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the edge of the shoals, Zane felt a change in the sea. The waves were confused now; no longer traveling with the wind, they barreled in from every direction, slapping into each other and drubbing against the hull.
    Zane watched the depth sounder readings fluctuate wildly. Twelve feet. Six feet. Ten feet. Four feet. He was trying to envision the immense humps and trenches of sand beneath the boat when a breaker came out of the darkness and reared up like a frothy warrior in front of him. It grabbed hold of the bow and lifted it into the air, but then, just as quickly, the wave lost its footing in a trench and collapsed. Zane let out a deep exhale as his boat cruised over its remains. He spent the next few minutes weaving in and out of the breakers while trying to maintain the same course.
    “Here we go,” Miguel said. He had taken his position stooped in the stern, cradling the rifle. He peered over the gunwale. Zane followed his gaze to see a dark thing bounding over the chop in their direction. Fear coursed through Zane’s body like an injection. His breaths became short, his stomach tossed, and he wanted it all to end. But it would not end, for the boat was nearly upon them.
    “Stop your vessel,” a voice boomed across the sea through a bullhorn.
    “Do as they say,” said Miguel.
    Zane pulled the throttle back and his boat slumped in the waves. He could see two men in the approaching center console but darkness veiled their features. He had expected the Coasties —dock talk for the US Coast Guard —but this looked nothing like their large orange cutters that usually patrolled the seaboard. This boat appeared smaller than Zane’s, but it did have four outboard engines on the stern compared to his two, which explained how it caught up so quickly.
    Who were they, then? FBI? DEA? As the boat edged closer, Zane squinted to read the black lettering on the hull.
    “I, R, S,” he read aloud. “ IRS? ”
    “Death and taxes,” said Miguel, now lying on the deck, out of sight. “How many of the bastards are there?”
    “Two, I think.” What, Zane wondered, would the IRS want with a drug runner?
    “Are they packing?”
    “Packing?”
    Miguel scowled. “Do you see any damn guns.”
    Zane studied the silhouetted figures on the approaching boat. His heart thudded when he saw that the man to the side of the driver was holding a gun. The shape of it looked similar to Miguel’s automatic rifle.
    “Well, do you or not?” Miguel’s voice was tinged with anger.
    “I can’t tell,” said Zane. “It’s dark.”
    “We can’t take a chance. I’m gonna count down from three, and on one you grab that pistol and we take them out. Yours is the driver. Got it? Don’t answer—they might see you talking.”
    Panic squeezed in on Zane. He tried to think of a solution. Should he warn them? Miguel would surely kill him if he tried. Could he try to evade them? That seemed impossible. Their boat was simply too fast.
    “Three,” said Miguel, his finger stroking the trigger.
    An idea hit Zane. He drew a deep breath, put his hand on the throttle, and clenched the steering wheel.
    “Two.”
    Zane looked at the IRS boat. Now only ten feet away, it idled alongside. The men onboard wore black uniforms and appeared to be in their thirties or forties. One of them had short black hair and a well-kept beard. The other had a clean-shaven scalp. Their faces were both stiff with anxiety.
    “One!”
    It all happened instantaneously: Miguel sprang up with the rifle like a madman, his eyes blazing and his hair blown back by the wind, and the officer with the gun whirled around toward Miguel, and Zane slammed the throttle down as far as it would go and spun the steering wheel away from the other boat. His boat lurched upward and sideways with a tremendous jolt, causing Miguel to tumble backward off the stern and into the water, just as Zane had hoped. But Zane did not anticipate the towering breaker that suddenly charged in and put its