The Brit

“This is pretty perfect.” I shrug, thinking it’s a shame that all of this will no longer be here soon. “It’ll take you months to rebuild all of this. Can’t you keep this place while you build?”

“Sadly not.” Danny stands, downing the rest of his water before setting his empty bottle on the table. “Had I secured Byron’s Reach a month ago like I’d hoped, then maybe. Unfortunately, buying it hasn’t been as smooth as it should be.”

“Yes, I heard.” I smile cheekily when he raises his eyebrows. “But just think, had you gotten your marina easily, we wouldn’t be having all this fun together.”

Danny smiles on a shake of his head. “And what a travesty that would be,” he muses, flipping his baseball cap on and pulling his phone out when it rings. “I have a few things to sort out. Don’t go far.”

I roll my eyes and kick my feet up on a chair, happy to sit here and smell the water, breathe in the fresh air, and soak up the sun. I shouldn’t enjoy it, but in my world, a moment’s peace, any moment I can grab, should be cherished.

But . . . jet skis?

* * *

A while later, the noises are no more, the sun is beginning to set, and it’s even more beautiful out there, the water calm and still. I stare across the sea, an odd sense of tranquility blazing through me. Despite everything, I’ve sat here this whole time without that lingering familiar sense of foreboding. I’ve not been on the edge of my seat. I’ve not dreaded this moment ending or being disturbed by my real life. It defies reason, since I’m still very much a prisoner, but . . . why? I shouldn’t be feeling peaceful. I should be more afraid than ever. It’s him, you fool. He’s as fucked up as you, and you find comfort in that.

I look over my shoulder to see the café is now empty, and a quick scope of the shore below tells me that’s empty too. I drop my feet off the chair and stand, groaning as I stretch my muscles. God, that feels amazing.

As I wander through the cabin, I browse the rails of wetsuits, as well as the glass cabinets that are full of goggles, sunglasses, and sports watches. At the back of the shop, I spy a workshop, where a few jet skis are in parts. He fixes them too. What a wonderful notion. To be fixed. Repaired. To be made as good as new.

Making my way out to the front, I scan the deserted space. No one. Nothing. It’s like a ghost town. I must have been relishing the sun and peace for longer than I thought. I take the steps and follow my feet to where his car was parked. It’s still there. No Danny. No anyone, in fact.

I’m about to call out a hello when I hear a loud clatter from one of the containers. My spine straightens, and I follow the sound of voices. Danny’s and Brad’s voices. As I creep closer, I hear Ringo too. All of them in a big metal container? Then I remember: the consignment arrived. They’ll be checking the order.

“All looks good, yeah?” Brad says.

“Yeah,” Danny replies. “Very good.”

I edge around a corner and stop abruptly in my tracks on a lumpy swallow, not sure I’m seeing right. Danny’s holding a machine gun in his hand, inspecting it closely, as Ringo pulls out another, this one a rifle, from underneath a jet ski, handing Danny that one too. Guns? Oh my God. I cast my eyes across the endless jet skis, counting twenty of the big machines in total. Are they all packed with guns? “Get them all loaded back inside,” Danny orders, handing the gun back to Ringo. “I want them spread across all the containers.”

I quickly back up before I’m spotted. Guns?

“Who’s watching the girl?” Danny asks, and I freeze, listening.

“I thought you was,” Ringo grunts.

There’s a bang, the sound of a container door shutting and then the slide of a big metal bolt engaging. “I can’t watch the girl and count fucking bullets.”

I’m moving quickly, tiptoeing across the ground as quietly and as quickly as I can, practically throwing myself up the steps to the cabin. I’ve never moved so fast in my life. I land in the chair that Danny put me in earlier, and just about get my breathing stable and my feet up when I hear urgent thumping footsteps coming through the café.

I look back as he falls through the doors onto the decking, his face a little red, his breathing shot. He thought I’d be gone.

“Okay?” I ask, visions of machine guns rolling through my mind. Not just machine guns, either. Bullets, rifles, grenades, and all kinds of other weaponry, all hidden in the bottoms of jet skis. My brain is currently an arsenal fit to kick off a world war. This place, it’s a cover. That’s all. I should laugh at myself for stating the obvious. Of course it’s a cover. I knew that. Danny Black owns it, for God’s sake.