Voyage over the Edge

PROLOGUE

It was three in the morning, a perfect time for a crime. The man cloaked in black had been hiding behind a line of mangroves. He didn’t anticipate any witnesses at this hour except a few fiddler crabs scurrying along the shoreline. Trusting his concealment beneath the shadowy palms, he crept forward; then paused at the water’s edge to scan the harbor. Quickly spotting his target, his dark eyes narrowed to confirm he had the right one.

Shit! A miniscule wave broke above his ankles, depositing damp, cool sand into his shoes. He shook off the chilling jolt and then moved laterally down the beach. His intended prey blindly awaited, now less than fifty yards away. Moments from now you will be mine, he whispered, a sinister smirk creasing his compassionless face.

The evil figure was both a thief and an assassin. His muscular torso was draped in dark, head-to-toe garments, their obscure hues blending into the green hills looming behind Ocho Rios Bay. On his right wrist, a tattooed viper—a faded commando insignia—protruded beneath the cuff of his sleeve, mimicking his own snake-like image, coiled and poised to strike. Equally wicked were his eyes, threatening and ebony in color, matching his black attire.

His intense focus now centered on a specific yacht. Listening for any signs of human activity, he heard nothing but rustling palm fronds. Tonight will be easy, he thought, ignoring the bead of sweat now dangling from the tip of his crooked nose. Even easier than the last one.

As always, he felt secure in his professional skills, even if there were unforeseen obstacles. His acute sense of stealth had been acquired in black ops with military intelligence. His hit kit, a black leather satchel contained everything he needed for this job—his favored tools of the trade although much simpler in design and function than what he had been issued during five years of recon training.

He rechecked the contents and arranged them in the order they would be needed. From top to bottom, he carefully placed an eight inch blade, a Glock 17, gripper gloves, a penlight and his favorite of all—duct tape which had as many practical uses for a trained assassin as for a plumber or an electrician. He wouldn’t need his infrared goggles, assault rifles and C-4 explosives for this job. Besides, he had to leave those coveted tools behind after being discharged from the military, the dishonor received for purposely killing two innocent civilians in Iraq.

Needing transport to his victim, he made a quick survey of the assortment of dinghies and inflatable rafts that were scattered along the beach. Most of them were used as tenders to the yachts offshore and within minutes he found the perfect one for tonight’s destination. He squatted in the sand next to a gray Zodiac inflatable to confirm its seaworthiness . . . then pulled out his long blade to slice through the thin line that tethered it to a small anchor dug into the sand.

What the . . . ? His head jerked to his left. Startled by a glint of light entering his peripheral vision, he focused on the source. In the distance, amber lights flickered on . . . then off again. The offending lights came from a large Hatteras anchored just inside the breakwater. Nothing important, he thought. Glancing at his black Tag watch, he saw another fifteen minutes had elapsed. He had to believe that anyone residing on these sleek yachts must certainly be asleep by now.

Now or never, he said in a low voice while leaning forward to launch the inflatable into the cool water. Green seawater sloshed in the bottom of the boat as he settled onto a wooden slatted seat. As he dug his oars into the water, he breathed in the sweet scent of lignum vitae, Jamaica’s national flower, now wafting across the harbor and filling his nostrils. Considering his mission, it all seemed too peaceful.

But just then, the offensive lights from the Hatteras flashed on again.

Who the hell are these idiots? He mumbled and immediately stopped rowing, causing the small boat to drift sideways into the wind. Ducking low, he allowed the rubberized craft to glide to a complete stop. Only forty yards from the obnoxious glare, he could make out the silhouette of a fat, naked man perched on the transom. Braced against the railing for support, the man thrust his pelvis forward into the wind, then commenced a steady yellow stream of urine over the stern.

Harriet, the bloated and drunken figure yelled out, Get your sweet ass up here and take a look at this! He pointed excitedly at the phosphorescence as it swirled in circles, disturbed by his waterfall cascade of recycled alcohol. Ain’t never seen nothing like this! He chuckled, leaning over for a closer inspection of his artwork.

