Page 151 of The 9th Man

“Yeah, me too. I should call it a night. Where’re you staying?”

“On that big white yacht that came in earlier.”

“How do you get out there, swim?”

“Nah, man, the dinghy. It’s tied up on the beach. Five-minute ride and I’m in my bunk.”

Peters pushed himself off the stool, then lost his balance and stumbled sideways. Luke caught him. “Whoa, buddy. You don’t have your land legs yet.”

“Guess not.”

“Come on, Ahab, I’ll get you down to your dinghy.”

“Ahab,” Peters barked in a loud voice. “I love it. My new nickname. Ahab.”

With Peters’ arm draped over his shoulder, Luke led him outside then started down the road toward Pine’s Rest.

“You remember any good marching songs from the army?” Luke asked.

Peters broke into a tuneless babble interspersed with shouts of “Left, left, right, left.”

When they were a hundred yards from Luke’s bungalow, Peters stopped suddenly and looked around. “Is this the right way?”

“Yep. Almost there.”

“Nah, you missed it. It’s back that—”

Luke pulled the Taurus from his waistband and coldcocked Peters behind the ear. The body slumped to the ground and Luke ducked and hefted Peters over his shoulder. Thirty seconds later he was through the bungalow’s front door. He dumped Peters facedown on the bed, stripped off his clothes, then bound his hands and ankles with some of the duct tape bought earlier.

Luke donned Peters’ uniform. Everything fit reasonably well save the shoes, which were half a size too small, so he wore his own. He half untucked his shirt to conceal the Taurus then slipped the spare magazine into his back pocket. He then stepped out onto the porch, locked the front door, and headed down the road.

The dinghy’s motor was an underpowered trolling model so the journey across the inlet toBreakAway’s anchorage took longer than he’d estimated. Twenty minutes after leaving the beach he looped around Compass Cay’s sandbar and into the horseshoe inlet. The yacht loomed dark except for a few yellow-lit cabin windows near the bow. He cruised to within twenty feet of the stern’s platform and a crewman in a white uniform appeared at the aft railing. A pump-action shotgun was slung over his shoulder.

“Come on, Lewis, do you know what time it is?”

He mumbled a reply, keeping his head down and the peaked cap pulled low on his forehead.

“I can smell you from here. You trying to get your ass fired?”

When the dinghy’s rubber bow bounced off the platform, Luke intentionally fell forward slightly. “Get the line, huh? I can’t reach it.”

“You’re pathetic, dude.”

When the man’s arm came into view Luke grasped the wrist and jerked the guy into the dinghy.

“What the—”

He slammed his open palm into the man’s nose once, then again, grabbed the shotgun, and twisted hard, looping the sling around the man’s throat until his face turned purple and he went limp. He then untangled the shotgun and climbed out onto the stern platform.

He heard the rapid clicking of shoes on the wooden deck. “Is everything okay—”

Another crewman skidded to stop at the aft railing. He spotted Luke, stiffened slightly, then reached for a hip holster. Luke found the Taurus and aimed it level with the guy’s chest.

“That would not be smart. Draw that pistol, with two fingers, and toss it overboard.”

The man did so.

“Step down here.”