“Then I’ll have to figure something out,” Juan said. He put Reed’s good hand on the rag. “Can you keep pressure on this?”

Reed nodded weakly. Juan didn’t like leaving him there, but there was nothing more he could do for him until they reached safety. If they reached safety.

Juan went downstairs and saw that one of the two remaining men on the Oceanaire was climbing out onto the open foredeck with his assault rifle while his companion drove the boat. He lay down and took aim at the Cast Away but didn’t fire, apparently not wanting to waste ammo until they were in effective range. Max similarly delayed taking evasive action until the shooting started. Doing so now would only allow their pursuers to catch up more quickly.

The spent speargun rested on the deck next to the fishing chair where Juan had discarded it. Empty beer bottles that had fallen from their perches when Max gunned the engine now banged against the transom.

Juan ducked into the cabin and searched for anything that might prove useful. The well-stocked galley had plenty of food and drinks, but nothing more lethal than a dinner knife. Juan had his own pocketknife, but it would only be valuable as a close-quarters weapon.

He opened the hatch into the engine bay and climbed down to see what he could find. Although the smell of diesel fuel and oil was strong, the equipment looked well maintained. Juan discovered a tool kit, but it contained little more than a wrench and a few screwdrivers. Nothing that would stand up to an assault rifle.

He was about to leave the engine room when the noxious odor made him stop. He realized that they did have a weapon: the fuel itself. He needed a way to launch it at the Oceanaire but didn’t know how until the memory of the empty beer bottles inspired a brainstorm.

He hurried up to the outside deck and picked up four Red Stripes. He also took the portable bilge pump and went back down to the engine room.

He uncapped the fuel tank and stuck the pump’s hose in. It took him only a few pumps each to fill all of the distinctive squat bottles.

He took the bottles and the tool kit back up to the galley, where he rifled through the drawers until he found a cigarette lighter. Juan then retrieved a life vest from the storage locker, took out his knife, and cut the vest open so he could get at the foam inside. He quickly sliced off pieces of foam and jammed them inside the bottles, where they would dissolve, converting the diesel to a sticky jelly. Then he got some hand towels out of the galley to stuff in the necks. He turned each of the bottles over until their makeshift wicks were soaked with diesel.

Now he had four Molotov cocktails. The next step was to figure out how to deliver them to the target.

Throwing them was the obvious choice, but it would also expose him to gunfire. He might get one good throw before he was cut down, and the boats would have to be practically next to each other to assure a hit. He needed a launch mechanism with more velocity and suddenly realized the speargun gave him all the velocity he needed.

Up on deck, Juan stole a glance behind them and saw the Oceanaire perilously close. The gunman took a couple of potshots, but the bullets had little hope of hitting a moving target at that range.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Max yelled, “you better hurry!”

“Two more minutes,” Juan replied as he placed the Molotov cocktails in the cooler for easy access.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I ask.”

With the knife, Juan hacked the three elastic rubber tubes from each side of the speargun and tied them together to make a pair of longer tubes. With a screwdriver from the tool kit, he rapidly detached the back of the rotating fishing chair and dropped it on the deck. He tied each tube to one of the chair’s metal armrests. He lashed the other ends of the tubes to the leather fighting belt, which he could fold together to form a perfect pocket for gripping a beer bottle.

His slingshot was ready. And because the chair rotated, he’d be able to aim anywhere in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. Now he could fire the Molotov cocktails without raising his head more than a few inches above the transom.

Of course, that assumed the thing actually worked. Only one way to find out, but he couldn’t give away his element of surprise.

Juan sneaked back up to the bridge.

“Max, I want you to turn around.”

Max was incredulous. “I’m sorry. I thought I just heard you say that you want me to turn around.”

“Running away only delays the inevitable. I’ve got a little surprise for those pirates. Molotov cocktails, and I’m ready to launch them.”

“That means we have to get them in close.”

Juan nodded. “I’d say no more than fifty yards.”

“Oh, good. I thought you were going to make this hard.”

“I know you like a challenge.” Juan went back down to the aft deck as Max brought the Cast Away about.

Juan would have two minutes at most before they were within range. He loaded an unopened beer bottle into the pocket of his slingshot and pulled it back until the rubber wouldn’t go any tighter without breaking. The well-oiled chair rotated easily when he moved the pocket back and forth.

With the Oceanaire directly in front of them, it was unlikely their attackers would be able to see what Juan was doing. He took aim on a mountain peeking over the horizon, held his breath, and released the slingshot.

The beer bottle rocketed away from the boat with a twang of the rubber tubing. It flew in a graceful arc and landed in their wake over sixty yards away. Juan practiced twice more until he had the hang of it. Now he needed a real target.

“Get ready!” Max shouted.

“Stay low!” Juan replied.

He pressed himself against the bulkhead and lit the first Molotov cocktail as the Cast Away slewed around in another half circle. The gunman on the deck was already firing his rifle in the careful three-shot bursts of a trained soldier rather than unloading his magazine on auto. Bullets peppered the bridge, his primary target.

The Oceanaire swung around on a pursuit course. When it was directly behind them, Juan placed the flaming bottle in the pocket and drew it back. He aimed and let go.

The bottle soared into the air, but he immediately saw that he hadn’t compensated enough for the speed of the boat following them. The Molotov cocktail flew over the Oceanaire and landed harmlessly astern.

Juan lit another and lowered his aim. The gunman, realizing that he now had a more important target than the bridge, adjusted his fire to just above the transom. If the water had been smoother, he might have been able to hit Juan more easily, but the small waves made his rounds impact the bulkhead above Juan’s head.

Juan loosed the second cocktail and this time his aim was too low. The bottle smashed into the prow of the Oceanaire above the waterline, but the flames were doused by the spray of water.

Either the driver of the Oceanaire didn’t see the Molotov cocktails or he didn’t care because he kept coming without deviating from his course. Juan had only two bombs left.

He lit the third and loaded it into the slingshot. This time, he took the risk of putting his head up higher to improve his aim. He released the bottle as bullets zinged past his head.

Both Juan and the gunman knew it would hit as soon as he let it go. The man got to his feet to dodge the tumbling bottle, but he was too late. It smashed into the deck a foot in front of him, splashing him and the boat with the flaming jelly mixture.

An inferno engulfed the gunman. His screams echoed across the water as he danced in agony. For a moment, Juan thought the man would ease his suffering by jumping into the water, but a single shot came from the Oceanaire. The burning gunman slumped to the deck, put out of his misery by the boat’s driver.