He continued to draw arcs and circles in the luminance of the water as if his penis was a paintbrush. Now holding onto the stainless handrail for support he arched his hips sternward to further expand his masterpiece. Suddenly, after inching out as far as he could, he lost his grip and tumbled off the transom like a sack of potatoes. KABOOM! The splash of the deadweight hitting the surface thundered like a teenager doing a cannonball from the high dive.

The entire farce was laughable yet seemed an eternity to the assassin. He clutched his eight-inch blade, contemplating his desire to stick it in the man’s corpulent ass. A minute later, an equally obese, drunken and naked Harriet arrived at the stern, peered over the side, then guffawed at the sight of her fat friend wallowing like a Walrus behind the yacht.

You stupid old coot, Harriet yelled out, her southern twang resonating across the harbor. Get your booty up here before some shark takes a bite out of it! After struggling to help her exhausted mate pull himself up the swim ladder, Harriet bellowed with laughter at his disgusting but comical image. Now both were snorting and squealing like pigs in heat as they staggered back into the main cabin. A few minutes later and the lights flicked off again.

Deciding that all bladders and late night revelers were again at rest, he continued rowing. The targeted victim was dead ahead. She lay in twelve feet of water, just inside the breakwater barrier. Now in full view, he could make out the white letters stenciled along the yacht’s stylish blue transom.

SEASONG

A few more powerful, silent strokes from the wooden oars and he was alongside his prey, a stately 1982 Hinckley Custom ’56 Center Cockpit that was considered to be a hot ticket in yachting circles. Built in a Maine boatyard, the powerful but sleek vessel demanded attention at any port-of-call. From stem to stern, this was a classic beauty, renowned for its traditional lines and sterling racing history. With a price tag of nearly $1 million for a well-preserved model, only old money or the nouveau riche could afford such a luxury ride on the high seas.

He guided the inflatable dinghy to the shadowed port side of the SeaSong and allowed it to bump softly against the hull. Steadying himself, he stood up and lifted his wares over the side, then gently set them on the teak deck. With little effort, he pulled himself up, slid beneath the lifelines and dropped down in a prone position on the deck, still trusting his invisibility. He lay there and listened, taking ample time to assure himself that he was indeed the only one aboard.

Secured in his hit kit satchel was the Glock 17, holding sixteen hollow points plus one in the chamber. It was now in his competent hands, deftly held in front of him as he worked himself aft toward the center cockpit and the open companionway leading to the cabin below. The moon briefly peeked out from behind a dark cloud, its glow reflecting silver droplets of perspiration beading above his lip. Taking an anxious first step into the darkened hold of the vessel, he paused again, listening for any reaction.

His apprehension perplexed him since he had confirmed earlier in the afternoon that no one was aboard. He had observed three Latinos lounging and smoking pot in the cockpit with a local Jamaican woman. Watching them from shore with binoculars, he had seen them leave the yacht. Maintaining his surveillance, he followed them to the Lion’s Den, a local Rastafarian hangout. Still alert to their every move, he watched them amble over to a drug hovel in the Ocho Rios district known locally as Ganga Heights, and from there he tailed them to the same Jamaican woman’s apartment, apparently to hole up for the night.

Reassured from that earlier reconnaissance, he took a second confident step into the cabin, then silently pulled his pen light from his bag and flashed it in the direction of the navigation station, hoping to find the DC battery switches. With his fifth and final heel and toe movement down the companionway stairs he heard a wooden squeak, freezing him in mid-step.

Damn! he cursed under his breath. But it wasn’t a noise he had made. Instead, from the forward V-berth, came a more human sound. He then heard another squeak . . . then a rough cough from the same direction. He swung the Glock 17 and the penlight forward, its focused beam now shining into the face of a shocked, wide eyed and bearded Columbian, now sitting up and facing the unknown trespasser.

Madre de . . . . The startled Latino could say nothing more as two hollow points exploded inside his brain. The bullet holes pierced the man’s face just above the eyebrows, the impact forcing blood and brains from the back of his head, now splattered as a mottled, unframed picture on the wall of the V-berth. There was no need to confirm the kill. Dead eyes now stared back, blankly surveying the intruder.

