Francesca was on alert now, scanning one bank and then the other. There were more gators sunning, but none of them stirred as the small boat passed.
They rounded a curve, and he saw what must be the marina up ahead. He’d told Francesca what to expect, but he wasn’t exactly prepared for the knot of spectators being held back by police.
He glanced at his mate. “Get ready.”
“Is this really okay?”
“Yes,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it because his only option was to chug ahead, bouncing against a wooden dock as two cops with guns drawn rushed toward the dinghy.
Francesca looked like she’d rather be in a spaceship on the way to Mars than at this marina.
“It’s going to be fine,” he whispered, praying he had calculated this right.