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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.

It was the drill sergeant mercenary I’d spoken to. I’d bet money on it. Dude looked like a Green Beret.

I didn’t wave back. In the shadow of the second deck behind him, I could see a young woman sitting at an outdoor table. I looked at her arms pulled back behind her. Probably cuffed, but not to anything that I could see.

I looked at her face. It was Olivia. She seemed freaked out, of course, but healthy, alert, unharmed. She also didn’t look drugged or anything as far as I could tell.

I took a deep breath and checked my watch.

“Good,” I said to myself. “Good.”

As I motored in to around fifty yards, two of the four men on the top deck lifted long guns to their shoulders. The fifth one, a tall muscled bull of a black dude, lifted a bullhorn.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE! POWER DOWN YOUR ENGINE AND DROP ANCHOR OR BE SHOT!” he yelled.

I nodded with enthusiasm as I immediately dialed back on the throttle.

They’d already brought the yacht in bumper tight by the time my anchor finished dropping. Standing on my main deck, I stared across at a large heartless-looking dude on the other side of his port gunwale.

Balding and pale, the guy had a slight resemblance to the ’80s singer Phil Collins. But he didn’t look like he was in the mood to sing a catchy love song. He was pointing a Benelli twelve-gauge tactical shotgun at my chest.

“Don’t shoot,” I said to the man with a wide smile. “I come in peace.”

Two more pale mercenaries appeared. They helped me over both gunwales, none too gently.

As I was deposited safely on board the beautiful yacht, the gigantic black dude arrived.

“Who else is on your boat?” he said.

His British accent surprised me.

“Nobody. Just me.”

“You better hope so,” he said, shoving me up against the wall.

The wide, smiling, tall Green Beret dude appeared to the left at the end of the starboard beam aisle as I was thoroughly frisked.

I smiled back in the soft gust of the breeze as I was led to the stern deck.

As I came into the sole, I glanced at Olivia in the shadow under the deck overhang. Her face was blank as she glanced back at me.

I quickly scanned the deck. To the left of the banquette that Olivia was sitting on was a set of stairs that led up to the pilothouse deck, and on her right was the closed door to the interior cabin.

“Noon on the button,” Shaw said as I stepped across the teak. “I like punctuality in a man.”

As we sat, I noticed the yacht moving away from my rental. You could barely hear the engines. It motored over about fifty yards to the north and then I heard the faint engines go to idle again.

What a boat , I thought again.

“Would you please give us some privacy?” the Green Beret said to the black Brit mercenary, who was still standing there, staring at me like he wanted to murder me.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Shaw. I won’t go too far,” the big Brit said.