Page 72 of Untamed Coast

Collins stood abruptly, kicking his chair back against the wall. “She’s lying, Chief. I—”

The older man didn’t blink. “Let’s take it down a notch, Ted. Walk with me.” He tilted his head toward the adjacent hallway.

Collins gathered the recorder and the gun and followed the chief out of the room, slamming the door.

Anya was alone, unless someone was still watching from behind that mirror. She straightened her collar, and realized that the bruise on her upper arm had faded completely. She wasn’t going to let Collins get to her.

She’d faced worse men than him.

Chapter 55

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Outside Funter Bay, AK

2017—Marconi Franco

The sound was wrong.

Marco blinked repeatedly, trying to get his eyes to focus. Everything was a blur of white and…

Engine room. I’m in the engine room. Why?

The boat was rocking wildly, and the engine wasn’t running.

Am I at anchor?

No, the smoke, the—

How long have I been out?

Marco’s head throbbed. He tried to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. One arm was behind his back, his forearm burning when he moved. He was lying on top of it. Trying to rotate his body—no. He was jammed over a structural stringer with one shoulder below the engine.

The engine was dead, heat still radiating off the oil cooler.

He wriggled himself free, pulling his body out with one foot getting a grip, digging into a gap below the generator.

He sat up, trying to get his mind to engage. Tiny twinkles of light circled the edge of his narrowed vision. The bulky life preserver squeezed his chest. He unzipped it and breathed deeply.

Must get to the pilothouse.

With the engine dead, the boat was in serious danger.

Could be anywhere.

The hatch was a full body-length away. Marco crawled to the opening and tried to pull himself to a standing position. His aching shoulder wouldn’t engage his arm to pull him up. He switched arms. He held on to the side of the opening and stepped up into the salon. Standing upright, he leaned on the galley countertop, balance gone, working his way to the stair railing. One step at a time—pulling himself up the railing. The boat pitched and he gripped tight.

He reached the helm chair and leaned into it for support. Radio Flyer was drifting, dead in the water, getting a little bit of protection from the wind and waves in a bight—a half cove—near shore—surrounded by sharp rocks.

I’ve got a couple minutes at most. She won’t survive a tangle with those rocks.

Radio Flyer was drifting quickly. The chartplotter was still working—depth finder read over 500 feet.

Way too deep for the anchor to be any help. Not enough time to call for a rescue.

He held the engine Start button. The starter cranked.

Nothing.