Wood's Harbor by Steven Becker Page B

the boat back into the middle of the channel. Something glimmered in the distance - the unmistakable shine of sun on bright metal - what he guessed was a quarter-mile offshore. He shielded his eyes from the sun, once again wishing for binoculars, and studied the outline of the boat. Without hesitation he pushed down on the throttles and sped out of the cut. 
     
    ***
     
    Bradley Davies sat in front of the warden, working hard to conceal the smirk on his face. Aside from the orange jumpsuit and the two-star rating he would give the kitchen, his stay here had been anything but hard. Female companionship was even scheduled after he faked a marriage license with a call girl and petitioned a judge he knew for conjugal visits. He was living large on the government’s dime. Gardening and tennis had to substitute for golf. His trimmer waistline was the only benefit of his forced lifestyle. He sighed.
    “Someone actually left you as executor on their will?” the warden asked.
    If not for his years of putting on a game face in front of juries, he would have laughed out loud. “Why the hate? You don’t need a license for that. And some people trust my judgement.” 
    He had been the head of one of the biggest firms in DC, before his fall from grace after it was revealed, partially through Mel’s efforts, that some old terrorist clients had blackmailed him into setting up the President for an assassination attempt. Near the end of his first year at the old country club, as his fellow inmates called it, he was ready for a divorce and getting fidgety for the comforts of the outside world. He often wondered how he would survive the hardships of the remaining four years of his sentence.
    The warden knew Davies had the upper hand although he tried to humble him with his patented look over his reading glasses. 
    “Oh, stop it. You know as well as I do that this is a game and I just got dealt a winning hand.” More than anything else with prison life, it infuriated him that he was controlled by men so inferior to him. 
    The warden stared at him as if he knew what was coming. 
    “Of course, I’ll need to travel to Marathon to see the condition of the girl first-hand. This is a grave matter and must be handled in person.” This was so easy he had to steel his face again. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t do my due diligence.”
    “Get a judge to sign it and I’ll work out the details,” the warden said and rose. 
    The meeting was over. Davies got up fighting the urge to extend his hand. Surly as he was, he still needed the warden to be his pawn, and although it tore him apart, he had to show the man respect. He turned and walked to the door, where a guard waited to take him to his tennis match. 
     
    ***
     
    The hull smashed through the wake again, causing Mac to duck behind the windscreen. Instinctively he turned his head to avoid the spray and watched the sea water covering Trufante who stirred and sat up. Mac turned back to the bow, found the rental boat, and made a correction to their course until the other boat appeared to remain in place on the horizon.
    “You’re on a collision course,” Trufante said. He shook out his hair and ducked behind the windscreen beside Mac.
    Mac’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “I’m tired of chasing him. I think it’s time we had a face-to-face.” 
    “Shit, that’s a roll of the dice, and being CIA and all, he’s bound to have them rigged.”
    “Got no choice.” He focused on the chase. He estimated they would be on him in five minutes. He watched the gap close and steered straight for the other boat. Talking points swirled around his mind. Provided he could signal the man that he wanted to talk, and didn’t get them both shot, he needed a very persuasive argument to force the man to do what he needed. He had little to offer other than his silence, and Armando, but he knew the man could easily kill them, dump their bodies in the ocean, and find the