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“What’s going on?” he asks, watching as I march down the dock to the forklift.
“Company is on the way. There’s a hidden track halfway down the lane that’ll take you onto the main highway. Find it.”
He doesn’t hang around to get details, going straight to his mobile and calling in a mission abort before rushing to his car. “Fuck’s sake, Black,” he spits, his Rolls Royce wheel spinning away, kicking up the gravel and dirt. The forklift screams its way back to the container as my men all work urgently to get it closed up. I pelt toward the shack, grabbing the first wetsuit I can find and getting myself into it. I hear the men land in the café, hear the tops of beer bottles being popped off and a pack of cards being shuffled. I fly into the workshop . . . and skid to a stop when I see the charred remains of my Sea-Doo. “Fuck,” I curse, heading back into the store. “Brad, give me a hand.”
He’s with me in a second, taking the front of the Yamaha jet ski nearest the doors. “Lift,” he grunts, going red in the face. “Fuck, where’s the trailer?”
“No time.” I shuffle toward him as he shuffles back, his eyes looking like they could pop out his head. “Come on, you fanny,” I tease.
“Go fuck yourself.”
We manage to get it down to the shore just before the sound of sirens drown the air. And then we both turn and take in the invasion of unmarked cars coming at us from all directions. “What a surprise,” I say quietly, wading into the water and tugging the Yamaha in. I recognize the suited prick walking toward me as one of Spittle’s colleagues, Harold Higham. He has resting smug face. “All this for me?” I ask, climbing onto the seat of my jet ski.
“You won’t mind if we have a look around,” he says, casting his beady eyes around the open space, his men doing the same.
“You can do what you like.” I’m polite. It’s sickening. “With a warrant.”
“Of course.” Higham drags a piece of paper from his inside pocket and waves it in the air.
My coolness waivers for a split second. “And what are you looking for?”
“We’ll see, I guess.”
Translated: I haven’t got a fucking clue. I grit my teeth and get back into the water, wading my way back to the shore. “Will this take long? I was looking forward to my evening ride on the water.”
Higham’s shrewd stare is pinned on me, his jaw ticking. “You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you, Black? Swaggering around town like some kind of fucking king. Leaving blood and death in your wake. Your time is coming, my boy.”
My eyes must be glass as I hold his stare. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Higham.”
“Not this time.” He tosses the warrant at me. “Your days are like your father’s. No more.”
I’m forced to call on endless control before I grab the fucker and pull out his teeth one by one with plyers. “That’s rather insensitive of you, Higham.” My voice is unmistakably quivering with rage. “I only buried him yesterday.”
“Sir,” an officer calls from across the yard.
Higham snarls at me before stomping to the first container. “Get it open,” he yells, prompting three officers to step forward, each holding a battering ram.
I remain where I am, watching as an army of agents charge down one of my container doors. I could tell them the doors are unlocked. But I won’t. Fat bastards look like they could do with a workout. Sitting on a nearby rock, I watch as they ram-raid the first container and Higham comes out, his brow wet, his face twisted.
“Beautiful machines,” I say. “Want to buy one?”
Higham hisses and stamps his way over to the next container, barking orders left and right.
“Fucking hell, Danny,” Brad whispers out the side of his mouth. “This is a bit close for comfort.”
“They don’t even know what they’re fucking looking for.” The FBI is a constant ball-ache, but fucking clueless. They know we have money, but they have no idea where it comes from, and it’s been their mission to find out for decades. I kick my feet out and get comfortable, watching Higham ordering the beating down of door after door. I can’t deny it, I’m tense as they search the containers that are literally loaded. I can hear Brad’s heart hammering ten to the dozen, his feet shifting in the gravel. “Be cool,” I whisper, getting up and wandering over casually, being glared at by every cop I pass. I lean my shoulder on the side of one of the doors, motioning to the Sea-Doo that was hanging off the end of the dock not ten minutes ago. “If it’s power between the legs you want to feel, I recommend that one.”
