Run Lethal

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WHEN the engine stopped, Parker came up on deck for a look around. The mainland was nearly out of sight now, just a grey smudge on the horizon between the dark blue of the water and the lighter blue of the sky.

The man who called himself Yancy was sitting in one of the two chairs astern, and the man whose name Parker didn’t know was standing at the controls. They both wore white trousers, navy blue jackets and yachting caps and sunglasses, but they both had the faces and voices and hands of New York or Chicago hoods.

Yancy raised the hand with the glass in it and motioned forward. ‘There it is,’ he said.

Parker turned and looked out past the spray-flecked windshield, over the top of the rest of the boat, and out over the water to the island. It was still about half a mile away, and all he could make out was a mound of jungle greenery bulging up out of the water over there.

‘Get in closer,’ he said. ‘I can’t see anything from here.’

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