The rocking of the boat woke him in a panic. What time had he nodded off? He didn’t wear a watch. Did Shongut? The old guy was still snoring. Weecho crawled over and looked at Shongut’s wrist – his ancient Timex said 4:35. They still had time if they left now. Weecho pushed himself up and looked over the gunwale. The running lights of an outbound trawler glinted off the black water. The skiff was rolling in its wake. 

He leaned back over and shook Shongut. 

“Teddy…” 

“Huh?” 

“We gotta get moving.” 

Shongut grunted, blinked himself awake, sat up and rubbed his eyes. He watched Weecho poke around in the sandwich bag. 

“You find a thermos of coffee,” Shongut said, “this boat is yours.” 

“Sorry.” 

Shongut waved off the sandwich Weecho held out. Struggled to his feet, was probably disoriented from waking up sober. God bless him, recapping that bottle last night. 

Weecho took a bite of the sandwich, took the DVD player over by the anchor light and checked it out again. They’d put it through its paces last night after Shongut had patched Weecho up. The phony harem DVD, with Dara and Jeremy against the green screen, wouldn’t be up for any awards, but if things worked out, Lynch wouldn’t know it was a fake until they were in the clear.

They took their morning pees over the side and Shongut hauled up the anchor, piling the chain in the bow. Squeezed around Weecho and went to the wheel, pressed the starter button and got the outboard going. The sky to the east was turning pale, the start of a day that would be anybody’s guess. Shongut took his bearings and throttled them on their way, scattering a raft of water birds that put up a fuss. Over to their right they could see the city blinking off the last of its lights. 

Shongut steered them toward a moving ribbon of light, the A train making an early run across the marshes and bay. He pointed the bow at the long elevated railway, lined the skiff up between the red and green navigation lights that marked a pass-through under the tracks. 

The rumble of the outboard rebounded around inside the murky pass-through. When they came out the other side, Shongut cranked the wheel to the right and headed for the shadowy outlines of two deserted islands. Pointed his chin at them. 

“He’s gonna know right away it’s me with you. He knows this boat.”  

“I told him I was bringing cover.” 

“Yeah, but not me. Suppose he freaks?” 

“It’s a little late to be bringing that up.” Then Weecho said, “Slow down.” 

Shongut frowned and throttled back. The skiff settled onto its bow wave. 

“Look,” Weecho said, “not to get personal, but it was you yourself said it was Lynch who ruined your little girl.” 

“What about it?” 

 “I’m saying it shouldn’t be any surprise to him you’re out here doing this. Right?” 

Shongut looked at him, this junior boatmate connected some way to Nina. Looked over at the islands they were on their way to. Finally nodded. 

“I suppose.” 

“Good. This is our get-back. I want to even it for her as much as you do.” 

Still hadn’t told him where he was coming from on that, the big guilt for letting her burn. 

Shongut said, “Let’s get it done,” and nudged the throttle. The skiff pushed on, closing on the low islands. Shongut navigated the dark bends in the channel between them like he could do it in his sleep. Which, Weecho thought, was probably close to how he’d done it after a night out. 

Weecho squinted through the half-light, frowning at the two reedy shorelines. “I didn’t think we’d be this open going in.”  

Shongut cut their speed, let go the wheel, reached under the gunwale and pulled out an old lever-action rifle, a Model 94 Winchester. Said he kept it there for sharks. He worked the lever, popped out a loaded shell, grabbed it out of the air and slipped it back into the chamber. Grabbed some loose shells from where he’d taken the gun from and stuck them in his pocket. 

He steered one-handed around a bend. Both of them spotted something. 

“They’re here,” Shongut said. 

Up a narrow side channel, the hull of a fastboat was just visible through a dim opening in the reeds. 

Shongut steered the skiff further up the channel, eyes on the fastboat, Lynch’s Donzi. When they got close, Shongut swung toward shore and goosed the skiff into the reeds, the boat’s nose scraping on the gravel.   

He hopped out, rifle in hand, grabbed the bowline and pulled the skiff ashore. 

