing wasn’t happening. The rising wind had spread the kayaks helter-skelter. Pauly was drifting farther from the group, almost out of range.
Thorn cast the net out to the open water and hauled it in. On that throw he captured a single needlefish, which squirted through the knotted cords as he drew the net close.
“This is fucked,” Wally said. “We’ll be out here all night.”
“Fishing takes patience,” Thorn said.
“Fuck patience. Patience is for assholes with nothing better to do.”
Thorn gathered the net and got set. He took a second to arrange his grip and aim, then swiveled in the cockpit and launched the net.
Pauly saw it coming, jammed his paddle deep, and tried to scoot out of range, but Thorn had guessed he’d respond that way and led him by a few feet. The net fluttered around him like a lariat over the horns of a rodeo bull.
But as Thorn was yanking the handline to tighten the noose, Flynn slid next to Pauly’s kayak, dropped his paddle, took hold of the bait net, and whisked it off.
“Jesus, Thorn,” Flynn said. “I thought you were good at this.”
Pauly looked Thorn’s way, his mouth widening a fraction. A cramped smile. “Nice try, hotshot.”
“It was the wind,” Flynn said.
“Sure it was,” said Pauly. “The wind.”
Hand over hand Thorn was dragging in the net when a flats boat idled into view from the opening of Pumpkin Creek, then with a roar, it rose up on plane and in a handful of seconds was veering alongside him, its wake rocking Thorn’s kayak so hard he had to grip the sides to keep from capsizing.
Wearing a broad-brimmed sunhat, Leslie Levine stood at the wheel of her Whipray. The bow of Thorn’s kayak scraped hard against its sleek white hull. She throttled back and maneuvered the boat out of range.
On her face was the kind of unruffled look you’d expect from some forgiving kindergarten teacher who dealt every hour of every working day with the shortcomings of her wayward charges.