Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [58]
He parked his rental behind the marina, took his cell phone from the dash along with his night-vision goggles, his Glock, and a set of binoculars. The night air was steamy, tinged with the odor of rotting fish. He glanced around at the older homes, some of them nothing more than shacks, all without central air-conditioning, and he wasn’t sure if they actually had plumbing or not. He wondered how anyone could possibly live here in this heat without all the amenities he had in his Los Angeles condo. In Phoenix, the heat had been dry, nothing like the sweltering, dank air in Florida. It could be worse. At least he hadn’t seen any alligators slithering around the marina. Yet.
Fifteen minutes later, under a moonlit sky, Tyler expertly maneuvered the Sooner or Later from its slip at the marina. No one saw him as he idled slowly down the inlet of water leading out into the ocean. God help him if his father were to see him dressed like this. He smiled at the thought of it. Hell, he might wear this to Christmas dinner this year.
The pitch-black skies accommodated his plans for the night. For that he was thankful. He knew if he couldn’t see them, meaning those sneaky bitches, Kate Rush and Sandra Martin, then they couldn’t see him. He planned to extinguish the lights and cut the engine as he neared the tip of Mango Key. He had a plan. Sort of.
Tyler steered the sleek, albeit older model boat out into the open water. When he saw there were no other boats within sight, he bumped the throttle up to its maximum speed. The boat danced over the tops of the whitecaps at a dangerously high speed. He didn’t care, he was experienced on the water, a fact that even his father would agree on. Though, if asked, Tyler was sure his father would take all the credit for teaching him even though they both knew that wasn’t true. His skill could be attributed to summers spent at the beach yacht club with various instructors and hours upon hours of practice.
With enough miles between him and the marina, Tyler pulled back on the throttle, shutting down the engine. He cut the running lights. The only visible light was a single yellow glow coming from a house on Mango Key. Talk about desolate.
Waves slapped against the sides of the boat as it rocked from side to side. “Damn, I’ll puke if this keeps up,” he muttered to himself.
While Tyler was an avid sailor, he’d never acquired sea legs. Another weakness, he knew, but it is what it is, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it other than remember to take a Dramamine. Of course he’d been in a hurry when he’d raced out of the bed-and-breakfast, and now he knew he’d have to suffer the consequences. He took a deep breath, hoping to calm the waves sloshing around in his brain, but all it did was make him light-headed. He sat down, closed his eyes, and visualized the beach, with all its white flat sand. He knew the place at the tip of the island was within swimming distance, but until his nausea subsided, he opted to remain in the boat. Besides, this was as far as he’d planned on going. When he thought about the plans he should have made, he laughed. Here he was once again playing the role that was expected of him. Loser with a capital L. What the hell did he hope to accomplish other than spying on Rush and Martin? Did he actually think he was going to shoot his way into that damned castle, or whatever the hell it was, rescue or arrest whomever he found, then sail back to the marina? No. He hadn’t planned that far ahead. All he wanted was something, some kind of proof that something