by Graham Smith
It’s no good. I can’t remember what she’s talking about, which leaves me with two options. Number one is to lie, and number two is to admit that I was so out of it I can’t remember what I said.
I try to think of a third option but I strike a blank. Option one has to be out as I am not a liar and I don’t know what I said to her. In my befuddled state I could have said anything from “we’re finished” to “will you marry me”. Telling Taylor I meant what I said isn’t something I can do until I know what I said.
She gives one of her gentle smiles. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
I shake my head.
Her smile broadens and lights her eyes. This is why I love her: she’s so forgiving, wonderful, and most of all, she gets who I am and allows me to be me.
This realisation brings a memory with it. Last night, for the first time in my life, I looked into a girl’s eyes and told her that I love her.
Granted, the moment should have come after a romantic moonlit walk, over dessert in a swish restaurant, or perhaps when we’re goofing around enjoying each other’s company. Not when I’m only halfway coherent and stinking of whisky.
My eyes fall to the floor in shame, but Taylor is better than that. She lifts my chin. ‘I can see you remember now.’ She smiles. ‘For the record, I love you too.’
‘I’m sorry, Taylor.’ I look into her eyes. ‘You deserved for me to say it sober, but it’s true. I do love you.’
The kiss she gives me is long and deep; it suggests more than forgiveness to me. I feel a stirring in my loins as Taylor presses her body against mine. I’ve heard about the effect that exposure to danger can have on some women, but this is the first time I’ve experienced it.
She pushes me onto a couch, walks to the door and locks it, a hungry expression in her eyes.
34
Banging on the cabin door wakes me. After a quick check to make sure Taylor’s decent, I unlock the door to be confronted by Cameron. If the set to his jaw is anything to go by, he’s not in the best of moods.
His eyes flicker around the cabin and he gives a snort. ‘So, while we spend all night out there, you’re in here getting laid.’
I square up to him and meet his gaze with enough ferocity to see his anger and raise him a psychotic rage.
‘You are the one who decided to rip off a criminal gang. You are the one who stands to walk away with more than five million dollars. You are also the one who’s lied to, manipulated and used every other person on board this yacht. Forgive me if I don’t work myself to death on your behalf.’
Cameron moves forward until our noses are less than an inch apart. There’s no way I’m going to back away, but there aren’t many people I’d allow to invade my personal space like this. If I didn’t need him to save my brother’s life, and if I didn’t respect the fact he is my father, despite not respecting him as a man, I’d make him bloody and horizontal.
‘I don’t give a rat’s ass what you have to say. I need you topside. There’s work to be done and the sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get back to dry land. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
I hate the fact that he’s not only making sense, but that he’s cottoned on to my biggest fear: drowning.
I can swim, but it’s not what anyone would call graceful or balletic. Like a kid in water-wings, I make a lot of effort, and splash a great deal of water, without making any significant forward motion. Only once in my life have I been out of my depth in water and I still have nightmares about it.
I pull on my life preserver and head out to see what he wants done. A look at the morning sun tells me we’re now heading north rather than south. It’s a simple deception that might or might not work.
Both crewmen are on deck, along with an array of packages and a selection of tools, and the sun has burned away last night’s rainclouds.
Cameron passes me a cordless drill with a screwdriver bit, and a few of the packages. ‘Go and change these. Toss the old ones overboard.’
Each of the brown paper-wrapped packages bears a shipboard location, handwritten in thick black ink.
I go to the bridge and unwrap the first one. It’s a nameplate, the same size as the one screwed to the central console.
Less than five minutes later, Lady Ursula has become Dunsettlin. Well, on the bridge at least.
As I work my way around the boat, replacing nameplates, I have to fight not to smile at Cameron’s choice of name. Dunsettlin is the kitsch name that people give to houses back in Scotland. Dunroamin was a popular one for those who’d tired of frequent relocating.
It also shows his inner humour. In his own way, he’s flipping the bird at the people he’s ripping off. Socking it to them with a dry joke at how he’s no longer prepared to settle for the scraps they toss his way.
I’d let myself smile were it not for the fact I share his humour and, therefore, I recognise that I’m more like him than I want to be.
As I make my way around the yacht, I see that Cameron is directing the crewmen as they complete another task.
Both crewmen are in a life-raft and they’re working at the stern of the yacht as it bobs on the waves.
Cameron passes the men a couple of spray paint canisters, and I hear the hiss of escaping paint a moment later. A large cardboard tube is wedged between Cameron’s feet, and I presume it’s a premade sticker to replace the now painted-over Lady Ursula.
The people Cameron has stolen from will be on the lookout for Lady Ursula being sold. By changing the name, Cameron has at least bought some time to get away from anyone who may be pursuing him. Who knows, he may never be traced.
It takes me an hour to locate and replace all the nameplates. When I’m finished, I join Taylor on the rear deck and watch as the crewmen complete their task at the yacht’s stern.
35
It’s early afternoon when we sight land. I have no idea where we are until one of the crewmen shows me a map and points to our destination.
