Chapter Thirty-Two
James whirled around.
The gun dropped from the man’s hand and hit the platform with a clatter. He reeled backward and out of sight.
Body buzzing, Quinn bounded down the last few steps and took her place beside James.
“Thanks,” he said and kissed her.
“Always.” She heaved a breath in relief.
The two crewmen goggled at her.
James chuckled as he bounded onto the Jet Ski and straddled the seat. “I’ve guess they’ve never seen a quick-draw librarian before.” He punched the ignition and started the engine.
Quinn hopped on, sat directly behind him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Now they have. From the looks of things, they won’t forget.”
“Nope. You’re kind of unforgettable.” He gripped the handlebars and yelled, “Hang on.”
She cinched her arms around him, crushing her front to his back.
The Jet Ski leapt forward with such violence, she would have somersaulted backward into the Mediterranean had she not been holding on for dear life.
James hunched over the handlebars and slalomed the watercraft through seagoing traffic. The fine spray kicked up by the wake at their feet dampened Quinn’s legs. “Darius!” he shouted over the rushing air and engine noise. “I can’t see the yacht tender. Are you above Borovsky?” The helicopter hovered in the distance a couple hundred feet above the water.
“Affirmative.” After a beat, Darius said, “I see you. You’re a half mile out and closing fast.”
“Can you strafe the water in front of them? Slow them down?” James asked.
“Negative. Too many boats.”
The section of the motorcycle-like seat Quinn straddled was higher than James’s, giving her a good vantage point to search the area from over his shoulder. They were headed straight for a stretch of coastline where it was nothing but breakwaters protecting waterfront hotels. “Where are they going? The port’s that way,” she shouted and pointed to her left. Crashing into a wall of rocks didn’t seem like a very solid getaway plan.
James steered behind a yacht they were rapidly closing in on. They both lifted from the seat to let their legs work as shock absorbers as the watercraft bounced over the yacht’s trailing wake.
Once the yacht no longer blocked their view, Quinn spotted the tender only three hundred yards ahead. The wind swept away her whispered, “Oh crap.”
They were speeding directly toward a beach crowded with holiday sun worshipers. A line of small buoys bobbed in the water, demarcating an area for swimmers to enjoy the warm water.
“They could drown someone,” she yelled.
James had no choice but to slow the Jet Ski as they closed in on the swimming area. The beach was lined with cabanas, umbrellas, and lounges.
At the last second, Dmitri, who Quinn could now clearly see standing at the wheel, veered the tender away from swimmers bobbing in the water and toward a small dock.
The bow of the tender dropped when Dmitri cut the throttle. He spun the wheel and the boat swerved. It didn’t plow into the dock, but it came in hard enough that Borovsky tumbled out of his seat. Dmitri rushed to the side of the boat and gripped a cleat to keep them from drifting.
Borovsky clambered to his feet and scrambled off the tender, leaving Dmitri to act as a human mooring line.
James steered the Jet Ski directly at the tender. Quinn’s eyes stayed pinned on Borovsky, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other. His hands had been empty when he jumped over the railing when all hell broke loose. In the time before he escaped from Perun’s Chariot, he’d apparently sought out and grabbed a briefcase. That led Quinn to believe it was crammed with incriminating evidence he needed to keep from the authorities who would inevitably swarm the yacht. The kingpin sprinted across the short, narrow causeway toward a small boathouse.
“Darius, you got eyes on Borovsky? He’s about to go inside that little building,” Quinn said.
James cut the engine and let the Jet Ski drift forward. He already had his Baby Glock trained on Dmitri, who was now lashing the tender to the dock.
“Yeah, I see him,” Darius said. “He’s through and headed for the main building.”
“Main building of what?”
“A beach resort.”
They were barreling headlong into a hostage situation. Or worse.
The front of the watercraft drifted forward and gently kissed the tender’s aft. James didn’t bother tethering the Jet Ski. He hopped onto the dock, his pistol never wavering from the center of Dmitri’s chest. He took Quinn’s hand and swung her up. She sailed through the air and alit lightly next to him.
Dmitri stood stock-still. A pistol lay on a nearby seat cushion.
Like his gun, James’s eyes never left Dmitri as he spoke. “I think it’s fair to say we’ve developed a bit of a soft spot for you. Please don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”
Uncertainty crossed Dmitri’s face as he weighed his options. His eyes flicked from James to the pistol on the seat and then to Quinn.
“Please, Dmitri,” Quinn said. “Don’t.” She considered pulling her tranq pistol and ending the standoff. Fearful her movements might precipitate a shootout, she remained motionless instead.
Quinn swallowed and braced herself for what was to come.