Weecho checked the Beretta, racking a round into the chamber, tucking it in at the small of his back. He picked up the portable DVD player, stepped ashore, followed Shongut through the reeds. 

A minute later, they came to a flat meadow in the middle of the island, Weecho wondering if maybe he should’ve brought Dara after all, liking less and less how exposed they were. Thinking how Lynch could’ve easily brought more than one backup. Shongut nestled down on his stomach, pointed the rifle across the open field. Weecho kneeled with the DVD player and called across to the other side. 

“You there, Lynch?” 

Silence. Weecho started to call again… 

“We’re here,” Lynch called. “Who’s with you?” 

“Just one, like we agreed.” 

“How you doing, Teddy?” Lynch said. 

Shongut stayed quiet, squinting toward the voice. 

“I want to see Juna,” Weecho called. 

“Show me what you got,” Lynch called back. 

“Okay, let’s slow down, do it like we said.” 

Weecho stood up with the DVD player, feeling naked like in that dream where you’re the only one not wearing clothes.    

“It’s in here,” Weecho said, raising the player. “I’m coming half-way. You start, too.” 

Across the meadow, Lynch stood up in the dull light. Stayed there and looked Weecho over. Then reached down and pulled Juna up to his side, Juna still in her hoodie. There was a scarf tied around her mouth, another one over her eyes. 

On the ground next to Lynch, Weecho could see Victor Crotty, the truck guy who started the chain of events that killed Shongut’s daughter. Crotty had a rifle pointed this way. 

Shongut had his rifle pointed at Lynch. The standoff – the setup they’d agreed on. Weecho heard Shongut mumble next to him, “He’s gotta be wearing a flack vest.” 

Weecho stepped into the meadow, holding the DVD player in front of him, squinting to see Lynch and Juna. 

“We get close enough,” Weecho said, “I’ll turn this on.” 

“Turn it on now,” Lynch said. 

Good. The further away, the better. Lynch had one arm around Juna, propping her up, Juna not moving well. 

Weecho flicked on the DVD player and pressed Play. The screen came to life with the green-screen knockoff of Gatchel in the opium harem. Weecho held it out so Lynch could see, giving the DVD player a little jiggle so the image had some blur. 

Lynch looked hard toward the glow of the screen. Juna stumbled, Lynch jerked her up. 

“Easy!” Weecho yelled. 

He brought the DVD player closer to Lynch, one eye on Juna. Took another few steps and stopped near the middle of the meadow. 

“Okay, this is where I leave it. You let her come to me.” 

He set the DVD player down on the grass. 

Lynch still had his arm around Juna, squinted toward the little screen. Out there in the middle of the marsh grass, with a thin layer of haze floating just off the ground, the carryings-on of the harem girls and Gatchel’s stand-in Jeremy weren’t much more than a jittery glow. 

But it was enough for Lynch to take his arm off Juna and nudge her forward. She took a wobbly step, still gagged and blindfolded. 

Weecho called to her. “Juna, I’m over here. Keep walking to my voice.” 

He called to Lynch, “Can’t you let her see?” 

On the ground behind Weecho, Shongut was squinting along the rifle barrel. He mumbled, “Something’s not right.” 

Juna was halfway between Lynch and Weecho, fifty feet or so from Weecho’s held-out hand. 

Weecho glanced back. Shongut was focused on Crotty. 

Weecho looked over at Crotty, still on the ground behind Lynch. Something was in Crotty’s hand besides the rifle – some little device with a blinking red light. 

Weecho heard Shongut say, “Shit!”   

Then Shongut fired, BAM! Weecho jumped. 

Juna went down, her right thigh spurting blood. 

Weecho spun to Shongut. “The hell you doing?” 

“Down!” Shongut yelled. “Get down!” 

Weecho spun back to Juna, who was face-down in the grass. Strapped on her back was some kind of canvas contraption with another blinking red light on it. 

Christ, a bomb vest. Dynamite sticks in the pocket loops, wired to blow. 

Lynch grabbed the DVD player off the grass and ran back to Crotty. 

“Hit it!” Lynch yelled.