The man in black now moved frantically, cursing himself for not anticipating the Columbian’s presence, and also for not equipping his Glock with a silencer. The shockwave of the blasts had loudly rung through the harbor. He knew more lights would soon come on from surrounding boats, with curious heads poking out of hatches to see what was going on. If the engine wouldn’t start on the first try, he would give up his objective and row like a madman back to the beach. But the keys were on the chart table, the batteries were charged and he knew he still had a chance.

Move . . . quick . . . stay calm! he muttered to himself. Racing topside, he jammed the keys into the cockpit ignition, turned them one-quarter to the right. Nothing! He twisted the key again. Still nothing. His breathing increased and his heart began to pound as he made a final attempt.

Then, "chulunng, chulunng . . ." On the third revolution, the reliable Perkins diesel fired. He sprinted to the foredeck, tossed off the line to the stolen dinghy, pulled out his long steel blade and quickly hacked through the anchor line. Within thirty seconds, he was back behind the oversized stainless wheel negotiating the entrance to the harbor channel. He forced himself to take deep breaths, to calm his heart from the adrenaline rush. Feeling his pulse subside to normal levels, he smiled at the professional execution of his heist. Excluding the minor disruption of having to kill an unexpected nuisance—for him, an act akin to carrying out the garbage—the theft of the yacht was all in a day’s work.

Yes, Yes . . . she’s mine now! He bellowed, his head raised upward like a wolf howling to the night sky.

Only two lights had flashed on in the pre-dawn. He suspected their only thoughts of the ringing gunshots would be that an engine backfired, most likely from another boat making an early departure for a long passage. The man in black then gave full throttle, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and lit a cigarette. Settling comfortably behind the wheel of the large, sleek vessel he took a final survey of the crowded harbor and the boats tied to their moorings, still swaying in complete oblivion to the threat among them.

Goodbye fools! He mocked the other boats now disappearing behind him. I’ll be sure to send you a postcard when I get there! He laughed at the crescent moon darting beneath low storm clouds now forming on the far horizon.

Steering toward the sea buoy, he calculated the potential value of such a magnificent craft. The SeaSong was his latest conquest, a grand heist for the thriving ring of thieves who preyed on absentee yacht owners in the Caribbean. He smiled at his good fortune, blissfully unaware that this particular theft would be his last one . . . and of the unleashed chain of terror to follow.

Chapter One

The midday sun dangled above them, a menacing presence to the solitary souls below, now bouncing around in tumultuous seas. The boiling sun was insensitive, the same as it had been for eons. Its scorching heat reached far north into the artic glaciers, creating a slow melt that flowed southward, all the way to the Caribbean Sea. This flow produced multiple unseen rivers of timeless currents, the most notable of all the Gulf Stream. On certain days, this particular current had a nasty demeanor and was best left alone. Yet here they found themselves, fighting the clashing seas, as well as each other.

Damn it Jake, we’ve got no business being the only living things out here! Vanessa snapped. She pounded her fist against the cabin top to emphasize her complaint.

Come on Vanessa, you were looking forward to this. Jake calmly responded, hoping to not reveal his own distress with their situation. Why not go below, fix us some lunch and get your mind on something else. The boat tossed to leeward in symbolic agreement. Pots and pans spewed from the galley cabinets below as the large yacht heeled in wild protest.

That’s always the way you handle everything, isn’t it. Just ignore it . . . Or worse yet, ignore me! Vanessa gave a final huff in his direction and banged down the companionway, leaving him on deck to contemplate her absolute and total misery. She stayed below to restore order to the galley, wondering to herself why she had ever agreed to this, but more specifically, if their marriage was even worth all this agony and distress.

Jake hunkered into the cockpit, took a half-hearted turn on the starboard winch and reflected on her anger. There was only one thing Jason Jake Winship detested more than being told that he was wrong. It was far more upsetting knowing that Vanessa was usually right. And in the three and a half years of their marriage, she had reminded him of that on too many occasions.

Only last night while loading their final provisions at the dock in West Palm Beach, she had admonished him in painful detail, "Remember that rainy trip we took to Southampton . . . and how about that time you lost the tickets on the way to see The Phantom of the Opera . . . and I’ll never forget when my best friend Elizabeth Duncan retched on your wine selection at Le Bernardin!" She had not let him off the hook about his past transgressions, although minor, the entire time they were preparing for the cruise. Now, thirty-five miles from shore, she was scolding him again, this time for putting their lives in jeopardy, allowing them both to be thrashed about in such an alien world.

