Page 53 of The Devil Wears Orange
I scan the coast while he carries on, disappointed by the absence of his hand at my back.
“The Palm Jumeirah is manmade.”
My attention is focused on the artificial archipelago, but in my peripheral, I notice Rashid turn. I follow his gaze to two men on a smaller boat closing the distance behind us. Riding past, the men – wearing a Manchester United jersey and baseball hats – study us. Their familiarity strikes me. Of course, I saw them earlier in the day when I believed they were trailing me from the hotel, but there’s something about their clothes that loosely cover bodybuilder shapes, and their arms that appear too short for their upper torso, that remind me of something. I’m close to loosening that memory that will tie it all together.
The races!I shiver even in the soaring heat, experiencing a visceral fear of danger. These two men were the bodyguards of the man whose cold stare intimidated me.
Circling us, the man in the Manchester United jersey locks eyes with the Prince, a lingering look. I gasp. The bodyguardsof the man Rashid met with must have been following me all day practically unnoticed by me. I was foolish to think I could spy on Rashid without his knowledge. The surprise boat trip, the Manchester United men, and the man left behind at the marina who carries out “special” work for Rashid all add up to one thing.
“Assassins,” I whisper.
The assassins travel full circle again and back our way. My eyes flash to my surroundings. Loud music emanates from the closest ship, partygoers mill about. They’d never hear me scream for help even if I tried. I scan the water, hoping, praying, anticipating a way out of this but the other boats are too far off. I’ll drown trying to reach them. I’ll die if I stay. My eyes drop to the sea while I work up the courage to dive in when a tinny motor sounds. I look up at a flat-topped water taxi heading for my general area.
“Charlotte, we’re going back,” Rashid says in a clipped voice, and starts the engine, then turns the boat around. Phone in hand, he quickly presses at numbers with his thumb, speaks Arabic, then slides the phone back in his pocket. “Stay low.”
The Manchester United boat follows, picking up speed as Rashid accelerates. His jaw tenses, his hands steady on the wheel. Spray hits me in the face, and the wind steals my breath. Rashid had told me to get down yet I stand, clutching the back of the seat, my body rocking as the boat slams into each wave. My gaze drifts to him. Has he changed his mind about killing me?
Manchester United cuts across our path. The surprise throws Rashid off-balance, and he swerves to miss them. I lose my balance and knock into the side of the boat, and nearly topple over. With one hand still fastened to the back of the chair, Rashid reaches over and pulls me upright.
“I said stay low!”
I don’t want to stay low. I want off! The water-taxi continues to make its way to us, and I abandon my spot at the rear bench.Perhaps the people on that water-taxi can help save me unless they’re also assassins. My God, just how many people does it take to kill me?
Rashid looks at me over his shoulder. “Get down.”
I sink to my knees. Our boat thrusts forward into full throttle, throwing me backward, and I land on my ass with a hard thump. Saltwater shoots up from the side and dumps on me, gets into my mouth, up my nostrils, and whips off my hat. With our boat pounding against waves, I’m pitched a few inches into the air. Clutching the rail, I examine the growing distance between us and the assassins.
A bullet whizzes past and ricochets off the metal frame of the windshield. Rashid whips the wheel around in a sharp turn, steering us away from danger. Ahead, the water-taxi turns towards the marina and away from the shooting. The driver appears panicked, incessantly turning back to the shooters, and the passenger waves his arms in the air like he’s directing a plane on a runway. There’s something familiar about the aircraft marshaller – a man in a white linen suit with a tan shirt like the one Jack wore earlier in the day. And the tan hat he wears is also recognizable and British-y,much like the one Jack wore at the vineyard. This man doesn’t just resemble Jack – heisJack. Emotion swells up to my throat and stops just short of my eyes. I hold back tears. He came, just as I had asked.
“Charlotte, I can’t drive and worry about you,” Rashid says. “Get down.” This time, I throw myself flat on the wet floor, and find my hat wedged beneath the bench. I reach for it, and place it back on my head like a turtle hiding in its shell.
Another shot rings out, and the windshield shatters. Rashid grunts. My head pops up to see if he’s hurt, and, seeing the blood, I get up on my knees then unsteadily to my feet.
“Are you hit?” I stare at the blood running down his arm. It seems too risky to shoot at Rashid if he’s with them. Is he or isn’t he? I can’t make up my mind with bullets whirring past.
“Get down!” he says, gritting his teeth. “We’re heading back to the marina. They won’t follow if we lose ourselves among the other boats.”
While I agree that sounds like a good plan, it seems somewhat impossible to do. The Manchester United boat is now between us and the marina. Rashid aims our boat away from them and towards the water-taxi that is trying to escape us. The water-taxi driver hurriedly waves his hands in a shooing gesture. Jack looks at me from the back of the water-taxi.
“He’s trying to kill me,” I shout, hands cupped around my mouth like a bullhorn.
“We’re coming for you,” shouts Jack, though his boat is heading in the opposite direction.
“Get down,” says Rashid.
“No. No. No,” shouts the water-taxi driver as he chugs away.
A siren sounds in the distance. I should feel relieved but I’ve been in this situation before, and it didn’t end well.She is Minegains on the water-taxi. Manchester United speeds alongside us; the passenger’s arm extended, a gun aimed directly at me.
“Charlotte, down!” shouts Jack.
Another shot rings out. I stagger forward, then jerk backward when Rashid wrenches the boat into a quick turn. I tumble over the side and hit the water with a splash.
Chapter 31
“Turn this around andgo to that boat!” Jack shouts to his driver, but the man continues to drive in the opposite direction. “I will triple what I offered you.” Still, the boat doesn’t turn. Jack keeps watch on the area where she fell, looking for her to resurface, but it gets harder the farther out the driver takes them. Charlotte could have taken a bullet before she hit the water. He whispers “Come on, come on,” wishing for her to appear. “I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just do it,” he yells, finally bringing his eyes to the driver.
The driver looks to the shooters driving away from an approaching police boat and finally steers towards the spot Charlotte fell.
