Drake Sisters 03 - Oceans of Fire

harbor was devoid of the bustle of activity that took place during the day.
    Her boat rose with the waves and slid deeper into the calmer waters of the harbor itself. Sounds drifted across the bay, voices, muted at first then rising as if in anger. Abigail immediately scooped up her binoculars and focused her attention on the wharf. A party fishing boat was tied up as usual beside the restaurant. Just beyond the wharf was a second pier in front of a metal business building. A fishing boat was moored there, which was highly unusual. The fishing boats used the other side of the harbor and she’d never seen one tied up close to the businesses.
    A small speedboat, a Zodiac, engine humming softly, was moored beside the fishing boat. She could make out at least three men in the speedboat. One, wearing a plaid shirt, had his arm extended and, looking closely, Abigail suddenly feared he held a gun. A second man stood up. The action put him directly in the moonlight. It spilled across him, revealing his salt-and-pepper hair, navy shirt, and the gun in his hand. Both guns were pointed at a third man, who was sitting.
    White tendrils of fog had begun to float from the sea toward shore, forming ghostly fingers, obscuring her vision even as her boat drifted closer to the wharf. She blew softly into the air, raised her arms slightly to bring the wind. It rushed past her, taking the streamers of gray mist with it, clearing the way across the expanse of water.
    Someone spoke harshly in what sounded to her like Russian. The man sitting replied in English, but the ocean boomed against the pier as her boat drifted even closer and she couldn’t hear the words. Abigail held her breath as the seated man launched himself at the one in the plaid shirt. The man in the navy shirt picked up a life jacket, held it over the muzzle of the gun, and pressed it against the back of the victim’s head as he struggled desperately for possession of the other gun.
    “Shoot him now, Chernyshev! Shoot him now!” The voice carried clearly, thick with a Russian accent.
    She heard the muffled explosion, a pop, pop, pop that Abigail knew would forever haunt her. The victim’s body slowly crumpled and fell to the bottom of the boat. The fishing boat next to the pier moved slightly and both men turned their heads, one shouting an order.
    Gasping, she realized the distinctively marked fishing boat was one she recognized. Gene Dockins and three of his sons ran a fishing business out of Noyo Harbor. The family lived in Sea Haven and was well liked. To her horror she saw Gene slowly rise from where he’d been crouching in the bottom of his boat.
    His hands were raised in surrender. He was a large bear of a man with wide, stooped shoulders and a shock of gray hair that fell to his ears in a shaggy bowl, wild and untamed like the seagoing man he was.
    Her breath caught in her throat and her heart began to pound. The man gestured with his gun for Gene to climb out of his boat. The fisherman went to the ladder, paused, then dove into the sea just as the guns went off. Abigail knew, by the way his body jerked as he fell, that Gene was hit, but she could see his arms move as he hit the water and went under. He was definitely still alive. The two gunmen cursed and began shooting into the darkened waters, spitting the bullets through life jackets in an attempt to muffle the sound.
    Abigail gave Boscoe’s signature whistle, throwing her arm forward in a command, hoping the dolphin would obey. Though she only had a small ability for telepathy with her sisters, she had a much stronger connection to the dolphins and they often either understood or anticipated what she wanted. Boscoe took off like a rocket, heading for the pier instantly and erupting with several squeaks and whistles that Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    were clearly signals to the other dolphins in the pod.
    As she reached for her radio to call for help, the two men in the speedboat spotted her. At once the man with the salt-and-pepper hair turned and brought up his arms in a two-handed stance. Abigail’s blood froze with sudden fear. Other than the sharp diver’s knife attached to her belt and a long punch stick, a device of her own making she carried to ward off sharks in the event they attacked her during a dive, she had no weapons. No real way to protect herself. Bullets hissed into the water and thunked into the side of her boat. Snatching up the