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“Nowhe’s worried,” I grind out.
“Jace, we’re in fucking traffic. You need to find a boat. Maybe you can—”
“I’mona boat.” If he hadn’t interrupted me, I’d have told him earlier.
“That was fast. With a captain?”
“The whole crew.”
“You’re an ace! Okay, so head toward the Lower Bay. Reznik is only a mile away. Stay on the phone with me.”
I do. Dzima pours another shot of cognac for Alex and himself.
“You want?” he asks me.
I down one. Sure helps with the pain that’s burning my shoulder.
He notices me wincing as I touch it. “Man, you hurt, huh? Want medicine?”
He raises the bottle in his hand, and somehow I feel like that’s the only medicine he has.
Roey is back on the phone. “All right, Jace, Reznik’s boat is turning around Breezy Point and is heading toward Rockaway Beach and into the Atlantic Ocean. How far are you?”
“Head to Rockaway,” I yell to Alex. “How far are we from the Breezy Point?”
“A minute or so.”
“Can you go faster?”
Alex shifts his sharp gaze at me and revs up the motor. “Hold on!”
The boat zooms between the land strips, the breeze cooling my face.
Honestly, I didn’t even know they had so many yachts, sailboats, and speedboats in Sheepshead Bay. Let alone the charter boats and party cruises. There’s my ignorance. Brooklyn is surrounded by water.
These Eastern-European guys are off the hook. Not sure if they fully realize the meaning of kidnapping, but they look like they’re ready to cross the Atlantic.
“How much gas do you have?” I ask Alex at the helm.
A smirk curls his lips, a cigarette bobbing between them. “Don’t worry, man.”
“I’ll pay for that.”
“You will.” He doesn’t look at me but squints at the distance.
Maybe these guys enjoy adventure. Maybe theyarecrazy. Or just party heads.
It’s Saturday, and the open waters ahead are sprinkled with dozens of boats.
Alex laughs at something Dzima says in Russian as he pours him another shot. Then one for himself. Then offers me one. Alex has another cigarette between his lips, squinting ahead, sparks flying from the wind, smoke puffing from his mouth. Only sailors know how to keep their cigarettes burning in the wind going at high speed. Only sailors can fucking stand on their feet and drink as the boat zooms at sixty miles an hour, the water spraying in their faces.
“Where’s Misha?” I ask, wondering if he fell out of the boat with the speed we are going, crashing through the waves.
Dzima shrugs. “In the cabin, on the phone with a client. He does IT. Probably fixing someone’s firewall.”
We should hire these guys. That’s an idea.
“Jace, what’s the update?” Roey’s voice is in my ear. I forgot he’s still on the phone with me.
