Steve adjusted his heading and pushed the engines as hard as he dared in the deepening swells. They couldn’t help Laura if they cracked the hull.

Thomas got on his radio and called in the coordinates to the sheriff’s boat on stand-by. “And somebody call the Coast Guard and warn them about Kern. Tell them he’s armed and dangerous and to be apprehended and taken into custody on suspicion of multiple counts of murder, as well as assault and attempted murder.”

A man’s voice broke through on the radio. “Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers, this is the shrimper Pelican Bay. We are two miles north-northwest of that location, and proceeding to render assistance. Over.”

* * *

Laura heard the exchange on the radio and screamed as Kern banged into the cabin hatch again. She keyed the mic and, ignoring protocol, yelled into it.

“Please, hurry. He’s not dead yet. He’s got a gun and he’s trying to kill me!”

Despite her training she abandoned all attempts to remain calm. The deck was now awash. At this rate, with the seas as high as they were, they’d flounder in a few minutes. “You’ve got to hurry. Please.”

She dropped the mic and yanked the life ring free from its Velcro straps holding it to the outside of the cabin wall. Then she pulled herself to her feet and stuck one foot through the ring to keep it in place on the deck. The EPIRB beacon now rolled back and forth on the dash as the anchor dragged and the wind took the boat and pushed it crossways to the swell. She grabbed the beacon and stuffed it down the front of her shirt, hoping the life vest would keep it in place.

Rob’s voice came through the radio. “Laura, honey, we’re on our way. Stay calm. We’ve got the coordinates. We’re coming.”

The Coast Guard Operator broke in. “Vessel, clear this channel immediately.”

She grabbed the mic, beyond caring who heard her. “Sir, he’s got my gun. I shot him with a powerhead, but he’s got my gun. We’re swamping.”

“Vessel Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Ma’am, stay calm. We have a rescue chopper en route and a commercial vessel is close by. Do you have a life jacket on? Over.”

“You bet your fucking ass I do, Ft. Myers!”

It wasn’t raining yet, but the wind was picking up and the temperature dropping, so it wouldn’t be long.

She turned around and in the distance, the compass showed northwest, she spied vessel lights. Hopefully the shrimper. It was hard to tell from the brief glimpses she got before the boat dropped hard into each trough.

Laura keyed the mic again. “I think I see the shrimper.”

She screamed at the loud bang. The cabin hatch exploded, a huge hole appearing in it. Kern stuck his arm through, blindly waving the gun. She dropped the mic and lunged with the speargun, impaling his wrist. She fired and yanked the speargun free from the shaft.

He dropped the gun and she reflexively grabbed it, tossing it overboard without thinking and mentally swearing at herself as it disappeared beneath the surface of the stormy Gulf.

Kern’s voice roared over the sound of the wind, inhuman. “I’m going to kill you, you fucking bitch!” He flailed against the door, his other hand appearing as he tried to free himself but the shaft was long and kept him from twisting his arm.

That’s when Laura felt the baby move. She slipped a hand under the life vest. Sure enough, she felt it again.

A sudden, unexpected calm descended over her. Laura dug another .223 round out of her pocket and fumbled it into the powerhead. She spun it down onto the shaft, arming it.

“No you’re not, you bastard.” She jabbed the speargun through the hole in the door and his scream nearly drowned out the sound of the report.

He stopped moving. She stepped back, trying not to stumble as the boat rolled again. She didn’t look, didn’t want to see. From the new angle of his arm through the door, he had to be dead. She must have caught him in the chest or head. Wherever it was, it was dead-on.

She dropped the speargun and grabbed the mic with one hand, the life ring with the other.

Her momentary calm quickly dispersed. “Ft. Myers Beach, this is Lemon Dive One. I’m swamping. I don’t have much time. I’ve got the EPIRB beacon on me. Repeat, I have the EPIRB beacon on my person. Over.”

“Lemon Dive One, this is Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach. Roger. We have vessels and a rescue chopper en route to your location. Over.”

“Roger, Ft. Myers. I have to go up to the bow. I won’t be able to transmit. I’m sending up flares. Over.” She turned up the volume on the radio and dropped the mic.