Jake chose to ignore Vanessa for the moment, sensing that the boat’s labored progress was of more immediate concern. He wrapped a yellow bandana around his forehead to stem the tide of sweat from his eyes; then gazed eastward for any sign of land. The seas of the Gulf Stream were still building as the current clashed with an opposing wind. He had checked the velocities of the current before departing this morning, but now reckoned the relative calm of island waters would be many hours away.

Having studied the Gulf Stream from the comforts of an armchair while planning their voyage, Jake had no concept of what this river of seawater would be like in reality. And it was literally a river—62 miles wide and 3,900 feet deep with flowing speeds of 6 mph transporting from 50-150 million cubic yards of water per second. Not to be regarded lightly, the Gulf Stream has the honor of being the most powerful current in the world. Driven by wind stress, all but the largest oceangoing vessels have to take its forces in stride. Winter months make crossing it even more perilous and on certain days a 56 foot yacht is no more invincible than a little ducky being tossed about in a kid’s bathtub. Now experiencing its wrath first hand, Jake thought how ironic that the textbooks could provide such detailed explanations of its power without ever commenting on what it would actually be like in real time.

Vanessa reluctantly returned to the deck, having endured all she could of the boat’s pitching and rolling from the galley. Without having made lunch for either of them, she shot Jake a severe look that would have frozen Blackbeard in his boots. She plopped down on the windward settee with her arms crossed and eyes fixated on the constantly tilting horizon. Her tense countenance had the clear intent of sending Jake a picture-perfect message . . . Get me off this damn boat!

Can’t we just start over? Jake appealed, although aware that he was again stepping into hazardous territory. We’ve got way too much to deal with here than having to listen to each other’s complaints. He knew that getting along with her would be the only way to safely and sanely cross this bit of ocean. Let’s be partners again . . . how about it?

Do I even have a choice? she huffed, averting any eye contact.

In a few more hours we’ll be out of the clutches of the stream . . . then you’ll feel better about everything. Jake spoke in an accommodating tone while searching her face, particularly her eyes that were so green and penetrating, so lovely when she smiled, and so fiery when she was pissed.

You never told me it would be anything like this, Jake! Vanessa asserted, now standing defiantly in the hatchway with her hands on her well-shaped hips. Even though she was now in her late thirties, she was still statuesque, firm and athletic. Her lithe figure honed on aerobics and tennis, she still possessed that highly toned body that showed no discernible fat to offend the eyes. Her physical perfection was impeccably displayed in the lime green bikini that matched her eyes, a sensual vision that usually made Jake succumb to anything she wanted.

Jake pursed his lips, choosing not to respond and risk inviting another verbal barrage.

Vanessa glared at him while clenching her teeth. You may have duped me again Jake . . . but I assure you it’s the last time!

Just what are you saying? Jake replied.

I was hoping for a cruise, not an outward bound expedition . . . and it’s hotter than hell and I think I’m going to get sick! Vanessa, off balance, lurched forward and grabbed a stainless rail as the boat yawed sideward over a large wave.

This is the only rough part, honey. Jake said, with little reflection on what words he could choose to make her feel better. Soon it’ll be paradise. You’ll see.

Vanessa wanted to scream, but decided it was of no use. Seeing that there would be no verbal resolution to her emotional plight, she plopped back down with a look of total dismay. Her eyes again scanned the empty horizon, but only pitching seas stared back, their infinite emptiness mirroring the futile expression on her face.

Jake painfully watched the hopeless look in Vanessa’s face, never imagining it would turn out this way. She was full of excitement when they took delivery of the SeaSong from their Connecticut yacht broker. She was so immersed in decorating the cabin, stocking provisions for the galley and even learning how to handle the infinite collection of lines, pulley’s, chocks, outhauls and downhauls. She was bonding with the SeaSong in every way. But now they were at sea and Jake saw a radically different attitude. The reality of sailing in a big and unforgiving ocean had destroyed her idealistic concept of the SeaSong. Jake could only hope it wouldn’t get any worse.

