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holding a shotgun.
    “DC,” Mark shouted as he spun the wheel to break out of their path. “Get on the radio and send an SOS. Get ’em all below.” A shot rang out from the fishing boat and a hole appeared in the flapping mainsail. Heather, Nikki, and Ricky disappeared down the ladder after DC. But Troy shook his head, still groggy from the blow, and crawled toward Mark who was crouched low in the cockpit well.
    “We gotta do this together,” he told Mark. “Gimme the gun, man.” Unlike Ricky, Troy Spencer did not suffer from the same drug-induced mental burnout. He had deliberately turned his back on the wealthy and privileged world offered by his parents and sought out the dangerous, seamy side of life. There, he found a natural outlet for his violent nature. But he had learned his lessons well, and knew they were now fighting for their lives.
    “No way,” Mark growled. “You steer if you want to help.” Troy nodded and took over the wheel. “You got more ammo for this?” Mark asked.
    “In my cabin,” Troy said. “Heather knows where it is.”
    Mark bobbed his head up to check on the fishing boat. It was getting closer. He scrambled forward and dropped down the companionway. DC was sitting at the radio. “I’m in contact with Thai customs authorities,” she shouted.
    “Stay in contact and tell them everything that’s happening,” Mark said. “Heather, get the extra bullets for the Magnum. And put something on.” The girl nodded dumbly and went into her and Troy’s stateroom. She came back out witha box of ammunition and wearing a T-shirt. Mark grabbed the shells and ran for the ladder. “Everyone stay below,” he yelled, disappearing out the hatch.
    “They’re getting closer,” Troy yelled at him. Mark chanced a quick look and dropped back onto the deck. Then he bobbed back up and emptied the .357’s chamber at the fishing boat. A series of barked commands in a language they did not recognize were followed by two shotgun blasts. “They’re getting closer!” Troy shouted.
    Mark reloaded and fired. He gauged the fishing boat was less than fifty yards away. “Turn!” he shouted. Troy spun the wheel and the sailboat heeled over. But it gained them nothing as the fishing boat was slightly faster and could turn more sharply. The distance separating them was now less than twenty-five yards. Mark worked his way back to Troy and handed him the gun. “It looks like they’re going to ram us,” he said. “Fall off at the last moment and start shooting to keep their heads down. I’ll try to push them off with a boat hook. Got it.”
    “Let’s do it, man,” Troy said. Mark worked his way forward and crawled along the protected side to the cabin to unlash the boat hook. Now they could hear a series of yelps from the fishing boat as it closed on them. Mark crawled back to the cockpit and waited.
    “Here they come!” Troy shouted. The high bow of the fishing boat loomed over them. Troy spun the wheel and cut loose with a wild barrage. Splinters flew off the fishing boat as the shells tore into it. They could hear more shouting but didn’t see anyone. Mark stood up to push the fishing boat away and the shotgun roared. Mark fell back into the cockpit, his face and chest a bloody, pulpy mass. Troy fumbled as he reloaded and a man jumped off the fishing boat and clubbed him to the deck.
    Heather had heard the gunshots and shouting and had cowered in a tight ball on the cabin’s settee. When the fishing boat crashed into them she had shut her eyes while Nikki and Ricky ran forward to hide in their stateroom. DC had stayed at the radio, still transmitting. Then a dark figure appeared over Heather, grabbed her hair and jerked her off the settee. Heather’s anger momentarily flared as she struggled to her feet, glaring at the hard, wiry little man who was shorter thanher. He slapped her hard across the face. Then a harder slap followed, knocking her back to the deck. Heather lay there, stunned. She