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Perez really had had no choice but to order that Carlos keep the Fountain at the back, because there it would attract the least attention. But it also made Lucky Five the easiest to cull from the herd if, for example, the Coast Guard wanted to perform what Perez derided as a “courtesy inspection.”

Enforcing maritime law on the high seas—from looking for drug smugglers to counting life jackets—was a mission of the Coast Guard. Captains whose vessels were stopped and found to be in compliance would suffer only a short delay, generally from a courteous but professional boarding crew.

Perez more or less sneered at the thought of the Coast Guard SPC giving chase. Powered by three 300-horsepower outboards, the lightweight SPC would have to run hard to catch the fast Fountain. And the Marauder, with triple 1,075-horsepower engines, would easily leave the SPC in its wake.

But not for long.

Perez was acutely aware that all that the Coast Guard had to do was call in for support—including scrambling aircraft, if necessary—and there would be nowhere for anyone to run.

Perez had made sure that, like his Marauder, Carlos’s Fountain was completely in compliance with all laws.

If only for the moment, he thought.

It was common knowledge that if the cops really wanted to stop him—or, for that matter, any vessel operating in U.S. waters—they only had to declare that the vessel was operating in an unsafe manner.

The Coasties could easily board his boat with any excuse. They could say they saw the shitter discharging overboard, then tell him, “Guess it’s okay after all. Better safe than sorry. Have a nice day.”

But if they pick up on his nervousness, and keep an eye on him, we’re totally screwed.

“L-One, L-Five,” came Carlos’s reply after a moment, his tone sounding relieved. “All clear. Red Stripe turned toward shore. Looks like he’s headed for Looe Key.” He added, “Maybe some tourist got a snorkel full of water on the reef. Over.”

Perez grunted. He shook his head as his eyes scanned the speedboats in his pack, then the waters beyond the pack where the coral reef was. He did not see the Red Stripe.

Looe Key? You better hope not.

That’s close to where we’re headed, you fucking idiot!

“Stay focused!” Perez snapped. “L-One standing by.”

Perez dropped the handheld into its holder beside where the in-dash VHF radio was mounted. Wedged in the lip of the VHF faceplate were four playing cards, a pair of diamonds and a pair of kings. The readout screen on the faceplate cycled, showing the radio was monitoring channel 16—the international frequency for distress and general calls—and channel 79.

The display then locked on 79, and the loudspeaker came to life with an excited young female voice.

“Attention all Poker Run captains,” she announced, her tone over-the-top chipper. “Headquarters station calling. Wave one is about to arrive at our fifth stop, Lost Key Resort, where boats get their last playing cards. Wave two is approximately ten minutes behind, and wave three, the last wave, left Key West fifteen minutes ago. So far only one boat’s dropped out, due to a mechanical problem. Keep safe out there! HQ headed for Lost Key and we’re standing by on channel 79. . . .”

Perez sighed, then reached to the helm and turned down the volume on the VHF. He looked back and watched the lumbering cargo ship fading into the distance.

—

Ten minutes later, Carlos picked up the handheld radio and said: “Visual made. Coming up on my two o’clock. Should overtake in five—repeat five—minutes. Over.”

“L-Five, Tin Can. I see you on-screen. Understand five minutes.”

Carlos glanced at the gorgeous brunette as he reached for the Fountain’s throttles. She was napping, her empty champagne cup tipped over in her lap.

He retarded the three big diesels slightly. The speed indicator on the dash and on the readout on the screen of the Global Positioning Satellite receiver both dropped from fifty to thirty-five mph.

The pack quickly pulled away from the Fountain. When he was about a hundred yards back, Carlos looked over his right shoulder, saw no other boats, and turned the wheel to the right. Then, lining up the cargo ship with the tip of his bow, he bumped the throttles up until the speed indicators read sixty-five.

He glanced back to his left. The high-performance boats cut across the water, their frothy white V-shaped wakes scoring the deep blue surface.

No one seemed to notice that their pack now numbered nine.

—

Six minutes later, Miguel Treto’s voice crackled over the radio: “L-Five, Tin Can. Approach at the stern, starboard side. No lines. My crew will hold you alongside.”

“Got it.”