SeaSong’s sails were taut, trimmed on a port tack. The sturdy yacht took on each passing wave as it was designed to do, with little fanfare or complaint. Jake, however, was becoming more troubled, the combined tensions from the rough sailing and his distraught wife now weighing heavily on his mind. His grip on SeaSong’s wheel had become slippery, his hands sweating not so much from the heat as from his anticipation of unknown events to come.

Vanessa had crawled back to a starboard cockpit seat, bracing herself against a spongy, blue cushion. She adjusted her phosphorescent bikini top straps to allow her tan lines to fill in, subconsciously hiding her anxiety in this whimsical act. Silvery beads of sweat ran down her cleavage, marking trails of evidence that she was not only hot . . . but also very bothered!

There was no other option for either except to sail on, both a solitary vision, remotely detached from the agitated world they left behind, now merged together in an even more agitated and remote world. Only the occasional dolphin, scurrying beneath the thrusting bow gave them any honor of recognition. Both felt the omnipresent sense of loneliness and fear at sea. Jake, however, remained determined to overcome his gnawing emotions and reach the Bahamas by nightfall. Vanessa was equally determined to express her discomfort. He knew he could not placate her, but he also knew there would be no turning back. They would have to put up with the situation and with each other. Any other verdict at this point would be tantamount to dissolving their lives together.

Another hour passed without any conversation between them. Vanessa had made every effort to bite her tongue, but the building tension finally overcame her resolve. When are you ever going to learn . . . You still think your Wall Street buddies can buy you out of a jam? Or maybe your Daddy’s going to take care of it for you by calling up the Governor. Well, guess what! Now you’re out here alone . . . and if you fuck up this time, nobody’s going to care!

Jake, jolted by Vanessa’s sudden outburst, angrily yelled back, You’re being a real smart ass little bitch today, aren’t you. He kicked the base of the steering pedestal in anger, causing his barefooted toes to throb.

Go to hell! Vanessa spat back. Oh excuse me, maybe we’re already there. And get your own fucking lunch! Her stomach turned again at the thought of food on the rolling vessel. If I ever get off this stinkin’ boat, she added, I’ll sink it with you still on it! She stood up, grabbed an unused winch handle and slung it in his direction. The heavy projectile clanged harmlessly along the deck, fortunately taking a chip out of the fiberglass instead of Jake’s head.

Don’t bother, Jake shot back. We’ll probably sink out here before you even get that chance. He bit down hard on his lower lip, regretting that he had said that. Now both his lip and his toes resonated with pain.

Vanessa screamed a final obscenity in his direction, tossed her blonde hair away in contempt, then clambered back to the isolation of the main cabin, again preferring its pitching agony to being left on deck with him.

The heavy yacht banged unmercifully into each rigid wave, sending shudders fore and aft. Jake knew SeaSong was capable of the abuse; but their nerves, well, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Vanessa yelled up through the companionway, continuing her assault from the galley. Why the hell didn’t you take up golf Jake . . . wouldn’t it be better to be playing gin rummy in the clubhouse? Or is that not macho enough for you?

Damn it, Vanessa, we decided to do this together, Jake yelled back toward the darkened hold. And you’ve been part of this all along, he added for emphasis.

She pretended not to hear him from the cabin below, now banging utensils against the stainless sink with great purpose. Why not a beach house in Florida? She moaned, this time admonishing only herself. Hell, we could’ve flown down to Tortola and chartered for the winter. But no, Mr. Macho Man got me into this! How could I have been so stupid? She felt her stomach complain as she tore through the medical kit searching for the scopolamine patches.

