Page 43 of Savage Justice

Jed is Ethan’s brother-in-law, boss of the Irish Mob and a close ally.

“I’ll give him a ring.”

Matters settled, we divide into pairs to go about our visits. Enforcement can be dirty work, but someone has to do it.

CHAPTER 11

Nico

Mistral rocks gently against its moorings, the brilliant white bodywork gleaming in the early morning sunlight. She’s a beautiful vessel, almost as big as The Lydia, the Savages’ ocean-going yacht moored off Caraksay.

Dodgy art must pay well. Those things cost about a million quid a metre, and I’d guess Mistral to be around twenty metres in length. I’m perched on a rooftop nearly a mile from the dock but with an uninterrupted view of the target. I watch through my high-powered scope for any sign of life on the vessel. Tony fidgets next to me.

“Anything happening?” he demands, for about the thousandth time in the last half hour.

“You’d never make a sniper,” I murmur. “You haven’t the patience for it.”

“Fuck patience,” he growls. “I left my nice warm bed for this. I want some fucking action.”

“A light just came on in one of the forward cabins. Probably crew.”

“Why don’t we just storm the fucking boat and drag him off if he’s there.”

“Because if he isn’t he’d be forewarned. The thing about yachts is, they move. He could be miles away by this time tomorrow.”

Tony subsides into restless silence. Or as silent as he can manage while I keep my eyes on the Mistral where someone seems to be stirring.

My patience is rewarded a few minutes later when a pudgy individual in brightly coloured shorts and a Bermuda shirt emerges onto the deck. Barefoot, he stretches and saunters over to lean on the rail at the stern, his shirt flapping in the stiff breeze. He lights a cigarette and proceeds to send plumes of white smoke billowing behind him.

“Fucking poser. Thinks he’s sunning himself on the bloody Med,” I mutter.

“What? Have you spotted him?” Tony is immediately on alert.

“Yup. Down there.” I step away from the scope to let him have a look. “He’s a perfect target.”

“Could you hit him from here?” Tony wonders.

“Oh yes.”

“Hmm. That’d be the simple solution, wouldn’t it?”

I shrug. All options are open as far as I’m concerned. “Let’s go and round him up.”

There’s nothing even resembling security on the Mistral, unless you count an elderly captain and a lad who mops the decks and runs errands. Both disappear into the highly polished woodwork at a snarl from Tony when we cross the narrow gangplank. Borys shows a bit more interest, demanding to know what the fuck we think we’re doing.

“Morning, Borys,” I greet him. “Time for a little trip.”

“Are you mad? Get off my fucking yacht.”

“Might be. Mad, that is. Pissed off, certainly. I want a word with you.”

“Go fuck yourself. This is private property.”

“Oh dear, like that, is it? We’ll be doing this the hard way, then.” I draw my weapon, a Glock handgun, and train the muzzle on a spot between his eyes. “Before you ask, I’m a decent shot. And you have one chance to come with us quietly before we start making a mess, with you right in the middle of it. On your own two feet, or in a body bag. Choose now.”

“Who do you think—?”

“What’s happening? Borys, who are these men?”

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