Hunter's Moon by Randy Wayne White

will start in gear.
    Dangerous.
    I cut the wires, then twisted them together, bypassing the safety switch.
    I found the carburetor, inserted the knife, and bent the butterfly plate wide open. The engine would now get maximum fuel delivery no matter how the throttle was manipulated. There was no way to stop the gas flow without cutting the fuel hose.
    The engine was now rigged to start in forward gear, at full speed.
    Very dangerous.
    It’d taken me less than two minutes. With my back to the men, I locked the engine cowling in place, then pretended to lunge after something I dropped.
    â€œDamn.”
    â€œWhat now has happened wrong?”
    I stared into the water for a moment before I sat up and took the vodka from the bearded man. This time, I really did have a drink.
    The friendly terrorist asked, “Why have you stopped working on the engine?”
    â€œIt’s fixed.”
    â€œHow can you be certain? You haven’t started it.”
    The patrol boat was still cruising the island’s west side, maybe confused in the fog, but the helicopter was closing in.
    â€œTrust me, it’ll start.” I patted the seat next to me. “Give it a try.”
    I made room as the bearded man said something, then tried English. “Where knife?”
    I jabbed my finger at the water. “Down there, knife.” I was looking at the bad knot they’d used to tie my canoe to the inflatable. If the rope didn’t break, I’d have to cut it free—which is why I’d wedged his knife securely into the back of my belt after pretending to drop it.
    The bearded man growled a reply as I took the special strobe flashlight from my pocket and braced myself. The friendly terrorist’s hand was on the throttle.
    I watched him lean toward the starter cord. The man put all his frustration into that first pull . . .

4
    Ignite a rocket on the rear of a small boat and the results would have been similar. When the engine fired, the inflatable catapulted into the fog like a dragster. Men in front were thrown backward. The bearded man landed face-first in the bilge. The friendly terrorist would have been launched over the engine if I hadn’t grabbed him by the belt.
    I was going overboard myself soon. I didn’t want his company.
    Over the engine noise, he shouted, “This goddamn thing! How to stop my crazy motor?” The man wrestled with the tiller handle. He couldn’t reduce speed and the transmission wouldn’t allow him shift to neutral without decelerating. “Son of a beech. What bad shit is now happening?”
    My canoe, still tied to the inflatable, became a wild, swinging rudder. It caused the little boat to veer left, then right, as we tunneled an accelerating arc through the mist. Fog sailed past my face as if driven by a twenty-knot wind. It was inevitable that we’d soon hit something—an island, an oyster bar, rocks. I didn’t want to be aboard when it happened.
    I had the high-tech flashlight in my hand. When I punched the switch, it began to strobe with a dizzying, irregular rhythm. Each starburst was intensified by fog, each microsecond of darkness magnified the boat’s speed. My brain was unable to process the chaos and I had to blink to stem the sudden vertigo. The terrorists felt it, too: four faces frozen, wide-eyed, with each explosion of white.
    â€œIdiot! You blind us!”
    That was the plan and I wasn’t done.
    I looped the flashlight’s lanyard over the tiller and pulled the flare from my pocket. I pictured me popping the gas tank, flare burning, as I cut the canoe free and rolled overboard. These guys liked bombs—let them experience what it was like to ride a floating incendiary. The inflatable would blaze like a torch.
    But then, out of nowhere, a dazzling incandescence appeared overhead. It was brighter than my strobe and so unexpected that we all ducked. The circle of light swept past our little boat, touched the water