by Graham Smith
The motor yacht gives a deep roar as its engine reaches maximum output. The stern settles lower in the water, and after a minute they’re speeding through the harbour at a gathering pace.
What happened on the dock is way too close a call for his liking. His employer must have been watching their bank account. That spoke of distrust.
It’s now imperative that they put as much distance as possible between themselves and New York. There will be a pursuit, that’s for sure. So long as he can get out of their sight for a few hours, his plan will still work.
A small sailing boat is crossing the harbour, and its path means a collision, but Cameron is in too much of a hurry to slow down. Instead, he waits until the last moment and spins the wheel over, so his yacht rockets between the stern of the sailboat and the side of a pleasure cruiser that is taking tourists on a sightseeing trip. The wash from his yacht rocks the sailboat, and threatens to swamp or capsize the small vessel, but Cameron doesn’t care. All that’s on his mind, is getting the yacht out of the harbour and over the horizon.
Jake appears at his elbow. He’s wrestling with a life preserver, but Cameron knows that the struggle he’s having with the straps, isn’t responsible for the anger in his eyes. If his assessment about his son is right, he’ll be demanding better answers than the lies he’s been told so far.
The lie he’d spun Jake earlier hadn’t been one of his best, but Cameron put it down to being in a state of shock. He was used to having his life planned out in great detail. Surprises don’t happen when you anticipate everything, and he’d long given up expecting one of his children to track him down. That one had found him, and brought news of another’s dire need, had been unforeseeable.
Still, it had rocked him, stolen his usual composure and delayed him long enough for his employer’s men to arrive at the dock before he’d set sail. He knew his employer must have been either suspicious or contacted by the dealer. He guesses the former. Had the dealer contacted his employer, the enforcers would have shown up at his home or would have been waiting for him on the yacht.
Once he’s passed the north part of Sandy Hook, Cameron allows the crew member to take back the controls. The guy looks pissed about being shoved out of the way, but Cameron knows he won’t press the issue. His crew are being well paid for a couple of days’ work and will tolerate whatever he decides to throw at them.
Cameron turns and sees that Jake has got the life preserver fastened, and is watching him with a look that’s part anger, part bewilderment, and part assessment. He knows his son is re-evaluating him and is keen to learn the truth.
‘Not now, Jake. We can talk once we get clear, but now isn’t the time.’
He catches the nod his son throws his way; knows that if Jake is as smart as he thinks he is, it would be wise to speak to him before he works out for himself what’s going on.
Cameron turns and scans the sea in front of them. The waves are kicking up now and, free of the calm waters of the harbour and the bay, the yacht is beginning to pitch and yaw as it crests waves at an oblique angle. So far, it’s nothing the yacht can’t handle, but it was designed to be a rich man’s plaything rather than an oceangoing racer. If the swells get larger, they’ll have to slow to a more sensible pace.
He casts a look back at the bay, squints, and lets out a low curse. The motor boat coming out of the bay is sleek and nimble, and travelling like the person at its helm is trying to beat a world record.
There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s being piloted by one of the enforcers.
30
I watch as the motorboat powers alongside us. Since its arrival from the bay, Cameron has been hidden below decks. So far as I am concerned, it’s the best place for him.
The breakneck race from the harbour and out through the bay would have been exhilarating, had it not been for the whirl of nasty ideas forming in my head. Most of these ideas involve me falling from the boat and being swallowed up by the murky depths of the water. Sometimes, to add a neat twist to the horrors of drowning, I’d imagine a many-toothed sea creature eating me, as the water forced its way into my lungs.
The worst ideas though, are the ones about my father; they’re all about betrayal, double-crossing and manipulation. The stealing of this yacht is no more to do with settling a debt than his lies which brought Taylor and me with him.
Guys with guns don’t attack you on a harbour wall over a dispute between rival companies; unless those companies are the non-legitimate kind.
This is the second time in as many days that I’ve gotten myself mixed up in something that concerns organised crime. I’m big enough to look after myself and make my own decisions; it’s Taylor who worries me. She’s been stoic and has kept a brave face, but I can tell she’s scared witless by the events at the harbour.
If I thought it would be safer for her, I’d insist she be dropped off at the nearest port or harbour, but there’s every likelihood she would be picked up by their accomplices.
The motorboat coming after us is another worry. It may be some rich guy playing with his toy, or it may be the coast guard coming to reprimand Cameron for his mad dash through the bay, but deep inside I know that both of these ideas are nothing more than wishful thinking.
Even as the motor yacht rolls its way through the swells, the motorboat is barrelling forward, cresting waves and slamming down into troughs. The roiling of my stomach is a mixture of the boat’s gyrations and the sense of impending doom as the motorboat narrows the gap.
It catches up and rolls alongside us, fifty or so yards away, close enough for its crew to communicate that they want us to stop.
Of the four men aboard the motorboat, I recognise two from the harbour wall. They don’t look like there’s much fight left in them, but the other two are fresh.
In this situation, freshness doesn’t matter. There’s four of them and, counting my father and the two crewmen, there’s four of us on this yacht.
