The sheriff closed in with a few patrol boats, and the Coast Guard wasn’t far behind.
Soon, the vessel was surrounded by law enforcement, the deck ablaze.
The scumbags jumped off the boat, flailing around in the high seas.
Someone deployed a lifeboat.
The crew abandoned ship, and so did the rest of the goons.
The Coast Guard and Sheriff's Department fished them out of the water.
The sheriff picked me up as I bobbed on the swells.
It didn't take long for the 175-foot superyacht to sink into the depths. The sea swallowed her in a swirl of bubbles and froth. It happened faster than I would have imagined, and I'd seen a few ships go down.
An MH60T Jayhawk circled overhead, spotlighting the sea, looking for survivors.
When the last dirtbag had been rescued, I rode with the sheriff back to the station.
The perps were transferred to holding cells. According to the crew and passengers, everyone was accounted for except the two perps that I had killed in the shootout.
I caught up with the sheriff after the chaos had died down and the perps processed. He asked, "You want to tell me exactly what the hell happened?”
I shrugged. "Must have been some kind of explosion in the engine room.”
He gave me a doubtful look. “Two of these assholes are saying you fired an RPG at them.”
“They’re confused. They shot at me. The explosion must have been on their end.”
He knew better. “I saw the one that took you out.”
“Stick to that story, and we’ll be just fine,” I muttered.
“The boat is registered to an offshore shell company, which is probably owned by another shell company. I’m sure Viktor Kovalenko is behind it. He’s in interrogation room 2 if you want to talk to him.”
I lifted a surprised brow. “We bagged Kovalenko?”
Daniels nodded.
“I’m surprised he got anywhere near the action. But I think he wanted firsthand access to the platform.”
“You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t file a civil suit for unnecessary escalation of force and property damage. I don’t want to know how much that superyacht costs.”
I frowned.
“By the way, you’re on leave. Again.”
“Sounds good to me. I could use a break.”
The sheriff and I paid Kovalenko a visit. We took a seat across the table from him in the tiny interrogation room.
He was mid-40s with buzzed brown hair that was thinning on top. He had a hard face and narrow blue eyes. By this hour, he had a day’s worth of stubble on his dimpled chin. His designer suit was soaked.
“Kidnapping, attempted murder, extortion,” I said. “This list goes on.”
Kovalenko stared at us with hate in his eyes.
In his Russian accent, he said, “I want?—“