The water sloshing around in the stern had reached her ankles. The batteries, in a dry compartment in the dash, wouldn’t last much longer. She didn’t have a life raft on board, but the flare kit was stowed in the dash. She grabbed it and jammed it into her shirt, too. It was a tight fit between the life vest and the EPIRB beacon, but it was her only choice. With the life ring over one shoulder, she kicked off her sandals and carefully climbed onto the slippery gunwale, working her way up the pitching boat to the bow, gripping the wet handrails with all her strength. The cabin was higher, would keep her out of the water a few minutes longer.

There were definitely lights coming from the northwest, and now from the east, too. She pulled out the flare kit, trying to calm herself and not drop them or let them get wet. Her hands trembled from the shock and the stress and the cold. She was wet, soaked through from the spray.

Forcing herself to wait another minute to give them a chance to close in, she figured the wind direction and finally lifted her arms, closing her eyes as she fired the flare gun. Then she grabbed the cabin rail when the boat rolled again, barely keeping herself from sliding off the bow.

The flare swooped into the sky, exploding before finally fizzling out.

A moment later the radio came to life. “Laura? Honey? We saw it. We’re coming. Hang tight, honey—”

“Coast Guard Ft. Myers Beach, this is the Pelican Bay, we saw a flare. We’re about a half mile from last reported location. Over.”

Laura’s teeth chattered. She couldn’t tell what were tears and what was sea spray on her face. She forced herself to wait another twenty seconds, counting Mississippis as she did, before she sent up another flare.

The shrimper’s lights were closing in, but her entire stern was submerged. The radio and bilge alarm died as the batteries went under. She had maybe a minute left before the boat sank.

The wind picked up, howling, and then the rain. She quickly fired her last two flares, including the test flare from the kit, and dropped the gun. All the while she prayed she didn’t lose the EPIRB beacon, knowing if she did she’d die in the storm.

The deck pitched beneath her as a large wave finished the boat. It capsized, throwing her into the water. She nearly lost the life ring but managed to hold on to it somehow. With the hull still visible she swam for the boat while each swell tried to push her farther away.

She sobbed and took in a mouthful of salt water. Coughing, she flipped onto her back, clutching the life ring, and tried to control herself.

I can do this.

She had flotation, she had a life vest, she had the EPIRB, the water was relatively warm.

I am trained. Just float. Cough, swallow. Float and wait. Cough, swallow.

The baby kicked again.

What little calm she’d salvaged evaporated. Her baby! She had to stay with the boat!

She struggled to kick as another wave broke over her. She felt dizzy, coughing, struggling to breathe, and had just enough strength to flip onto her back again when she saw a bright, white light sweep over her.

No! She didn’t want to die. Not like this, please!

She lost consciousness.

* * *

Rob and Thomas held on for dear life, both soaked from spray. Steve’s face grim, he pushed the boat as fast as he dared through the rough seas. In the distance they saw the shrimper light up, all its work lights blazing in the deepening gloom, its search spot sweeping the water.

They were less than a mile from the location when they heard the radio.

“Coast Guard Station Ft. Myers Beach, this is the Pelican Bay. We’ve recovered one person from the water, they are unresponsive. Administering CPR now. Request instructions, over.”

“No!” Rob pounded his fist on the dash. “No, goddammit, no!”

“Rob, we don’t know if it’s her,” Thomas tried to reassure him when the Coast Guard came back on and gave instructions. Proceed on their course heading to meet with the rescue chopper. When the radio traffic paused, Steve grabbed the mic.

“Pelican Bay, this is Lemon Dive Two. We have visual contact and are proceeding to your location. We’re less than a mile off your port bow. Did you recover a man or a woman? Over.”

There was a pause during which Rob thought for sure his heart would stop.

“Lemon Dive Two, this is Pelican Bay. I see you. We recovered a woman. Over.”

Rob sobbed as his knees gave out and he collapsed to the deck.

Steve left him to Thomas. Between the boat and the radio and his own emotions, he had his hands full. “Roger, Pelican Bay. Please be advised she’s four months pregnant. I have her husband with me, he’s a paramedic. Over.”

“Lemon Dive Two, roger that. Approach from my starboard aft, he can board from there, but it’ll be rough. Standing by channel one-six. Over.”