Page 153 of The Session

Mark stopped. “One second. I gotta take a leak. I’ll be right back.”

“There’s a bathroom in the office,” Trevor said.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Mark replied.

Mark had been keeping an eye out for the trim lights of watercraft and the headlights of vehicles, but he realized that had been a mistake when he saw figures hiding in the shadows, approaching from around the corner of the harbormaster’s office.

Offshore

Mark turned around and walked back toward the boat, doing his best to pretend he hadn’t just seen a man with a rifle slip around the back corner of the office and drop into a crouch.

They must have gotten to the harbormaster in the office.

“It’ll only take a moment, Mr. Lightman,” Trevor called after him.

Mark knew acknowledging the name slipup could be fatal.

Instead, he spun and gave Trevor a grin to pretend everything was okay . . . and also to track the figures moving around the building.

Trevor looked confused. He glanced at Mark, then back toward the building.

Mark made a show of looking down at his shoe the moment he reached the bow line. He squatted as if tying it, then slid the rope off the cleat, letting it fall into the water instead of tossing it back onto the boat, praying they hadn’t seen him do it.

Suddenly Trevor whispered from close behind him: “You need to come back right now.”

“Are they cops?” Mark asked under his breath, forcing a smile.

“They told me I had to get you away from the boat,” Trevor murmured.

“These men are killers. You need to be ready to run.”

“They said they’d pay me $10,000 to get you into the shop,” said Trevor. “Can you match that?”

Mark was done trying to help the man. He stood and casually walked toward the stern line, ignoring Trevor.

The sound of boots pounding across wooden planks echoed through the marina. Mark didn’t bother looking back. He ran to the other cleat, freed the line, shoved the boat away from the dock, and jumped, then climbed aboard.

Trevor realized what was happening and sprinted back down the pier.

“We gotta go now!” Mark yelled to the others belowdecks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man in black tactical clothing racing along the pier with a compact rifle.

By the time Mark reached the top deck, Tru was already behind the console, turning the ignition.

Mark watched the gunman run past Trevor, violently shove him into the water, then drop to a knee and aim straight at the windshield.

“Down!” Mark screamed, yanking Tru to the floor.

A rapid three-shot burst cracked out, and the windshield cracked in a spiderweb, pelting them with glass.

The throttle was still forward, so Mark grabbed the wheel and cranked it left, swinging the boat into an arc.

As it began to face the marina exit, the stern was wide open to the gunman. The shooter Mark had spotted first—the one crouched by the office—moved to the edge of the concrete seawall and lay flat, his elbows braced on the ground.

Mark shoved Tru into the cabin, grabbed the throttle, pushed it farther forward, and ducked below the transom.

The wheel was too far left, and the boat was turning back toward the dock at high speed. Mark popped his head up just as the bow struck the dock and began skidding along, out of control.