This wouldn’t be a problem, as I’m confident I could soon get the odds firmly in our favour, were it not for one little fact.
Each of the four men have guns.
Granted, the guns are pistols, which means they are all but useless at fifty yards. Doubly so when they are shooting at a moving target from an unstable platform.
They don’t need to shoot us though. All they have to do is force us to stop, or follow us until we do.
I have no idea how far the fuel in our tanks will carry us, but it’s a moot point. If they are representing organised crime they will have the resources to summon help. They’ll be able to get another boat to take over from them when their tanks threaten to run dry.
That’s not something we can do. We have to keep moving and somehow evade them at a dock or harbour somewhere.
The sound of the engine throttling back makes me look towards the bridge. The crewman at the yacht’s controls has raised his hands above his head and is making sure the four gunmen know he’s being compliant.
I can’t blame him for his actions. To the best of my knowledge, he owes Cameron no loyalty other than a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay.
It’s not the crewman’s place to risk his life.
Me, on the other hand; I’ve beaten up two of them and dumped their buddy in the harbour. If they get on the yacht, I don’t think they’ll be asking my name so I can be added to their Christmas card list. It’s much more likely I’ll receive a severe beating, or a bullet in the brain.
With nothing to lose, I dash towards the bridge as the motorboat closes the gap between us.
I’m four paces from the yacht’s controls when I hear a shout.
What I see when I look back is the last thing I’m expecting.
31
Cameron has a submachine gun in his hands. There’s a yell from the other boat that is drowned out by the deafening chatter as Cameron opens fire.
All four men dive for cover but there aren’t many places for them to hide.
Splinters of wood and fibregl
ass fly from the motorboat, as Cameron empties the entire clip at them. I don’t see any of the rounds strike flesh, but that doesn’t mean much. The sea breeze carries wisps of smoke past me and I get the unfamiliar smell of cordite.
There’s another short burst of noise from the submachine gun as Cameron empties a second clip at the motorboat and its occupants, although as far as I can judge, he still hasn’t managed to hit any of the men. There’s no attempt to return the gunfire, perhaps they know they’re out-gunned. Or maybe, just maybe, they have no intention of pulling their triggers.
The person trying to control the motorboat is spinning the wheel – as am I, on the yacht – and within a few seconds we’ve pointed our sterns at each other. I push the throttles as far forward as they’ll go.
Another option is that they have orders to deliver Cameron to his employer, so he can either witness or carry out whatever punishment he deems appropriate for Cameron’s deceit.
After a minute or so, the motorboat turns and hangs a couple of hundred yards behind us.
I count four men standing at the back of the motorboat, and reason that Cameron’s ability to surprise is far superior to his aim. The guys in the motorboat have wisely decided that surveillance is the most prudent course for them.
Cameron producing the submachine gun has raised more questions in my mind. On the one hand he repelled the boarders and possibly saved all our lives; on the other, the father I’ve known for less than four hours has turned out to be a gun-toting thief who’s mixed up in organised crime.
It does, however, explain why he didn’t break any speed limits on our way to the harbour. Had he been stopped, and the submachine gun found in the trunk of his car, his plan would have surely failed.
‘Here, you take the wheel.’ I wave the nearest crewman forward. He looks nervous, but I smile at him. ‘Don’t worry. They won’t come back anytime soon.’
He swallows the bull I’m feeding him and takes control of the boat. ‘Where are we going?’
‘South,’ Cameron’s voice booms from the rear of the bridge. ‘Stay far enough out to sea to keep the coast out of sight. Our fuel tanks are full. They’ll run out long before we do.’
I’d marvel at his confidence were I not dumbfounded by his behaviour.
I walk over to him. ‘It’s time we talked, you and me. I’d like to know what’s really going on, where we’re headed and why a sixty-year-old man is auditioning for the next Rambo movie.’
32
Cameron is sitting on a chair in the rear deck area. His legs are crossed and there is a relaxed quality to his posture.
Like so many things about him, it’s a lie. There’s a tremor in his hands and the submachine gun rests on the table beside two spare clips.
‘Well?’ I glare at him for a moment and continue speaking. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or will I just turn the wheel and head for shore?’
He gives a knowing smile that doesn’t so much as threaten to touch his eyes. He’s faker than a five-buck Rolex and can’t be trusted on any level.
I decline the bottle of beer he tries to hand me. ‘Talk.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ There’s a smugness to his voice. He holds all the cards and he knows it. I need him way more than he needs me, and it’s obvious he’s going to milk the situation like it’s a prize cow.
‘This yacht. Who does it belong to?’
‘A company I own. It’s all legal and above board.’ He shrugs. ‘I just got someone else to pay for it, that’s all.’
‘Who?’
He shakes his head. ‘That doesn’t concern you. All you need to know, is the bozos in that boat,’ he uses the submachine gun to point at the motorboat, ‘represent the person whose money bought this boat.’
‘Would I be right in saying that the person whose money bought this boat may be a tad displeased with you using their money?’
‘I think it’s fair to say that he’d be displeased to death.’ A nonchalant shrug. ‘My death of course.’ Another shrug. ‘And the death of anyone who’s with me.’
