The End Game

The best boat to have in a situation like this would be a boat made for stealth tracking. Something like a Night Cat, a twenty-seven-foot boat with twin 300 horsepower engines that purr instead of roar, so that the person you’re tracking doesn’t get the impression that a Nimitz Class is on their ass. A Night Cat can turn at 41 degrees per second, which makes it about as responsive as the muscles that make you blink.

But that would only be if you didn’t want to be seen. I needed Alex Kyle to see me. To know we were making our move on Maria and Liz.

“Let’s rock and roll!” Virgil bellowed and gunned the engine, or as much as you can gun an engine on a fourteen-foot Pinecraft whose best days were probably pre-disco. A plume of blue smoke belched from the engine and a sound like an entire NASCAR race starting soon followed.

The men on the Cobra turned their heads. It was that loud. And that was fine.

“Don’t worry,” Virgil said. “Once she gets moving, she moves.”

“Ship on the horizon,” Fi said. “Six o’clock. Practically the size of an island.”

Through my binoculars I could see a boat of at least four hundred feet in length. It was black from the waterline, its steel hull looming with uncommon grace. Above the hull were five floors of living space (and likely, entertainment) space. The floors were a blinding white, which gave the entire ship the appearance of a tuxedo in the water.

“You need to get that Cobra as close to that ship as possible; push it right into its line,” I said to Virgil.

“That wasn’t part of the deal Sam put out,” Virgil said. “I thought we were just intercepting.”

“We are,” I said. “And pushing.”

“I’d like to avoid jail time for causing a death on the sea,” Virgil said.

“Not going to happen,” I said. “All we want is for the men in that Cobra to stop the Ottones’ ship and board it. You get that Cobra into a position to make that happen.”

Virgil smiled. “You’re a devious man, Mike.”

I checked my watch. The time was now. We had calls and e-mails to send. I called Gennaro. I had five minutes before he’d launch. “I can see your wife’s boat,” I said.

“Is she safe?”

“She will be.”

“What do I do?”

“Race,” I said. “Just race. Win or lose. It’s on you alone now.”

“And my wife is safe?”

“Yes,” I said. Now I just had to make sure it happened. Gennaro put Sam on the phone. “Tell Darleen these coordinates,” I said and rattled off our location. A woman like Darleen was already waiting somewhere out in the water, so it would only be a matter of moments, I was certain, for this to all happen.

“Got it, Mikey,” he said. “Be safe.”

“What fun is that?” I said. “See you after you get back from Nassau.”

I called Barry and told him to begin the flood. In minutes, a crime family with terrorist connections, that Nicholas Dinino was transferring large sums of cash to, which was probably placing large sums of money in illegal betting on the Pax Bellicosa losing, would be under investigation by every bank in the world.

“Send the pictures,” I said to Fiona, which she did from her cell phone. In a few seconds, Nicholas Dinino wouldn’t just be in trouble with the mob and terrorists, he’d be in the process of getting cut out of the Ottone empire, probably before he ever saw land again.

We’d caught Nicholas Dinino. Now it was about finishing the race.

The difference between chasing someone and intercepting someone is all about angles. When you chase someone, you’re naturally in a passive position. You can only act when they act. You have no control over the flow of the chase.

But when you’re intercepting someone, you dictate the angle of pursuit. Which is why instead of trying to catch Alex Kyle’s Cobra from behind, we were actively pushing it toward Ottones’ ship, cutting across the water at a 45-degree angle, so that we would T-bone the Cobra. The goal was to ensure not that they were forced to engage us, but that they were forced to make the Ottones’ ship stop, that they would board the ship to protect Maria and Liz, likely find Nicholas Dinino, and, if all happened in good timing, do so in front of the

FBI.

But first it had to happen.

We sliced through the water, the front of the boat bouncing into the air as we crossed over whitecaps, the Cobra coming clearer into view, the Ottones’ ship looming larger in the distance.

And then my cell phone rang.

It wasn’t a number I recognized.

“You’re getting very close to the edge,” a woman’s voice said when I answered.

“Not much farther,” I said.

“You have three minutes.” This time it was a man.

I tossed the phone into the water.

“Your mother?” Fi said.

“No,” I said.

She dug into a cabinet at her feet and pulled out a life vest. “Put your floaties on,” she said.

“I’m fine,” I said.

The Cobra was now only about fifty yards from us, close enough that I could make out the faces of the men on board. It was easier when Alex Kyle turned and smiled at me. The Cobra banked left, then right, trying to shake us but Virgil’s little engine could and we kept up, drawing closer to their flank.