Page 100 of No Safe Place

“You know, if you had just told me you were a student straight off when I pulled you out of the river, none of this would have happened.”

She said nothing.

“So, it’s your fault not mine.”

More silence from the little bitch.

He looked out at the water again and thought of this crazy cop on his way. There was no land in sight.

Boy had a pair on him, he’d give him that, he thought.

A wind from the southeast rattled the tails of Shaw’s shirt as he lifted his binoculars. He scanned the western horizon. Above it, long rags of clouds were moving north. Just as he finished his 360, he saw something small on the water to the east, a red speck.

“Hey, I see something. You seeing this?” he called out.

“Yes, we see it,” called one of the new mercenaries in a British accent, standing at the pilothouse deck rail right above him.

Besides himself and Olivia on the vessel was a contingent of five very large armed-to-the-teeth fellows who had been helicoptered in.

They were Vance’s newest hires. All Brits, all former SAS to a man.

Frank had skedaddled on their arriving helicopter.

He had other matters to attend to, he had said.

“Looks like a speedboat,” the Brit above him, who the others called Captain Charles, called down. “Writing on the prow is A... M...”

“Who gives a shit,” Shaw said. “That’s him. How many on the boat?”

“Just one, it looks like. A man on the flying bridge. A white man.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Positive,” Captain Charles said. “Unless he’s in white face or something.”

“No, you moron. I mean that he’s alone.”

“Yes. Just the one.”

Shaw thought about that.

“Make sure. This guy is no joke, Captain Charles.”

Captain Charles was actually no joke either. He was about six foot four or five and had to tip the scales at about three hundred pounds, most of it thick muscle. Many black Cockney-accented Londoners were laid-back, but he seemed quite the opposite.

“Thanks for the tip,” Captain Charles said.

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The powerboat I rented out of East Hampton was a 10K a day Deep Impact 399 center console that could truly haul.

But compared to the high-tech-looking super yacht I full throttled toward, it was like a goldfish approaching a whale.

Frank’s boat was one heck of a ship. Dark gray steel hull, three decks, a front bow high and sharp as the business end of a cleaver. It had an industrial, almost military, vibe to it like it could break ice or maybe even shell a harbor. It had to be almost two hundred feet.

With a lift of my binoculars, I counted four large mercenaries on the second pilothouse deck and then a fifth. Two of them were pointing binoculars right back in my direction.

Then I saw another guy standing along the back rail of the bottom deck in the rear part of the yacht known as the “sole.” A tall guy who gave me a wave. He seemed to be pointing binoculars back at me as well.

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