* * *
The thirty-nine-foot Midnight Express that Finn commanded weighed more than sixteen thousand pounds, was powered by four three-hundred-horsepower Mercury outboards, and had a top speed of sixty knots. It also had seats mounted on shock absorbers, which, of its many features, was the one Finn most appreciated. He loved driving fast boats, but he knew what a thirty-nine-foot hull slamming against the sea could do to your knees.
He clipped himself into the three-point harness in the seat in front of the wheel. Gomez strapped into the seat next to him, Chinchilla into one of the two seats behind. She was wearing night-vision goggles. Gomez’s job was to scan the screen for anything suspicious picked up by their own radar. Chinchilla’s was to scan the horizon for body heat.
Finn checked that his shipmates were strapped in, then pressed down the throttles. Even strapped into the shock-mitigating seat, Finn’s body felt the impact each time the hull launched itself off the top of a wave, hung suspended for a moment in the air, then slammed down on the water, all the while maintaining a forward speed of fifty knots. His body felt weightless every time the boat’s hull left the water, then crushed when it hit the surface. It was absolutely exhilarating.
They drove like that for a quarter hour, not seeing anything. Then Finn felt a tap on his shoulder. He pulled back the throttles. The boat slowed, the hull sank into the water, and the engines’ roar diminished to a low rumble.
“Bodies five hundred yards off the starboard bow,” said Chinchilla.
Finn put on his own night-vision goggles. They were still at a distance that was at the limit of the goggles’ range, but it was a clear night, and he could distinguish two human figures standing in the cockpit of a speedboat. A speedboat traveling with its lights out.
Finn put down the goggles.
“Take the starboard gun,” he said.
Chinchilla unstrapped herself from the seat and positioned herself at the rifle mounted on the starboard gunwale. Finn pushed the throttles forward until they hit twenty knots and headed straight at the speedboat. He switched on the lights and the siren.
Finn didn’t need to ask why the speedboat was traveling with its lights out. Its reaction to the Interceptor told him all he needed to know. The go-fast took off. Finn accelerated to keep up. They were close enough now to see what they were dealing with. A sleek, forty-foot boat with four outboards.
Chinchilla, who was still wearing her night-vision goggles, shouted, “There are three guys aboard, not two!”
Finn put the Interceptor in their wake. He was running her at 80 percent throttle and was easily keeping up with her. The Interceptor was about fifty feet behind its target. He knew that he could jump up alongside the go-fast whenever he wanted. He didn’t want to get too close until he knew what they were up against.
A minute later, whoever was driving the go-fast must’ve realized that he wasn’t going to outrun the Interceptor. He wasn’t going to reach his destination. So he turned south, toward the border. Finn tapped the throttle forward and set a course to cut them off. Very quickly, he closed the distance to twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
Then the fun began.
The go-fast turned abruptly toward them. The two boats passed each other so close, the spray from the go-fast’s outboards splashed onto the Interceptor’s canopy.
“Hold on!” shouted Finn. He threw the Interceptor into a tight turn. She leaned right, over almost to the portside gunwale, so far over that Gomez, who had unwisely unclipped himself from his seat, crashed into the rail. Finn straightened the wheel and opened the throttle all the way. He glanced over at Gomez, who had scrambled back to his seat.
“Tell them to stop,” he said.
Gomez got on the mic and started saying over and over through the loudspeaker, “Alto! Para el barco!”
The boat kept running. Now Finn was running alongside on the starboard side and slightly back. He could make out the silhouette of the driver against the moonlit water. Suddenly, he saw a splash of white water. Then another.
“They’re throwing cargo overboard!” shouted Chinchilla.
Gomez kept shouting, “Alto! Alto!”
The boat kept running. The two men who weren’t driving kept throwing large packages overboard. Finn was trying to keep count. So far he’d counted eight. And they were still going.
Finn killed the siren and called out to Chinchilla, “Fire a warning shot.”
Chinchilla opened fire.
The rat-tat-tat of her automatic weapon filled the air.
Still the boat didn’t stop.
She fired another volley. The boat kept going.
Finn said, “All right. Take out her outboards.”
Chinchilla nodded, adjusted the rifle on its mount, and opened fire for the third time. Finn saw the casings of the go-fast’s outboards splinter. The speed fell off the go-fast, and Finn had to pull right back on the throttles to avoid running into the back of her. Chinchilla kept her gun trained on the men in the boat. No one was throwing bales overboard now. With their outboards shot out, they weren’t going anywhere. All three heeded Gomez’s shouts to put their hands in the air.
Finn brought the Interceptor alongside the go-fast. Gomez got his sidearm out and jumped into the Interceptor’s bow. When they were close enough, Gomez jumped across to the go-fast. He shouted at the smugglers. They lay facedown on the deck and put their hands behind their heads. Finn called in their intercept. Long Beach replied that they would dispatch a helicopter and call in another Interceptor to help recover the bales that the smugglers had jettisoned.
Finn hung up the mic, then tied the Interceptor to the go-fast and jumped across. While Gomez and Chinchilla provided cover, Finn started cuffing the three guys. One of them, lying with his face pressed against the deck of the go-fast, said, when Finn slapped the cuffs on his wrists, “No debe estar por aquí.”
* * *
With all they had to do following the intercept—recover all the bales, process the three traffickers, wait for a coast guard cutter with a crane to come and pick up the disabled go-fast—Finn and his crew went into overtime, and it was well and truly day by the time they headed back to base. Passing through the Long Beach breakwater, Finn realized how tired he was. He was looking forward to getting home, getting warm, and getting dry. He knew Mona was leaving early that morning for a court appearance in Paradise, and he had hoped to see her before she left, but now the best he could do was send her a text saying good luck.
They pulled in alongside the pier. Chinchilla and Gomez made the boat fast. Finn made a note of the fuel level in his log, then killed the ignition. The four outboards fell silent.
While Chinchilla hosed down the deck, Gomez scrubbed with a hard-bristled broom. Finn stood on the deck and finished writing up the patrol in his log. When he was finished, he put the log back in its waterproof pouch.
The three weary mariners walked up the pier. The sun was over the horizon in the east. They entered the station and made their way to the locker rooms—Finn and Gomez to the male locker room, Chinchilla to the female one.
Finn and Gomez were still getting changed when Klein appeared. Finn wasn’t surprised to see him; Klein often came in early if there’d been a major interdiction operation out on the water. But he was surprised by the grim look on Klein’s face.