Chapter 25: Cigarette Boat

Paul turned the wheel hard towards the cigarette boat and opened the throttles, doing a U turn as though he’d forgotten something. The powerboat whipped round in a tight semicircle. He didn’t see Mia being thrown off the left side of the cockpit surround behind him, where she’d been sitting. Claude was next to him, and didn’t see either.

Mia crashed into the water upside down. It took her a few seconds to get upright, and by that time the boat was 30 or 40 metres away with the engines drowning out any yells she could have tried to make. She did the only thing she could and swam to shore, in front of the moored boat.

“No, no,” the guard had stood up and was waving her away, as she came to a ladder up to the wooden decking, that ran all across the front of the property.

Even a drug cartel wouldn’t kill a girl for climbing out of the water, would they? That was a key calculation.

“Help! Help!” she called as she took hold of the rungs and began to climb, “Ayuda!”

The guy was standing at the top of the ladder by the time she got there. He wasn’t waving a gun, just his hands. Would he kick her in the face? Or manhandle her? He looked unsure of himself. She kept climbing, reached the top, using the rail, and arrived into his face - or his chest because he was big - and he took a step back, reaching for his phone. Mia stepped onto the decking.

“Thank you,” she said.

He spoke urgently in Spanish, blocking the way to the little bridge that led onto the lawn, beyond which the low, white house was expensive and menacing.

“Gracias,” Mia smiled a confident, superior smile and made for the fishing chair. He took another step back, letting her. He didn’t speak English.

Claude had explained about machismo and status, so she was in her bikini top and shorts and acting out of his league. There’d be a top guy who’d quite possibly kill him if he messed with her, because in machismo women are things men compete for; so as long as she appeared to be in his boss’s class, he wouldn’t dare to challenge his control over her.

She sat down, ignoring the guard and awaiting the next level of the gang or cartel. She reflected that Claude did seem to know about more than just language ... well probably that was to be expected since Grace’s mum had fallen for him.

She didn’t have to wait long. In a couple of minutes feet were treading across the bridge, and she turned to look - two men. One of them was in a suit, listening to the guard babbling in Spanish. She stood up and addressed him, with respect but not deference, and no smile.

“I want to see your boss,” she said in English. “The top guy.”

“Who are you?” He was surprised.

“I am Mia,” she allowed herself a slight smile. They’d discussed using a false name, but Claude had felt her sense of identity was going to be important, and there are plenty of Mia’s if they came looking for her.

The man glowered, but he wasn’t sure enough of her status to challenge her, and she wasn’t a threat clearly - a girl with absolutely no space for a gun in those shorts, just the shape of a very slim phone.

“Come with me,” he beckoned her. The others made way and she was being waved across the bridge in front of him. Her trainers squelched across the dry grass while he phoned, more calmly than the guard which was reassuring. She arrived at a patio and waited at the doors into the house, which the suit duly opened. She stepped into an expansive room with sofas and low tables.

“Towel,” he said to an obsequious maid. In a moment a large, fluffy towel had appeared and Mia dried.

“Sit,” he pointed at a sofa. “The boss will see you. Would you like a drink?”

“A juice, please.” She laid the towel on the sofa and sat on it.

The other man had come in, but not the guard. The two stood half looking at her, from a distance. The nervous maid brought her the drink, while she looked around. There was a lot of money, but not good taste. Fine. Someone who wanted more status than he had, then, as Claude had predicted. Claude who’d been desperate for her not to come into this fantastic danger, but also desperate to save Zara, and Grace. And also, underneath, believing in her.

The danger was massive, of course. Modesty aside, a girl such as herself would be used mercilessly by this gang, if she didn’t have enough status. Used and eventually killed. But if she could pull it off, she wouldn’t be used or killed. That was why she was feeling the most alive in her entire life.

Footsteps. They sounded confident - old-fashioned leather soles on the wooden floor. A man appeared in front of her; big, lean and in a dark suit. Good - a small guy would have had to be smart. The Boss.

“Sei italiano?” The first suit had reported her accent to him. His accent was American! This was a bonus. Someone with Italian roots, or connections at least.

“Si. Sono venuto a proporre alcuni affari, con la persona che possiede la barca,” she spoke quickly.

He looked down at her while clearly he did the mental translation. Mia could see he was taking in her condition: her toned shoulders, her abdomen with barely a crease even sitting, her tan, and attitude. It was all status. And probably his boss, whoever he was, was Italian? Could this even be Mafia?

“Come,” he said and stood back.

Mia stood up, with his eyes lasered onto her. She followed him to the door, which he opened. He would either be super correct, or treat her like nothing - one or the other. But he thought she might be an envoy, perhaps someone’s daughter, sent to test him? She had mystique, and she was Italian. He took her up a wide staircase, to an office that was large and brashly furnished.

“Your boat is obviously a drugs boat,” she said before he’d even sat down.

“It’s a leisure boat, completely legal. But tell me who you are ... Mia.” He didn’t sit, since she hadn’t, but stood at the end of his big, polished desk, looking at her.

“I am Mia. I will do trips for you. Because I am obviously a rich girl with an innocent small blond boyfriend and a small nerdy uncle, so we won’t be stopped by the American coastguard; or if we are we won’t be searched. Not thoroughly.”

“Hahaha,” he laughed, “is that all? Trips? There’s one kind of trip you can do for me.” He moved towards her.

“If you touch me it will be bad for you.” She took a step back, but only to brace her left leg.

He stopped, examining the expression on her face. “Bad in what way? I can call my men or just shoot you. Or put you over my knee.”

“You want to tell your men you can’t handle a girl?” Mia kept her tone even, and a very slight smile on her face. “Because you won’t get me over your knee. Or if you shoot me I’ll be no use to you will I, and also if I don’t come back in good time my associates will shoot holes in your boat, from so far away you won’t even hear the shots. We have a Micor sniper rifle: it will sink your boat and be a lot of trouble. So it would be bad, when it could be good. Good for you and for me. And afterwards, when I bring the boat back, the pressure will be off and we’ll have a business relationship already...”

The gangster looked at her for a few seconds. Claude had said that just because someone knows they’re being manipulated, doesn’t mean they can stop themselves being affected, and hoping. Status. If he wanted a connection to her, his mind would find a way. She just had to limit his options to her way, or one of her ways.

“How do I know you would do the job and bring the boat back?”