screen, he heard a drop of water hit the nautical chart below him. He looked up to see if the wheelhouse windows were leaking, but realized is was his own sweat that dripped onto the chart. Billy grabbed the bottom of his shirt sleeve and wiped his forehead and face. He could feel his head throbbing with every heartbeat. The pressure was getting to him. Thoughts were ricocheting around his head like a bullet in a bank vault. The boss doesn't know I'm down here and could have me arrested for stealing his yacht. I've got millions of dollars of cocaine onboard. I've just killed four people. We don't have enough fuel to get where we need to go, and now we're headed straight for a hurricane. If, and that's a big "if" I live through this, I'll be lucky not to spend the rest of my life in jail, much less hold onto my job. What the hell was I thinking?


     ​"Marco!" Billy yelled to his first mate, and only other person on the yacht. "We've got some heavy weather ahead of us! Make sure the engine room is secure and that nothing will go flying. Tie down anything that is not tied down! Check the bilges, too. See if they are dry and make sure the bilge pumps are working!"

    "Okay, amigo."

    Marco headed out the aft door of the salon towards the engine room, while Billy looked back at the television screen. A bald meteorologist explained, "The storm has been gaining strength since it passed the Lesser Antilles early yesterday and is moving west at almost twenty miles per hour. Fortunately, it will only impact the sea for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

     "Yeah, fortunately," Billy muttered. He hurried over to the wheelhouse and plotted the hurricane's location on the chart, using the computer navigation system to quickly compare the yacht's position relative to the storm. As he gazed at the