“And saved your life. You should be thanking us.”
Rolling her eyes at him, Sam presses three digits on her phone, and holds it out so we can all hear.
“Nine-one-one. State your emergency.” The competent alto makes me think of a woman in her fifties.
“Some Russians were shooting at us.” My darlin’ states the truth, but the way she says it, her story sounds ridiculous.
The operator, to her credit, goes by the book. “Are you in a safe place, now?”
“If you call sitting in a rowboat in the middle of the bay in the dead of winter, safe, then, yeah sure.” Sarcasm might not be the best option, so I snatch the phone from my tired gal and put it to my ear.
“This is Sebastian Sutcliff. My wife’s a mite overwrought. That bein’ said, we are on the bay and could use some assistance.” My frowning gal glares at me but if I let her continue, they might never send a search party.
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Not yet, but there’s a kidnapper who may or may not wash up on the next tide.”
“Excuse me? Did you say kidnapped?”
“Yes, my employee, Lanita Manuel, but we liberated her.”
“In the middle of the bay?”
“No, ma’am. From a cottage on Old Bay Road.”
“Sir, can you tell me if you can get to land?”
“Well, that brings us back to the bad guys my partner mentioned. They had a whole lot of guns and if it’s alright with you, I’d like to make sure they’re gone before we return.”
“These men were shooting at you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Are they still there?”
“In the water? No ma’am. They were driving SUVs with Washington plates and dark tinted windows.”
Her sigh lasts for at least fifteen seconds. “How can I help?”
It takes a while, but eventually we clear things up and reach the other side of the bay where we shiver and wait for the authorities to arrive.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sam
On dry land, while waiting for the police, a storm kicks up and soaks us to the bone. As soon as I can move my fingers again, I’m going to call an Uber and the moment it arrives, we’re going straight to the airport. Fuck this shit.
I’m still blowing on my frozen hands when a fiftyish man in a dark suit exits the country club on the hill. He snaps open a huge blue and white striped umbrella, crosses the wrap-around porch, and steps down the stairs.
Partway down the zig-zag path of paver stones, he hesitates and calls out. “Excuse me? Do you need help?”
What the hell does it look like?Before I can vocalize my perfected sarcasm, my politer half responds. “We’re waiting for our limo driver. Apparently, he took a wrong turn.”
Limo? Seriously, Suds?The lie, however, does the trick and the man finishes the final few feet to where we wait on the dock by the aluminum boat.
Our wealthy client catches on and makes a big deal of uncrumpling a hundred-dollar bill before handing it to our potential salvation. “Would you be able to find suitable shelter?”
“Of course. Follow me.” Jeeves turns, the other two men share a high five.
