After Palmer was away from the shoals and in deep water, he steered the boat westward under the bridge portion of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, between the shoreline and the first island, where one of two tunnels descended into the bay. The sun had set, and it was getting dark.
Green shouted to be heard above the noise of the outboards. “Hey, tough guy, why did you run from them?”
“Ever hear the expression, ‘Don’t take a knife to a gun fight?’ I’m no fool. I live to fight another day. And I will—on my terms.”
The two outboards pushed the boat through the swells, the bow rising out of the water each time it cut through a peak, before slamming down into the trough. Green stood at the center console beside Palmer, who had one hand on the wheel and one on the throttles. He swung the boat in a wide arch toward the next inlet, staying clear of the shallow waters near the shore.
Palmer and Green spotted a bowrider also ignoring the no wake buoys as it sped through the inlet that was churned up with the incoming tide. They did not know who it was but assumed the two men had also hijacked a boat and were chasing them. Although they had a healthy lead, the distance between the two boats was closing.
“Where are we going? They’re gaining on us.”
“The next inlet,” Palmer shouted.
When they were within a quarter mile of the entrance to the inlet, he heard gunshots from behind them. “Get down!”
Green dropped to the deck.
Palmer turned hard to port and into the marked channel that led to the inlet. Green grabbed the seat support post to keep from sliding on the deck as the boat banked.
Once in the inlet, instead of reducing his speed and taking the channel to the right, toward the marinas, Palmer steered the boat straight ahead at full throttle. He heard three more shots. One of the bullets struck the windshield of the boat, a foot from his head near where Green had been standing. Palmer looked over his shoulder. The pursuers were within fifty feet and closing in fast. He turned his head back to the front and saw another boat heading straight toward them with a blinking blue light. A warning horn sounded.
“Where are you staying?” Green shouted.
“What?”
“Your hotel—where are you staying?”
It was a strange question to be asked, considering the circumstances. Palmer backed off on the throttles. The engine slowed. “The Hilton.”
Green pointed at the boat ahead of them and shook her head. “See ya.” She ran to the stern, and without breaking stride, stepped on the gunwale and executed a perfect flat dive into the water. Palmer watched her slice through the relatively calm water of the inlet like a competitive swimmer. She was headed toward a row of townhouses on the right side of the inlet.
Palmer eased the Sea Hunt into neutral, a searchlight now pointed at him. Squinting, he put his hand up to block the bright light from his eyes. His smile burst into a laugh. He had entered the familiar waters of the U.S. Navy’s Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek, the world’s largest naval amphibious assault base and the East Coast home of the U.S. Navy SEALs.
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