Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,64

be back. Good luck, gents.” Dodger slipped his mask over his eyes before disappearing into the darkness. He moved so gracefully that he hardly left a ripple in the surface of the ocean.

“Who the hell was that? Certainly not a brown shirt.”

“He’s a Navy SEAL, part of the team that got me ready for BUD/S. I owe them a lot. They helped me when I needed it the most. I can’t go into details.”

Hitchcock’s mouth dropped open. Vincent just stared at him as if he’d turned to gold, and even though Lane’s respect was a given, his nod bolstered Hemingway. Professor was the only one who knew the whole story.

“You know an honest-to-God Navy SEAL?” Vincent asked, his words hushed.

“Yes. I know Mad Max, too. He’s part of Dodger’s team. Those guys are kickass.”

“You are full of surprises, man,” Hitchcock said, bumping knuckles. “That’s sick, brother.”

“We’re up again,” Lane said. “Last attempt, and chow can’t be far behind. Keep it tight and move when I say to move.”

The mention of food made Hemingway’s stomach growl. He grabbed one of the candy bars and a power bar and wolfed them down while the guys did the same.

Poised and ready for battle, his ears pricked for Lane’s command, he kept his eyes glued to the batons. As soon as they dropped, Lane ordered, “Paddle!”

Hemingway was in the starboard bow since he needed to be out of the boat first to anchor it with Professor across from him to port. Brown, the paddle man, was directly behind Hemingway so he could scramble out with the paddles as soon as Hemingway anchored the boat. Vincent was behind Professor and Hitchcock, a strong SOB who was very good at flipping the boat over, and Lane were in the stern.

The dark impeded their visibility and made it difficult to see waves until they were almost on top of them. A three-footer passed over them harmlessly. They surged down the face while Lane kept the bow pointed straight ahead. The rocks approached quickly, and Lane yelled for Hemingway to ready the bow-line.

“Bow-line man out!” The boat slammed into a jagged boulder, throwing everyone forward. Clenching the bow-line in his right hand, Hemingway jumped from the boat and scampered up onto the boulders. Just as he wedged himself into a secure position with the bow-line around his waist, his hand securing it in a tight grip, an enormous wall of water picked up the boat and hurled it toward him. At the last minute he lunged out of the way.

Another wave built and it slammed into the small boat and its crew. Hemingway was almost wrenched free, but he held onto the line with both hands wedging harder into the rocks. He looked up, water sluicing off him in sheets as Vincent was thrown from the boat and slammed into the rocks. The sound of his helmet cracked like a gunshot.

Hemingway was powerless to do anything as the ebb of the wave pulled the boat backward. He couldn’t move from his position as Vincent feebly tried to save himself.

“Forward paddle,” Lane screamed, his voice strident above the pounding surf.

The remaining crew members dug their paddles in, and the boat pushed up against the rocks again as Vincent rolled in the wash of the waves like a ragdoll.

“Paddles forward!” Lane yelled.

Brown gathered the slippery paddles, climbed onto the rocks and made his way to safety. There was nothing they could do for Vincent until the ocean gave them an opening.

“All out port!”

Professor, Hitchcock, and Lane scrambled out into waist deep water. Another wave hit as all three of them braced for the impact.

Vincent’s limp body surged toward him. Hemingway reached out and caught him with one arm, holding him fiercely against his chest while the white water boiled around him.

His three crewmembers and the boat surged forward, crashing into the rocks, and then back again, pulling away from shore. The bow-line went taut as Hemingway strained against the pull of the ocean and holding onto Vincent, groaning with the duel effort.

“Dump boat,” Lane yelled, anticipating a lull in the surf. “Now! Dump now!”

The three of them strained against the weight of the water in the boat, shaking with effort as they slowly overturned the raft. A torrent of salt water spilled from the boat, reducing its weight tenfold. They immediately turned the raft on its side and lifted it onto the rocks, Hitchcock’s effort contorting his face and straining his biceps into hard round balls. He was like an