NYPD Red

Chapter 91



BY THE TIME we got to the swimming platform, Benoit was following the yacht in one of the Zodiacs. He was far enough away to survive a blast, but close enough for us to open fire.

“Shoot out the pontoons!” I yelled. “Sink him. He can’t detonate with a wet cell phone.”

The Zodiac was going fast enough to raise its nose, and the blazing red sausage-shaped tubes that peeked just above the waterline made perfect targets.

We both fired. We both hit a pontoon. And we both expected the Zodiac to deflate like a balloon when the air is let out.

But it turned out that we knew as much about watercraft as we did about explosives. The bullets made direct hits, but nothing happened.

“Shit, it’s an RIB,” Kylie said. “The pontoon is rigid. It’s like shooting into Styrofoam.”

Benoit sat up and yelled at us. All I could make out was the word “a*sholes.”

“He’s slowing down,” Kylie said as our yacht started to draw away from the Zodiac. “He’s drifting out of range.”

“The hell he is,” I said, untying a second Zodiac and dropping it over the side. “Get in. I’m driving.”

I dove into the boat, yanked hard on the starter cord, and the Yamaha engine sprang to life. With my right hand on the throttle, I extended my left to help Kylie climb aboard.

She grabbed on, set one foot on the hull, and I leaned back to pull her in. It was a classic case of the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing, because as soon as I leaned backward, my right hand moved the throttle. The Zodiac lurched forward, and I pulled Kylie into the drink.

She was underwater for less than five seconds, then popped up, sputtering. “I lost my gun.”

I maneuvered the boat in a circle, and when I got close enough to Kylie, I killed the power just to make sure I didn’t chop her into fish bait with the propeller.

She put her fingers on one of the fiberglass sides, but it was slippery. I grabbed her hands to pull her in, but there was no leverage. I leaned over the side of the boat and put my hands under her arms. “On three,” I said. “You jump up. I’ll pull.

“One, two, three.” Kylie bobbed up, and I threw my body back hard. Her clothes were drenched, and the water felt like it had added another hundred pounds, but I managed to drag her halfway over the side of the boat. I hung on tight as her hands found a chrome grab bar, and she pulled herself all the way in.

“I lost my gun,” she said again.

“My fault. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Where’s Benoit?” she said, sitting up and pushing the wet hair out of her eyes.

Anyone else would have turned his boat around and tried to get away. But not Benoit. He had cut the engine and was letting his Zodiac drift. He’d had a front-row seat to every murder he’d committed so far, and he wasn’t going to miss the grand finale.

He sat up and raised his cell phone in the air.

Like a mime in the spotlight, he held up his middle finger. It hung there, silhouetted against the twilight, mocking us, defying us to stop him, and knowing we couldn’t.

And then, he turned the finger downward and pressed it hard on the dial pad of the cell phone.

I wasn’t sure if Kylie and I were far enough away from the yacht to survive the blast.

We were both on the floor of the Zodiac. I rolled over on top of her and covered her with my body.

“That’s twice in one day,” she said.

“Old habits die hard,” I whispered in her ear. “Brace yourself.”