Cameron’s plan appears to be working as there is no sign of any pursuit. He looks more relaxed after grabbing a few hours’ sleep in the stateroom. His demeanour is one of confidence and there’s a certain smugness about his face.
His phone has been pressed to his ear throughout the day and, although I’ve never heard what he’s said, his expression has always suggested that the calls were important.
He joins Taylor and me on the rear deck and offers us a bottle of beer. I refuse mine, but Taylor takes one and rolls it across her forehead before taking a sip.
‘I’ve got someone meeting us at a marina. He’s interested in buying the boat.’
I don’t answer him. I’ll be glad to get my feet back on terra firma, but something is nagging me; there’s something going on and I can’t yet identify what it is or who’s behind it. All I know is that I’m not happy with the setup.
For me, Osterville, on the peninsula that forms Cape Cod, is too near New York for comfort. Had we travelled down the coast to Florida, I would have been more confident that our docking would be a safe affair.
To my mind, trying to sell the boat only a few hours’ drive from NYC is foolish. Yes, there’s a lot to be said for double bluffs, and doing what your opponent least expects, but there’s also the fact that he used to work for the people he’s stolen from, therefore they’ll know what a tricky, contrary person he is. They’ll expect him to do the unexpected and will ensure that his unpredictability plays into their hands.
The yacht putters its way through an opening between two headlands and into a calm bay. We continue past various yachts, sailboats and other boats, before a stilling of the engine signals that the yacht is preparing to dock.
There’s a marina, and the crewman manoeuvres the yacht until its bow is swinging away from the floating pontoons that comprise the dock. The deck vibrates beneath my feet as the crewman puts the boat into reverse and starts edging the yacht towards the pontoons.
Taylor touches my arm. ‘You’re quiet. What are you thinking?’
I don’t answer. My eyes are scanning everywhere and there’s a sense of foreboding that is dominating my thoughts. Something is wrong here.
I look around the marina. The car park is empty; there isn’t a single person working on a boat, ferrying supplies back and forth, or doing any of the other things you’d expect. Other than the seagulls, I can’t see another living creature.
I look at the bar and restaurant building next. With so many yachts and pleasure craft moored here, the bar and restaurant should be booming. It looks closed.
Something moves on the roof of the building. It’s a human shape and is holding a long, thin item. It could be a worker hiding on the roof with a mop, but I don’t think so.
‘Ambush.’ My yell startles everyone on the yacht, but I’m not worried about hurt feelings. I point at the man piloting it. ‘Get us out of here. Fast!’
He leans on the throttle lever but the yacht is a pleasure craft, not a racer, and despite getting full power, it reacts with the kind of sluggishness you’d expect from a vehicle this size.
There’s a crack, and a hole appears in the bridge’s windshield. Cameron and Taylor are on the exposed rear deck, while the two crewmen show their loyalty to Cameron and jump overboard. I’d do the same myself were it not for the girl I love and the brother I’m trying to save.
With nobody at the helm, the yacht will crash into another boat before it has gone two hundred yards. I give myself a mental crossing and dive for the helm. I’m trying to make myself as small a target as possible, when I hear another crack of rifle fire.
Not feeling any pain, or being aware of the bullet striking anywhere near me, I turn and look to the others. Cameron is backing away towards the cabin but, like the coward he is, he’s using Taylor as a shield.
His arm circles her chest and he’s keeping his body behind hers.
I forget all about steering the craft and leap over the rail so I can separate them and get her into the safety of the cabin.
My feet land with a thud and I roll towards them but, as I’m straightening my legs, I hear another crack.
This one is followed a millisecond later by a dull thunk that snaps Taylor’s head back, over Cameron’s shoulder.
A mess of red and grey splatters the side of his face and the bulkhead.
Cameron drops Taylor at his feet and dives into the cabin.
As much as I want to follow him, and punch him until my hands are raw and broken and his head is a squashed pulp, I know what my priority is.
The man with the rifle will just train his gun on the cabin door, and wait for us to emerge while his buddies close in on us.
I scramble up the stairs and take control of the yacht as another bullet smacks into the windshield.
I keep myself as low as I can as I twist the wheel left and right to make sure the gunman’s opportunities to score another kill are as limited as possible.
Once we’re away from danger, I’ll deal with Cameron.
36
There are three more cracks and three slaps, as bullets crash through the windshield or into the timber deck.
I chance a look back, see the sniper on the roof has raised his rifle, and surmise that he’s given up. From nowhere, a bunch of shapes are running towards the pontoons. I figure they mean to steal another boat and follow us.
That won’t do them a whole lot of good. Not with what I have in mind.
Cameron’s actions have turned my veins into glaciers. To say I feel murderous is an understatement.
Despite my anger, and the urge to go down into the cabin and beat my father to death, I have a cold, dispassionate part of my brain, and this is controlling my actions and working out ways to survive.
As furious as I am with Cameron, I know that killing him will sentence John to death. Even in my fury, I still have enough control not to submit to base emotions. There will come a time of reckoning between me and Cameron, but it cannot happen until John’s transfusion has gone ahead.