Jake tried to keep his mind on the boat and fiddled with the lines cluttering the deck. He felt it was best to just ignore her this time. He had heard enough, and he knew this quarrel wouldn’t end until she was safely onshore. Vanessa wasn’t inherently bitchy, he thought, although she did have some valid reason to be upset at the moment. He also felt there was some validity in her assertions of his past mistakes, but this time, he had no other choice but to prove her wrong. A cruise to the Bahamas and ultimately to the Virgins was his perfect solution. It would be a year or two extended vacation from life’s travesties and mockeries. This, he believed, was the resolution that would mend his soul, and at the same time make ultimate reparations with Vanessa, perhaps even saving their marriage. Together, they would leave their past behind and sail to the islands for a blissful existence forever more—just like in the storybooks. It was his opinion, of course, and maybe the last one she would ever agree to. For the moment though, Jake knew he better start mending some fences. He threw the coiled lines into a heap and stuck his head into the open hatch.

You’ll feel better up here, he called down the stairs over the noise of badgering seas slapping at the hull and sails moaning their discontent under the load. No response from his isolated first mate, now on her knees and clinging to the fiberglass toilet, heaving up the remains of breakfast.

Jake sighed and went back to his position behind the wheel. Picking up the sextant lying next to him, he took a 12:00 Noon fix off the glaring sun; then cursed their slow progress. As a navigational tool, the instrument was more of a nuisance to him than an aid, especially since he had all the electronic toys on board—SSB radio, GPS, Loran—but the romance of using an ancient art still intrigued him. Reality quickly set in though, recognizing they had a long way to go against headwinds and sloppy six foot chop. I guess I don’t need this damn thing to tell me we’re still in the middle of nowhere, he said to himself with quiet frustration, sliding the gadget back into its worn, wooden box.

But now of greater concern than Vanessa’s bitter mood and sour stomach was the slight depression that had formed about 600 miles southeast of their present position. Upon leaving the Lake Worth Inlet in West Palm Beach this morning the dockmaster had warned him of the storm’s pending development. He thought it best to conceal this fact from Vanessa or she would have never left the dock. With the distance and weakness of the system and no clearly defined storm heading he felt safe in attempting the relatively short fifty-five mile hop to landfall in the West End of the Grand Bahamas.

Now he wasn’t sure of anything. Well, maybe there was one certainty, he thought. Vanessa is going to castrate me once she learns of this storm now directly in our path. Jake groaned, now realizing that the sharks below might offer him a better outcome.

Chapter Two

An early New England winter chilled the night air. Yet, the yacht broker’s office in Connecticut was overheated with arguments. Three men assembled inside the small room cluttered with yachting magazines and nautical prints felt the rising tension from not making any progress on their deal.

Two hundred thousand? You’re out of your mind Phillipe! The boat is worth five times that!

Maybe so . . . but there are too many risks this time.

Risks! I’ll tell you about risks! said Drake, the aggravated thief whose mood was turning as dark as his ubiquitous black attire. This yacht was ripped off from some bad looking dudes. For all I know they were Columbian drug barons vacationing in Jamaica. I had to waste one of them so they’re probably tracking us down as we speak!

Tracking who down, Drake? said Phillipe. Perhaps I can’t trust you anymore.

Fuck you! Drake barked, sensing the veins in his neck tightening. He clinched the wooden arms of the office chair while biting hard on his lip. It was all he could do to sit still and not leap at the throat of this man he had no respect for.

Who else knows about our operation? Phillipe, the yacht broker who controlled this meeting shot piercing eyes at Drake. Although Phillipe was a slight, wiry man with nervous mannerisms, he continued to stare down the thief who he knew wouldn’t hesitate to kill him over any slight disagreement.

Only you, me and Crawford . . . as always! Drake stated defiantly. He then glanced over in the corner to Donnie Crawford for support; who he could see was now shifting uneasily in his chair. Crawford was the intermediary, the broker’s broker, who part-timed as a croupier in Atlantic City where orders where often placed for yachts by the high rollers he served. He was charismatic, had Brad Pitt looks, and typically bragged about his sideline connections for well-priced yachts to those who just made a big haul at his high-stakes blackjack table. While few bit on his offers, he could usually recognize the impulse spenders, dealing them the Aces and Jacks that ensured they had an extra hundred thousand or so to go blow on a boat.

Phillipe swiveled his chair around to Crawford who had been hoping to stay out of the argument. Crawford, does anybody else know about this heist? He asked gruffly, then slammed his hand on the desk. One of you better start reassuring me or this will be the last job for either of you.

