Dawn Patrol - Don Winslow [76]
“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard says. “This is private property. You can’t come in here.”
“Actually, I think I can.” He shows the guard his badge.
The guard tries to hang. “Do you have a warrant, Detective?”
“Yeah,” Johnny says. “My warrant is, if you don’t open that fucking gate like two seconds ago, I’m going to drive through it anyway. Then, first thing in the morning, a battalion of health inspectors is going to arrive for a close look at the sushi and the celebrities. Then the fire inspectors are going to—”
The gate opens.
Johnny drives through.
67
Navy SEALs do it in training, but they’re freaking Navy SEALs.
Lie in the ocean in winter at night, that is, not moving as frigid water washes over them, drops their body temps toward hypothermia, makes them shake uncontrollably, their bones and flesh aching with cold.
But that’s what Boone, Petra, and Tammy do as Danny and his boys hunt the beach for them. Boone wraps an arm around each woman and holds her as hard as he can, feels them shiver as he tries to relax his own body. It’s the only way to survive psychologically—force yourself to relax, not tighten up.
Cold and wet are a deadly combo. You can survive cold, you can tolerate wet, but the two of them together can kill you, send your body into shock, or force you out of the water into lethal gunfire.
Boone knows they don’t have a lot of time left. He looks over at Petra. Her face is set in grim determination. Stiff upper lip and all that happy crap, but the woman is holding on; she’s a lot tougher than she looks.
Tammy’s eyes are shut tight, her lips clamped together, her jaw muscles locked. She’s holding on.
Boone tightens his grip on both of them.
Dan is puzzled.
He had Daniels and the two broads in a box, and they’re gone.
Just gone.
Like the fog wrapped them up and took them.
He looks out toward the surf. No way, he thinks. No fucking way. That’s suicidal. The cop sirens come closer and Dan hears footsteps running down the stairs. Turns to see those big cop flashlights piercing the fog.
Time to boogie.
68
High Tide turns into the parking lot at Sea Cliff Park and pulls up next to the Boonemobile.
Boone ain’t in it.
What the hell, Tide wonders, is Boone doing up here on the bluff over the south end of Shrink’s at night? Checking out the surf? Really, bruddah?
Tide heads down the stairs toward the beach. Hurts his knee, walking down stairs, but what are you going to do? He has to have a word with Boone, and down the stairs is where Boone is apparently at.
Except he ain’t.
When Tide gets down on the sand, he doesn’t see Boone standing there checking out the waves.
All he sees is fog.
Then he spots something in the shallow white water. At first he thinks it’s a dolphin, but a dolphin wouldn’t be in the trench in this weather and he sees only one, and dolphins travel in groups. Must be driftwood, something came in with the tide.
The driftwood stands up.
“BOONE!” High Tide yells. “HAMO!”
Brother.
High Tide walks into the water and grabs Boone, then sees that there are two women with him. Boone grabs one of them, Tide the other, and they stagger onto the beach.
Boone mumbles, “Tide …”
“Easy, bro.”
“Are they—”
“They’re okay.” Tide takes off his jacket and wraps it around the smaller woman, who’s shivering uncontrollably. Then he takes off his wool beanie and puts it on the head of the tall redheaded woman. It’s not enough, but it will help for the time being.
Boone says, “How did you …”
“Beach-bongo telegraph,” High Tide says. “Word’s all along the coast you’re here.”
“We gotta get off this beach,” Boone says. He hefts the smaller woman into a fireman’s carry.
Petra starts to say, “I can—”
“I know you can.”
He carries her anyway. Tide easily sweeps up the redheaded woman and holds her close to his chest as they climb the steps back up to the parking lot. When they get there, Tide grabs two blankets and some towels from the back of his truck as Boone starts to undress Petra.
“What are you doing?” she murmurs.
“Have to get