NYPD Red

Chapter 87



THREE MINUTES LATER, we had dropped our speed and were cruising alongside the Shell Game.

Rothlein radioed Captain Campion. “We’re in position.”

A section of the yacht’s massive steel hull opened like the door on the fuselage of a jetliner. An aluminum ramp telescoped out about six feet.

“Is that as far out as it goes?” Kylie said.

“It was designed to be lowered onto a dock,” Rothlein said. “Not for changing horses in midstream.”

There was an even shorter ramp extending over the side of our boat, and I stood on the edge waiting for the two ramps to line up.

“Zach, if you’re waiting for them to lock together like a couple of Legos, it’s not going to happen,” Rothlein said. “This is as close as we’re going to get.”

It was only a three-foot jump. Half my height. Easy on dry land. Not so easy when point A and point B are bobbing and weaving like two staggering drunks trying to cross Broadway against a red light.

“Go,” Rothlein said.

I watched the rhythm of the two ramps as they moved back and forth, up and down, hoping to pick up on a pattern. There was none. The water was too choppy.

“Don’t think about it, Six,” came the familiar taunting voice from behind me.

I jumped just as the Kristina caught some chop, and what had started out as a graceful leap turned into a flailing lunge. But both feet hit the ramp, and I stumbled into the arms of two crew members who broke my momentum and lowered me to the steel floor of the cargo hold.

Within seconds, Kylie was right behind me.

“Have you ever tried to get on the escalator at Bloomie’s during the Christmas rush?” she said. “This was actually easier.”

“I hate you,” I said.

Ordway stepped to the edge of the Kristina’s ramp, sized up the gap, took a few steps backward, and got a running start.

Just as he was about to spring off, a crosscurrent caught the Kristina, tilting it, and dropping the front end of the ramp into the river. He didn’t have a chance. He pitched forward, and his chest slammed into the hard steel of the opposite ramp.

He slid into the water, floundering against the weight of his equipment to keep from going under.

I could hear Rothlein yell “Kill the throttle,” and the Shell Game zipped ahead, leaving the Kristina in its wake.

I radioed Rothlein. “Is he okay?”

“One of my guys dove in after him as soon as he hit the water,” Rothlein said. “We’ll have him back on board in two minutes, and if he’s game, we can line up another pass. Five minutes tops.”

If he’s game? Five extra minutes for Benoit to get off the boat? Another pass for him to spot us?

I keyed the mic. “Negative. Hang back. I’ll call you as soon as we have Benoit in custody.”

I turned to the two crew members. “Lock it up,” I said.

They retracted the ramp, and I took one last look at the Kristina as it slowly faded into the distance.

The steel door clanged shut.

Kylie looked at me. “Good call, Zach,” she said. “Let’s go find Benoit.”