His lack of concern is pissing me off, and intriguing me. Like a grandmaster playing chess against an amateur, he’s many steps ahead of me.
I need to fight him at his level, not mine. I lean against the rail and stare at the motorboat while I think things over.
When I turn to face Cameron, he’s looking at me with curiosity, trying to assess what I’ve figured out.
I gesture at the motorboat. ‘You’re not worried about those guys, which tells me you have a plan. The fact you had a gun indicates forward planning. Your gun being bigger and better than theirs, means you had foreknowledge of your opponents.’
He gives a nod to validate what I’m saying, and rolls his hand for me to continue.
I watch the motorboat for a minute, but I don’t really see it, as I’m composing my thoughts.
‘The boat that’s following us doesn’t worry you. I’ll credit you with enough brains to know they’ll be calling for reinforcements. That could be anything from a boat with a sniper on board to a helicopter. Yet you’re still looking calm. This tells me you have a plan to deal with whatever, or whoever comes our way.’
Another nod. ‘What time is it, Jake?’
I take a look at my watch. ‘Twenty after seven.’
Cameron doesn’t speak. He just raises an eyebrow and waits for me to work things out for myself.
I give my watch another glance and cast my gaze around. When I notice there is less light on three sides of us, I realise his plan. He intends to wait until dark and use its cover to escape from our pursuers.
I look at the sky and see a thick cloud cover; the kind of clouds that threaten rain and hide moonlight. Both welcome qualities.
‘So, once we’ve gotten away from these guys, what’s your plan?’
A smug look appears on his face. ‘I sell the boat. We do what needs to be done for your brother, and we go our separate ways.’
‘You make it sound simple.’ I tap my toes on the deck. ‘I’ve no idea what this yacht is worth, but I’ll be surprised if it’s less than a few million. Who has the money to buy such a thing with cash?’
‘Everything in life is simple provided you do the necessary planning. I know of twenty boat dealers who would be able to buy this boat without having to check that their account has the necessary funds. Especially if I make the price appealing. I paid seven for it; I’ll take five and a half.’
Something about Cameron has changed. He’s stopped showing his usual signs of deceit. I figure he’s now trying to impress me with his cleverness, and his newfound wealth.
Money has never held much sway for me and, while I appreciate intelligence, unless Cameron can find a cure for cancer, end worldwide famine, and put an end to all wars, he’s never going to be my favourite person.
‘It’s time.’ Cameron stands and heads for the stairway towards the bridge.
It’s his way of telling me our conversation is over and, in a way, I’m glad – despite still having unanswered questions. I have some thinking to do, and I want to find Taylor and make sure she’s okay.
33
For the first time since boarding the yacht, I notice its plushness. Every surface is polished to a glimmering sheen and there is little that doesn’t suggest extravagant opulence. Cameron said he had paid seven million bucks for it second-hand, but it’s a fair bet it was worth twice that brand new.
When I find Taylor, she’s huddled between two cream leather sofas. She hears my voice and lifts her head.
‘God, Jake. I heard the gunfire and I was so scared. I thought you’d get shot and the man with the gun would come for me.’
I bite down on a flippant remark before it passes my lips. The rush of adrenaline I felt when it kicked off has left me keyed up, but I can tell Taylor needs reassurance rather than wisecracks.
‘Don’t worry. Cameron has a plan and it’s a good one.’
While my words may be factually correct, I
can’t help feeling that Cameron has overlooked something, or will be caught out by a counter to one of his strategies.
Taylor hugs me and nestles her head against my chest. The gesture is for reassurance, not romance, so I keep my breathing level and hope that if she can feel or hear my heartbeat, it’s now back to somewhere near its usual rhythm.
I’ve left the cabin door open ready to react should I need to. When nothing happens but the disappearing of the coast, Taylor and I watch as dusk turns to night and the sky darkens towards black.
There are a few slow drops of rain that become heavier and thicker until they form a proper downpour.
Despite knowing I’ll get a soaking, I venture outside for a quick look around. Cameron is hunched beside the guy by the wheel and he’s urging him to go faster.
I’m not sure this is the best idea: not only are the waves increasing in size, we’re also running without any lights in near zero visibility. This has disaster written all over it.
I keep my reservations to myself. It may not be the safest way to travel but the Atlantic Ocean is a big place, and the odds of us colliding with another vessel are slim.
The presence of what looks like some kind of radar on the yacht’s bridge is reassuring; as is the fact that, no matter how hard I peer into the rain-drenched gloom behind the stern, I cannot see even the merest sign of the motorboat.
My fears subsiding, I retreat to the cabin and re-join Taylor. Her face is more relaxed although I can tell she’s still walking the tightrope between composure and emotional collapse.
‘Jake?’
‘Yes?’ I return the serious look she’s giving me.
‘Did you mean what you said last night? I know they say a drunk man speaks the truth, but I also know that you need to come to things in your own time.’
I rack my brains and try to recall the conversations we had. I remember her railing on me for getting drunk and for fighting; I also have memories of us sitting side-by-side on the bed, me talking to her as I clasped her hands in mine.