With only a four-inch blade, it remained easily concealed and yet lengthy enough to sever the carotid artery. I’d applied that theory on multiple occasions. Wearing it in Tiller’s presence could mean it was no longer mine to wield but instead used against me. My fortunes were looking up. I had no desire to have the blade or any other weapon used on me.
Once I was within the cab and X closed the door, I settled on the leather seat as a partition closed between where I was seated and the driver and X. The confined quarters could terrify another man. In essence, I was trapped within a moving dark box. Nothing was visible in any direction, whether through the covered windows or the partition or behind. From the outside, the windows appeared simply darkened. From the inside, it was as if they were not glass but impenetrable steel. If this had been my first trip in the moving black box, the lack of sight might have been unnerving.
As we drove, I did a mental analysis of the local marinas.
Josie knew the basics of where I’d been summoned.
That was it.
Basics.
Which marina?
Which yacht?
The yacht I’d been to on my last command performance could easily have changed location. I had done this routine before.
It wasn’t my first ride.
The jury was out on if it would be my last.
Finally, the SUV came to a stop and the door to my side opened.
“Follow me,” X said.
Greyson
This marina was secluded and yet I recognized it as one where I’d been before. Looking around under the tall lights and with the clock nearing midnight, I saw the docks were mostly deserted. Lights glowed within some of the large yachts as the owners readied for sleep. Instead of leading me the direction of where Mr. Tiller’s superyacht had been, X led me to a different dock. The boats grew smaller as the clip of our footsteps disappeared into the whoosh of the gentle waves. It was commonplace for most of the marinas to have a breakwater, a concrete barrier that separated the marina from the sea. Looking out to that wall, I saw the spray of the Pacific’s angry surf.
X came to a stop at a slip filled with a sleek fifty-foot blue cigarette boat. He tipped his chin toward the ladder, leading down to the temporarily moored boat. I paused, standing taller and weighing my options.
I had none.
I was unarmed—most likely the only unarmed person in this trio.
The driver was already in place.
“Get in, Greyson,” X said, a command without a gratuitous explanation.
Reaching down to the ladder’s rail, I did as I was told. The driver’s wordless nod toward the white leather seat beside him was my only instruction before X untied the boat and we slowly made our way beyond the breakwater and out of the marina. As soon as we cleared the ‘No Wake’ signs, the driver pushed the accelerator, the nose of the boat climbed higher, and saltwater sprayed on both sides as we sliced through the waves and sped into the darkness.
With stars as the only indicator of sky and their reflection the only indication of sea, the sky and horizon soon melted together, becoming one.
My pulse accelerated as I took in my surroundings. There were multiple gauges on the driver’s dashboard. Yet for me I had no means of identifying my location. I peered up at the sky, wondering where the moon had gone.
Based on the stars, the moon was busy on the other side of the Earth.
As the driver remained silent, I began to question every previous job I’d completed for Maxwell Tiller. I’d made myself available no matter what the request. With each passing minute that we raced through the night, the boat basically flying over the waves, my concern grew, wondering if I would return to land.
Even though I couldn’t recall making a mistake in Tiller’s employment, my skin cooled with the revelation that perhaps, instead of another job request, maybe my compliance at following Tiller’s men’s orders was going to land me at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
And then I saw it.
A beacon of blue light in the distance.
The knots growing in my stomach loosened.
With my hair blowing, my eyes squinted as I watched the superyacht come into view, growing larger and larger the closer we came. The LED lighting caused the yacht to glow in the sea of darkness. The cigarette boat’s engine decelerated as the Majesty 140 superyacht came into view. Although I couldn’t see the scrolled lettering on the stern, I knew this was Maxell Tiller’s vessel. The name I couldn’t see was GODDESSES OF THE SEAS. It was the same yacht I’d boarded in a marina nearly a month ago. After that meeting, I did my research.
The Majesty 140 was more than the average wealthy man’s trophy. This giant on the sea was a tri-deck superyacht with six staterooms and crew quarters that housed up to nine people, telling me that Tiller’s henchmen could be anywhere, in or out of sight.
As we approached, one of Tiller’s crew was waiting on the landing deck.
Apparently, working for Maxwell Tiller didn’t include wearing beach- or yacht-wear. My welcome committee was dressed exactly as X had been: dark suit, dark shirt, and black tie. I wouldn’t doubt that he was also packing the same heat under his suit jacket.
No one offered me assistance as I moved from one bobbing vessel to the deck of the monstrous yacht. Waves splashed the deck’s surface as my leather loafers fought to maintain grip and balance. Once I was out of the cigarette boat and standing on the landing deck, X’s near-twin spoke, “Mr. Ingalls, Mr. Tiller is waiting on the top deck. Follow me.”
A few looks over my shoulder confirmed that the cigarette boat was in the process of being moored to the landing deck. That sight allowed me to sigh with a bit of relief. If the boat had immediately disappeared into the dark night, my probability of seeing the dawn would drop exponentially. Seeing it being attached to the yacht had my chances of making it through this meeting improving by the minute.
Although the Majesty 140 boasted tri-deck elegance, as I followed a few steps behind X’s near-twin and walked through the giant mechanical room, I had the realization that there were actually four decks. This lower deck not only held the equipment necessary to keep the yacht operational, but also storage and the staff’s quarters.
Lights illuminated the steps as I followed the man up to the main deck, the second deck, and then the final staircase to the top deck. After the stairs curved, my welcome party stopped and stepped to the side as I made it to the decking. One look down told me that my shoes would probably not recover from their recent saltwater bath.
I looked up.
Surrounded by the glowing water of the hot tub was Maxwell Tiller and a buxom blond who I was confident wasn’t his wife. Based on her age, I could guess daughter or granddaughter. Then again, based on their close proximity, that possibility was eliminated too.
In reality, I knew that Tiller had both—a wife and a daughter as well as two sons. His children were all adults living their lives under the beck and call of their father and his world. Tiller’s oldest son, Jethro, did a short stint in a county lockup for domestic violence.
Daddy paid someone off, and Jethro Tiller was free to continue the family business and abuse whomever he saw fit. His other two children, his daughter, Mia, and younger son, Rocco, had done their best to stay out of the limelight as much as possible.
Tiller grinned around his cigar before taking it from his lips and handing the soggy stogie to his companion. “Here, sweetheart. Why don’t you go below and make yourself useful? I’ll be down in a bit.”