6:40 A.M.
SS DORSET
NEW YORK HARBOR
Dewey was awakened at 6:40 in the morning by an insistent knock at the door. He climbed out of bed and went to the door, opening it. Outside, a valet was standing.
“Sir,” he said in English accent. “The shoot begins in ten minutes, sir.”
Dewey took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, pulled on a pair of khakis and a long-sleeved polo shirt in black and yellow stripes. He pulled on his boots. He felt himself swaying slightly as the boat moved with the sea.
There were several people already on deck when he got there. He saw Jenna’s father, Sir Farragut, standing amid a small group of men, all similarly attired: canvas or wool pants, tweed shooting shirts with leather patches protecting the shoulder. Each man held the same shotgun, barrels open and empty over the elbow, and Dewey recognized the model: Beretta DT11 Black PRO, over-and-under .12-gauge competition gun.
Near the men, a butler held a silver service, on top of which sat coffee.
The sky had turned to a light blue, infused with orange.
Dewey looked over his shoulder. Manhattan was visible in clear light.
To the left, the deck faced away from the city. The yacht was so large that it held enough area for a competition skeet range. A semicircle of shooting stations faced the ocean. There were six stations in all. To the left and right, near the edge of the deck, were two trap-throwing houses, hidden by shingles, where the clays were fired into the air out over the ocean—while the gunmen on deck took turns trying to shoot the small disks from the sky as they flew in a blur.
Dewey felt a burst of adrenaline as he studied the two throwing houses, then the arc of the stations. He’d shot clays before, on a few occasions.
The butler approached and Dewey took a cup of coffee.
“Thank you.”
Farragut saw Dewey and moved toward him.
“How did you sleep, Dewey?” he said.
“Fine, Mr. Farragut,” said Dewey, taking an awkward sip from his coffee cup.
Farragut laughed.
“My name is Bobby,” said Farragut. “Don’t call me anything but that.”
“Sorry, forgot, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir either,” he grinned. “Now let’s get you a shotgun.”
Dewey followed him to a door at the side of the deck. Inside was a changing room, dark wood everywhere, lockers, and, along the back wall, shotguns in a neat-looking rack. On the left side of the rack were lined at least a dozen shotguns of all varieties; these were custom-made, fancy guns. But to the right were competition guns. There were empty slots but still at least a half dozen Berettas.
Farragut showed Dewey the last section of the gun room. It was a line of older shotguns of all varieties, along with a few modern waterfowl guns, for different purposes; not the ideal gun to be shooting skeet. Dewey studied the line of shotguns and then his eyes went to one gun in particular, a long, black, single-barrel, pump-action .12-gauge Benelli Nova Pump. He lifted it from the rack and looked at it. In seconds, he disassembled the gun, inspecting each part of it. Then he slammed it back together, pumped it, and hit the trigger. There was a click. Dewey looked up at Farragut.
“I’ll take this one,” said Dewey.
Farragut stared at the choice of weapon with a slightly confused look.
“You sure?” said Farragut. “Your shoulder might get a little sore.”
“Yes,” said Dewey politely, though his demeanor communicated that he knew full well what the firearm was and that it was the gun he wanted. Dewey pulled a belt on, lined with .12-gauge shotgun shells. “It’s perfect,” said Dewey.
“At least let me get you a proper shirt,” said Farragut. “Your shoulder is going to get beat to shit.”
“Thank you, Bobby, I’ll be fine.”
Dewey took one last glance around the gun room. He saw a steel door with a large lock on it and he registered it an extra moment. Farragut noticed Dewey’s look.
“You’re wondering what’s behind the door?”
“Yes,” said Dewey.
Farragut went over and slid the bolt aside, then pressed a button. The door moved in. It was a weapons cache.
Several shelves of handguns, beneath other shelves with various accouterments for the handguns—suppressors, lights, thermal and radiographic sights.
Another wall was nothing but ammunition.
Still another was a spread of serious-looking automatic rifles.
The last wall was more ammo and submachine guns.
“I was SAS,” said Farragut. “Seven years. I enjoy firearms. Beyond protection, they are a wonder. Where do you work, if you don’t mind my asking, Dewey?”
“I’m in between jobs,” said Dewey, looking down at the Benelli and studying it with his eyes and hands.
“What is it you do, when you’re not in between jobs, if I might ask?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” said Dewey politely.
Farragut started laughing.
“Fine, that’s none of my business. Let’s go shoot some clays.”