Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) by Wayne Stinnett
Authors: Wayne Stinnett
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reengaged the transmission, idling slowly around the end of the piers toward the canal that led into Biscayne Bay.
Clearing the point where the marina office was located, she glanced over. Kevin was standing on the fuel dock and waving. She smiled and waved back before throttling up slightly, anxious to get to the deeper water of the bay. At just four knots, it took nearly half an hour to reach the outer markers at the channel entrance.
Though the old wooden boat could be single-handed fairly well back when it was new, it was much easier to do so now, with the aid of the new electronics and automatic systems that had been installed. Once clear of the last marker, she used the automatic controls to raise the mainsail and unfurl the staysail. Although the mast was original and as big as a tree trunk, reaching sixty feet up toward the sky, the boom was aluminum, with a fully automated boom furler.
With the main and forestay close hauled and in irons, both sails luffing in the light wind, she turned slightly off the easterly breeze to the north and shut off the engine. The sails snapped as the light air filled them. The weight of the wind on the sails heeled the boat over, and Charity felt a rush of adrenaline, the same feeling of elation she’d felt as a young woman, sailing with her father and uncle, whenever their boat’s sails had filled.
The heavy boat slowed momentarily in the turn, losing the momentum the engine provided, then gaining it back as the sails filled. The winches for the running rigging could be controlled automatically by the computer, constantly adjusting sail position for changing wind conditions to maintain the most efficient attitude. But Charity preferred to sail by feel and hadn’t engaged the automated system. The winches were completely under her control, and she adjusted the main, moving the boom outboard until the mainsail began to luff slightly, then hauling it back in a few inches.
Her destination for now lay just across Biscayne Bay, seven miles due east, but with the easterly wind, she’d tack northeast to the halfway point, then jibe back to the southeast. The crossing would only take a couple of hours, then she’d anchor in the lee of Boca Chita Key. There she intended to spend the rest of the day familiarizing herself with the boat and its two million dollars’ worth of upgrades while waiting for the early-morning high tide. Then she’d retire to the forward berth for a good night’s sleep.
In the morning, two hours before daylight, the tide would peak and the outgoing current through Lewis Cut would help carry the boat into the Atlantic Ocean, under cover of darkness.
Halfway across the bay, Charity made the tack southeast, the boat responding beautifully. She took her satellite phone out of her pocket, pulled up the director’s secure number and punched the call button.
“Are you aboard?” Stockwell whispered as the connection was made.
“Just departed the marina,” she replied. “How’s the search going?”
“McDermitt signaled us using a laser bore sighter, if you can believe it.”
“He’s safe, then?” she asked, relieved.
“Yes, everything was wrapped up within a couple of hours of your disappearance. A few bad guys were killed, but none of the team was hurt. Agent Rosales killed Tena Horvac.”
The tension she’d felt about leaving the group in the way she had was suddenly lifted. “Thanks, Director.”
“And that will be the last time you call me that,” Director Stockwell said. “From now on, you call me Uncle. Now go. Sail away and do what you’ve been training for.”
I t was midafternoon when Charity dropped anchor at Boca Chita Key, a tiny island about ten miles south of Key Biscayne. Though uninhabited, it was part of the Biscayne National Park and used as a rustic campground by boaters. The island had a small harbor, but Charity chose to anchor on the west side until she could be sure the water was deep enough to enter.
The entrance to
Clearing the point where the marina office was located, she glanced over. Kevin was standing on the fuel dock and waving. She smiled and waved back before throttling up slightly, anxious to get to the deeper water of the bay. At just four knots, it took nearly half an hour to reach the outer markers at the channel entrance.
Though the old wooden boat could be single-handed fairly well back when it was new, it was much easier to do so now, with the aid of the new electronics and automatic systems that had been installed. Once clear of the last marker, she used the automatic controls to raise the mainsail and unfurl the staysail. Although the mast was original and as big as a tree trunk, reaching sixty feet up toward the sky, the boom was aluminum, with a fully automated boom furler.
With the main and forestay close hauled and in irons, both sails luffing in the light wind, she turned slightly off the easterly breeze to the north and shut off the engine. The sails snapped as the light air filled them. The weight of the wind on the sails heeled the boat over, and Charity felt a rush of adrenaline, the same feeling of elation she’d felt as a young woman, sailing with her father and uncle, whenever their boat’s sails had filled.
The heavy boat slowed momentarily in the turn, losing the momentum the engine provided, then gaining it back as the sails filled. The winches for the running rigging could be controlled automatically by the computer, constantly adjusting sail position for changing wind conditions to maintain the most efficient attitude. But Charity preferred to sail by feel and hadn’t engaged the automated system. The winches were completely under her control, and she adjusted the main, moving the boom outboard until the mainsail began to luff slightly, then hauling it back in a few inches.
Her destination for now lay just across Biscayne Bay, seven miles due east, but with the easterly wind, she’d tack northeast to the halfway point, then jibe back to the southeast. The crossing would only take a couple of hours, then she’d anchor in the lee of Boca Chita Key. There she intended to spend the rest of the day familiarizing herself with the boat and its two million dollars’ worth of upgrades while waiting for the early-morning high tide. Then she’d retire to the forward berth for a good night’s sleep.
In the morning, two hours before daylight, the tide would peak and the outgoing current through Lewis Cut would help carry the boat into the Atlantic Ocean, under cover of darkness.
Halfway across the bay, Charity made the tack southeast, the boat responding beautifully. She took her satellite phone out of her pocket, pulled up the director’s secure number and punched the call button.
“Are you aboard?” Stockwell whispered as the connection was made.
“Just departed the marina,” she replied. “How’s the search going?”
“McDermitt signaled us using a laser bore sighter, if you can believe it.”
“He’s safe, then?” she asked, relieved.
“Yes, everything was wrapped up within a couple of hours of your disappearance. A few bad guys were killed, but none of the team was hurt. Agent Rosales killed Tena Horvac.”
The tension she’d felt about leaving the group in the way she had was suddenly lifted. “Thanks, Director.”
“And that will be the last time you call me that,” Director Stockwell said. “From now on, you call me Uncle. Now go. Sail away and do what you’ve been training for.”
I t was midafternoon when Charity dropped anchor at Boca Chita Key, a tiny island about ten miles south of Key Biscayne. Though uninhabited, it was part of the Biscayne National Park and used as a rustic campground by boaters. The island had a small harbor, but Charity chose to anchor on the west side until she could be sure the water was deep enough to enter.
The entrance to
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