With the yacht on a course that’ll keep it free from any possible collisions, I clatter down the stairs and go to the cabin. The door is locked but I’m long past the point of caring about the yacht’s resale value.
My foot crashes against the lock side and it splinters inwards. A second kick sees it swing open.
‘You.’ I point a finger at Cameron. ‘Get to the bridge now. Things have changed. I’m in charge now.’ My tone doesn’t leave room for argument, and he’s wise enough to do as he’s told.
I grab my backpack and return to the bridge.
I cannot bear to look at Taylor.
It’s bad enough seeing bits of her smeared across Cameron’s face, without looking at her ruined beauty for a second time.
When Cameron joins me on the bridge, I hold out my hand. ‘Cell.’
He hesitates, so I double him over with a powerful gut punch and pluck it from his pocket. It’s sailing over the rail before he’s finished his second gasp. The punch felt good to me. Too good in fact. It is all I can do not to give in to the desire to throw a few more. Say, a million or two; that might be enough to sate my need for revenge.
I put my own phone to my ear and connect with Alfonse. I give him Cameron’s cell number and tell him to do a trace on anyone who’s been tracking it. He goes quiet when I ask him to make sure he can’t be tracked himself. I want to tell him about what has happened to Taylor, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. Acknowledging her death will make it real and definite.
Deep inside, I know she really is dead, it’s just I can’t yet bring myself to believe it.
I cut the call and turn to Cameron. ‘You have one minute to get anything you think we may need, and then we’re leaving this boat.’
His face goes ashen as he realises that I’m serious. He’s not going to get the windfall he was hoping for.
Cameron nods as he faces up to his new reality. There are now finger trails running through the remnants of Taylor on his face. It’s obvious he’s disgusted by the gore and has tried to scrape it from his cheek. The sight offends me as much as him, so I toss him a rag. ‘Clean your face. I don’t want you touching her ever again.’
He ducks away. The sniper attack has shaken him. He’s been outclassed and his plans have turned to crap. I’m his best chance of survival and, as much as I’m furious with him, he knows that, for John’s sake, I won’t kill him.
As I plan a way to get us off the boat without getting shot, I’m thinking ahead: analysing the ways our pursuers can track us, and how to evade any traps they might set.
I’m not just thinking about the next few hours, I’m thinking about tomorrow and the days after that.
John needs Cameron to be in Casperton. As soon as I can find a way to lose our tail, I can then begin to consider how to get Cameron to the hospital.
The only thing I’m certain of is that Cameron cannot be trusted not to disappear the second I stop watching his every move.
A second thought dominates my mind. One of vengeance and violence; retribution and revenge.
Once I get Cameron to Casperton I will act upon my second thought.
My fingers grip the yacht’s wheel until they turn white, as I imagine myself killing the man responsible for Taylor’s death.
I make a vow to myself that Taylor will be avenged, or I will die in the attempt.
‘Cameron?’ His head snaps towards me. ‘Hold on. Things are about to get bumpy.’
37
Cameron sees what Jake is planning and grips the rail surrounding the rear deck with both hands. What his son is doing will cost him millions of dollars, but right now he doesn’t care. With his plan ruined, the only thing on his agenda is staying alive.
It’s a shame the girl died. That wasn’t part of his calculations. He hadn’t expected the sniper to fire at him when he was shielded by an innocent. Still, better her than him.
Cameron knows that Jake will blame him for the girl’s death, due to the way he’d used her, rather than the man who had
pulled the trigger. The look in his eyes had been murderous, but the fact that Cameron’s bone marrow is needed for John was enough to save his life.
That will continue to save him until he can slip away from Jake and start a new life again. Money will be tight to begin with, but he’ll find a way. He always does.
Cameron knows he should feel guilty about abandoning John to his fate, but really, he thinks it’s a bit rich – only looking him up when they need something from him.
He left both of his families behind for a reason. The same reason each time: they suffocated him; made demands on his time that he wasn’t prepared to give. Sure, reading a story to a pyjama-clad child is endearing. But only if you do it once in a while. To do it twice and thrice a day is monotonous and stultifying. Doubly so when it’s the same story, night after night.
His ex-wives were no better, with their nagging about the lawns that needed cutting, or the shelves they wanted erecting. On and on they’d droned until he’d lost sight of the thing that had attracted him to them in the first place.
The yacht falls silent as Jake cuts the engines and lets momentum carry them into the shore.
Cameron braces himself and only just manages to stop himself from being thrown forward, as the bow digs into the soft sand, ten yards from shore.
The yacht’s momentum carries it a few yards further before it grinds to a complete halt and then slowly, it lists twenty degrees onto its starboard side.
Cameron goes to the front of the boat and looks down. It’s ten feet from the rail to the waves lapping on the beach. The water is perhaps a foot or two deep, which means a five foot drop if he hangs from the deck.
It’s doable. The water and sand will cushion his blow and prevent him from breaking any bones.
He looks at Jake.