The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,39

heave into the sea or Mathew’s lap, Francis slowed the boat. He cut the engine, and the noise was gone so suddenly it left Danny’s ears ringing. Confused, he looked around, and he quickly understood: a Coast Guard patrol boat bobbed on the waves beside them, two men on the deck gesturing and shouting at them.

The patrol boat came closer, and Danny still couldn’t work out what they were saying, but evidently Francis could. Moments later, a pair of Coasties came down a ladder and onto the speedboat.

“How about you let us have a look around?” one demanded gruffly.

“Why?” Francis asked indignantly. “I’m just out showing my lads my new boat. What’s all this about?”

“Yeah?” The Coastie narrowed his eyes. “Then you’ve got nothing to hide, do you?” He gestured at the bench where Mathew and Danny were sitting. “Let’s see what’s under that seat.”

“Under…” Danny blinked stupidly and pointed at the cushion he was sitting on. “Under this seat?”

The Coastie glared harder.

Danny and Mathew stood and got far enough out of the way to let the men lift up the cushion. Beneath it, they found a coil of line, a toolbox, a folded-up tarpaulin, and a flare gun. With a grumpy noise, one of the men replaced the seat, and Danny and Mathew sat down again, giving the Coasties sullen looks as they did.

The more the men searched every nook and cranny of the speedboat—not that there were many—the angrier they became. The more they snarled and complained.

And they didn’t find a bloody thing.

One of the pair headed back onto the patrol boat while the other turned a glare on them. “Slow down out there. We’ve got rum runners out in speedboats, so we see you piloting like this, we’re going to search you. I see you again”—he stabbed a finger at Francis—“I’ll arrest you.”

“For what?” Francis lounged behind the speedboat’s helm and cocked his head, probably smirking up at the irritated Coast Guard man. “Going too fast for your boys to catch me?”

Mathew snorted. Danny smothered a laugh.

The Coastie glared at him, then huffed sharply. “Don’t be idiots out there. Assuming that ain’t too much to ask.”

Francis sniffed derisively. The Coastie started up the ladder his boys had extended from the patrol boat. His boot had barely left the speedboat before Francis fired up the engine. The Coastie glared over his shoulder. Francis put up his hands and shrugged, no doubt giving him an innocent look.

As the patrol boat puttered away, Danny, Mathew, and Francis chuckled.

Francis twisted around. “How much time did we buy them?”

Danny picked up his binoculars. With the sun setting, it wasn’t hard to orient himself, but it was tough to see when he looked to the west. Squinting against the bright light, he scanned the water. Pleasure boats weren’t out much this time of year, but there were fishermen and Coast Guard vessels. Most of the fishing boats were heading in with the fading daylight, and Danny looked from one to the next in search of the familiar flag.

“Well?” Mathew prodded. “Do you see them?”

“Not yet. They couldn’t have made it all the way back to shore yet, could they?”

“Not in those boats,” Francis said dryly. “They’d get there sooner if they paddled.”

Mathew laughed, but Danny furrowed his brow and kept scanning the sea. Where had they gone? Where in the world—

His heart jumped. “There.” He lowered the binoculars but didn’t dare point—not with the Coast Guard still close by. “I see both, and there’s not a Coastie in sight. Take her back in.”

Francis pointed the speedboat toward shore, and as the engine roared, Danny’s heart went wild.

This was it. They’d meet the boats in Greenport. They’d see what the rest of the crew had picked up. They’d see if the score had been worth the cold and the danger.

And they’d see if Carmine Battaglia still thought they were the men for this job.

Chapter 8

Carmine paced in his office.

It had been a week since Danny’s crew had agreed to run liquor for him, and yesterday had been their first run.

He hadn’t expected to hear anything until at least today. It took time to move everything to the various stashes and warehouses on Long Island and in Brooklyn. Moving merchandise carefully and methodically kept the Coast Guard and the police from getting suspicious, and it kept barrels and bottles from getting damaged.

As patient as Carmine was, he wanted to know. He wanted to know now.

Had their plan worked? Had they eluded the Coast Guard? Had