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Shaw was enjoying the sea and sun from the lower deck of Frank’s yacht at the appointed spot forty miles north of Montauk.

It was an almost cloudless day and, out beyond the rail where he was sitting under the canopy of the upper deck, the Atlantic in every direction was a striking and sparkling dark teal color.

The massive boat rocked up and down smooth as butter even in the heavy seesaw waves. Shaw wasn’t really the nautical type, but even he thought the scene and the craft were quite impressive.

“Not a bad life, this yacht stuff,” Shaw called back to Olivia.

Olivia was sitting behind him at an outdoor table with her hands cuffed behind her. She was staring off into space as if he had said nothing. She hadn’t said anything since they’d been reacquainted below in the broom closet–like room where she was being kept beside the engines. Even after Shaw was nice enough to take off her duct tape.

“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.