Chapter 8
Blood on the Yacht Deck
Graham moved with terrifying speed.
He didn't wait for Miller to finish his sentence.
He dropped the brass poker, spun around, and slammed his elbow into Miller’s jaw.
The detective staggered back, his gun firing harmlessly into the ceiling plaster.
Bang!
Plaster dust rained down like snow.
Before Miller could recover, Graham vaulted through the open front door into the foggy night.
“Don't let him reach the slip!” Miller shouted, spitting blood.
“He has a private launch!”
I grabbed the heavy iron umbrella stand from the hallway.
I didn't chase him through the front door.
I knew the estate layout better than he did.
I ran through the formal dining room, through the service pantry, and out onto the private boardwalk leading to our private yacht slip.
The fog rolled off the black water in thick, choking waves.
The wind screamed through the rigging of the moored boats.
There, at the end of the wooden pier, stood the Lady Eleanor.
A fifty-foot yacht named after me as another one of his sick trophies.
Graham was untying the mooring lines with frantic, trembling hands.
“Eleanor!” he roared over the sound of the churning diesel engine.
He jumped onto the stern deck.
He grabbed a heavy steel winch handle.
“You think you can ruin me?” he screamed, his face twisted in madness.
“I built this empire from the gutter! I’ll burn it to ash before I let you take it!”
I stepped onto the pier.
I held my ground against the howling wind.
“You didn't build anything, Graham!” I shouted back.
“You stole it! From my father, from his workers, from everyone you ever touched!”
Graham revved the engine.
The twin diesel screws churned the black water into white foam.
The yacht surged forward, snapping the remaining mooring lines like thread.
Graham stood at the helm, laughing maniacally as the vessel pulled away from the dock.
He thought he was escaping.
He thought he had won.
Then, out of the thick fog ahead, three massive grey silhouettes emerged.
United States Coast Guard patrol cutters.
Their blinding searchlights snapped on simultaneously, turning the night into blinding daylight.
“This is the U.S. Coast Guard! Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded!” a voice boomed from a loudspeaker.
Graham spun the wheel hard to port.
The yacht lurched violently.
He tried to ram the patrol boat.
It was a suicide move born of pure desperation.
The cutter didn't budge.
It sideswiped the yacht with a sickening screech of fiberglass and tearing metal.
Graham flew across the deck, slamming hard into the stainless-steel railing.
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He crumpled to the deck like a broken doll.
The yacht drifted dead in the water, surrounded by gray steel and flashing blue lights.
