“I’ll take pushing buttons and pulling levers over picking a lock any day of the week. This is triple-hard work,” J.B. said. “Could use a squirt of oil to grease it. However, it’s always good to keep your skills sharp.”
And then, as if the Armorer were a magician who had uttered the magic word, the hasp of the heavy lock came open. The mess of rusty chains wound around the gate and held in place by the lock fell to the gravel pathway with a rattling clank.
“See you soon,” Ryan said, walking away to the right with his team.
“Not if I see you first,” J.B. replied, taking the left.
“GOOD FRIENDS, perhaps our luck is changing,” Doc said.
Ten minutes into their search, a well-maintained cabin cruiser had been discovered.
“Something this nice has got to belong to somebody,” J.B. said, looking at the hull. “Jak, take the rear point. See if anybody wants to say hello.”
“They might be scared, John. I know I’d be concerned if someone came sniffing around my boat,” Mildred said. “That gate was locked for a reason.”
“Not planning on stealing the thing, Millie, just curious. I want to know where the owner is.”
A loud whoop of laughter rang out from behind the boat where Jak had gone to investigate. “Think found our boat!” he called out.
The rest of the friends went around to see what had ignited Jak’s interest.
“This has to be Ryan’s ride, no question,” J.B. said.
Emblazoned on the rear of the boat in tall blue cursive letters was the craft’s name. Jak was pointing and grinning.
“The Patch,” Doc read.
“Dame Fortune seems to have smiled on us at last,” Doc intoned.
“Yeah, she’s good at that—right before she kicks you in the teeth,” a new voice piped up. “Nobody flick an eyelash, and you might get out of this alive.”
J.B. cursed himself. The joy of the discovery had distracted them all.
Now they would have to pay whatever price the men who had gotten the drop on them decided to ask for, and he knew from hard-earned experience that nothing came cheap when you were under someone else’s blaster.
“You planning on stealing our boat?” the voice asked.
“No,” Jak said. “Just looking.”
“Who are you people? We were just getting ready to shove off. Did Sommers send you?”
“No,” J.B. said. “Don’t know him. We’re just looking to head up the coast. Man told us boats could be bought here. Way you’re acting, don’t guess yours is for sale.”
“Got that right. Who are you?”
“J. B. Dix. The lady’s Mildred. Old guy’s Doc Tanner, and the teenager’s Jak.”
“Name’s Gardner Boyd,” the lean, unsmiling man said in a monotone. He jerked a thumb toward the behemoth standing to his left and behind. “This here’s Frank Bowman.”
“Hey,” Bowman said dully.
“He don’t say much. I do all the talking,” Boyd said arrogantly.
“I guessed that,” Mildred replied, starting to get annoyed. “You look like the genius of the couple.”
“Nobody asked you, bitch,” Boyd retorted.
Mildred’s face was carved in stone as she glared back at the man.
“You’ve stepped in it now, friend,” J.B. said laconically. “You’re dead.”
“We’ll see about that.” Boyd replied. “I know your black bitch ain’t going to be the one chilling me, so she might as well get over it and stop staring at me like that.”
Boyd was all angles, sharp and pointy: his chin, his nose, even his ears. He had close-cropped black hair and a three-day growth of bristly beard. His eyes were bloodshot and brown. J.B. put him at just under six feet tall. His arms and legs were gangly, coming off a long torso. He was dressed in a light green wool cap set back on the crown of his head like a skullcap, a navy blue shirt with four rows of buttons stitched up the front, a faded pair of denim pants and canvas sneakers.
The big man, Bowman, was round—round face, round belly and a round, slack-jawed mouth that didn’t utter a sound beyond a slight asthmatic wheeze. He was nearly bald, with a smattering of bright orange hair gathered in clumps along the sides of his head.