Retribution Road, Jon Coon [top business books of all time .txt] 📗

“Our host?” Tom asked.

No answer, just a warm smile.

“I see,” Tom said. “Then can you tell me where we will be fishing?”

“Of course. The best fishing at this time of year is on the east of Isla Mujeres. It’s about an hour away. I’m sure our staff can keep you well entertained.” Again, the warm smile.

“Thank you. That’s most gracious.”

“Your host expects nothing less. Enjoy your day.” He turned and ascended the circular stair, and hardly had the air settled when two very attractive figures, bikini-bottomed and topped in loose-cut, boat-logoed, cropped white tees, bounced freely down the stairs.

“I don’t suppose you have any ginger ale?” Gabe asked with a shrug.

Paul lay on his bed, looking up through the only window into the night sky. Two weeks had passed. He was feeling better, stronger, and more intolerant of his situation. His Spanish was improving, and he had a feeling that the girl liked him. But she was deathly afraid of what would happen if she broke even the least of the rules, so she smiled and cared for his wounds and touched him gently on occasion, but they were both prisoners, and thus far she had stayed well within the boundaries of their captor’s demands.

His captivity had given him more time to think than he could recall ever having experienced. He had gone from anger to denial to the possibility that some of what had happened might in fact be his fault.

He remembered Gabe’s telling him about the gold line used by cave divers to navigate caves and how Gabe had compared cave navigation to life direction and then had explained how disastrous losing the guide line could be both in life and in the cave. Gabe had said to Paul that he prayed that Paul would find his gold line, his sense of direction, his faith to live by, before, as in the cave metaphor, he ran out of air.

“I don’t believe I could be much farther away from that line than I am right now,” Paul said into the dark empty room. “And I wonder just how much air can possibly be in this tank?”

“Fish on,” Tom yelled and put his back into bending the stout rod nearly double. The boat had a single fish-fighting chair in the center of the cockpit. Tom climbed in and braced his legs. The captain was on the stern controls from the bridge and began pushing the boat toward the fish as Tom fought to bring in line. The crew brought in the other lines to give Tom a clear field, and Gabe moved beside the chair. “That must be quite a fish,” Gabe said.

“Biggest I’ve ever fought.”

“Done this before then?”

“Just off our coast.” Tom grunted and strained to lift the rod tip and reel line. “They get bigger down here.”

Tom continued pumping the rod until, suddenly, the fish broke water and tail walked briefly before diving deep again.

“Wow,” Gabe said. “That’s huge.”

Javier, the gray-haired man, was standing behind them. “It’s a blue. Well over a thousand pounds. She will make quite a trophy, Captain Bright.”

“Oh, no. She goes back. I just want a photo and an autograph.” Tom was breathing deeply now, coordinating his breathing with his arms and back pumping the acutely bent rod.

“Stay strong, amigo. That one has a lot of fight left in her before you get that autograph.”

The deckhand went back into the salon, and shortly thereafter the girls reappeared with cold drinks. One held a straw while Tom drank deeply. She then took a moist towel and wiped down his face and neck.

“Thanks. That felt good. I didn’t get your name before.”

“It’s Catalina.” She smiled.

Tom kept working the fish, breathing deep and sweating profusely. His expensive shirt was soaked.

“You must be very strong,” she said. “It’s been a long time. Nearly an hour.”

Tom laughed. “Time flies.”

She picked up a clean towel, soaked it in ice water, and began cooling him again. As her hands moved over his face and chest, he noticed delicate fingers and brilliant blue nail polish. Tom was about to comment, when the first mate shouted, “There, there, I can see her.”

He pointed to the dark shadow off the stern. The boat went dead in the water. Tom continued bringing in line. The deckhand got ready with a large gaff hook. Tom shouted, “No gaff. Just get a picture and cut the leader. I want her to have a chance.”

The deckhand looked back in disgust and surprise. “You don’t want the trophy? She’s a beauty.”

“No, cut her free. Let’s catch a wahoo or two. I want something we can eat.”

“Okay. You’re the boss. Bring her up for the picture.”

Tom arched his back and put a strain on the rod tip, bringing the massive head to the surface. Cameras rolled until, with a grunt, Tom relaxed, and the fish slipped back into the water.

“Got it,” the deckhand said, examining the playback of the GoPro video.

“Okay, Captain. You’re sure you want to release her?”

“Yeah, cut her free.”

The deckhand grabbed a filet knife from the bait stand and cut the line. Without even a goodbye kiss, the huge dark fish exploded toward the deepest water it could find. Tom collapsed back into the fighting chair, took the bottle of water from Catalina’s hand, and poured it over his head. He shook like a dog, soaking her thin, white tee shirt. She looked, laughed, and asked, “Do you want another one?”

The deckhands tied on a new leader and carefully wired an Islander/ballyhoo combination to the center rod. After the teasers and flat lines were back out, the boat came up to speed, and it was every hand on deck, except Tom, who, with Catalina beside him, retreated into the salon. She brought the bourbon on the rocks he asked for and settled on the couch beside him.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said. “You look exhausted.”

“That about covers it.” He nodded and held up the glass in