You worry way too much, Crawford coolly responded, Have Drake and I ever let you down?

Listen to me! Phillipe shouted. Colombians, if that’s who they were, don’t fuck around if they’re in the dope business, Phillipe paused for impact, . . . and they’re not going to be too fucking happy about this!

Hell, I don’t even know if they were really Colombians, Crawford replied, now shifting his angle. The hailing port painted on the transom said Cartegena, but they wouldn’t be stupid enough to advertise where they’re from . . . especially if they were carrying a shipment. Besides, we searched the boat thoroughly. There was nothing, not even a joint on board.

And the man you wasted . . . ? Phillipe said, now turning his eyes back to Drake.

Shark bait at this time. Drake coolly replied. I put him overboard with a heavy plow anchor tied around his neck. No evidence anywhere. Crawford jumped in hoping to further mitigate Phillipe’s concerns. When she left Ocho Rios, the yacht had a blue hull but Drake and I got her bottom and topsides painted red, then had her cleaned to Bristol condition. Crawford smiled, his polished white teeth gleaming. He contentedly folded his arms as a gesture of his self-confidence.

And those South American slobs had really trashed her, Drake added. They couldn’t pick out this yacht now if they were standing on her at a boat show! Drake and Crawford exchanged smiling glances at each other.

Phillipe noticed their growing smugness. "I assumed you did change her name as well. You brought her to me as the SeaSong. So what was this yacht’s previous name?"

This time Drake and Crawford stared at each other in horror. They realized they had made the ultimate mistake. They forgot to change the name but instantly felt Phillipe would never discover their blunder. Crawford, attempting to conceal their faux pas, was the first to speak. "Yeah, some Spanish name. Don’t know what it meant. We had it changed to SeaSong, He lied to cover. After all, Phillipe, we are professionals!" Drake admired Crawford’s coolness in deception. They were indeed professionals.

Two hundred twenty-five thousand then, that’s as high as I’ll go, Phillipe said, wiping off the dust and clutter from his desk and not making eye contact with them.

Drake and Crawford looked at each; then back at Phillipe without commenting. After some awkward silence Crawford broke the impasse, Splendid!

Drake chimed in with a scowl and a weak concurrence. Any more orders behind this one?

As a matter of fact there is, Phillipe said, relieved to finally put the SeaSong deal behind him. He knew that he needed these thieves more than they needed him. It had been too lucrative of a business stealing yachts from absentee owners and then marking them up for resale to unsuspecting customers for insane profits. I need a Swan, at least a fifty-footer with a full keel and less than ten years old. A Spaniard client will pay seven hundred for a clean one, but make sure it’s not from New England waters.

The thief and the dealer/broker nodded in unison, Okay, then . . . You got a deal! Crawford and Drake stood up to leave, but considering the underlying tension that remained declined to shake hands with Phillipe. Drake shot a severe look toward Phillipe as he closed the door, his scowl conveying his anger. Phillipe returned a weak smile but knew he would be in danger if he ever dealt with this man again.

Once outside in the parking lot they pulled their collars up against the stiffening northern wind and made their way to Crawford’s Hummer. After getting the heater cranked up, they opened the suitcase and divided the cash as always, 50% to the brains and 50% to the muscle. They both agreed this was not enough for the risks involved. They also agreed that Phillipe needed to be replaced.

Chapter Three

Jake became more visibly nervous as he wrestled with SeaSong’s helm, a stainless steel wheel that came to the upper-middle of his chest. The uncertainties of his first real ocean passage combined with Vanessa’s non-stop criticisms made him want to turn back, but he knew it was too late for that. Now alone on the deck, he had the opportunity to reflect on his past mistakes. Although they were never major embarrassments, he did realize that he had a fairly consistent habit of making them. And while phenomenally successful in business matters, Vanessa had properly reminded him that he was definitely deficient in basic horse sense. As a result, he often kept her off-balance with the poor decisions he made. In his mind, they were nothing dangerous—at least not yet—but still incredibly bothersome to her pride and need for a more routine and normal sense of order.

If this was his last chance to prove to her that he could, in fact, do the right thing, then turning back was not an option. He recognized their move to the islands held certain risks, but the opportunity for