discomfort had gotten no better by the time the Agusta landed on the helipad of
the HardWind . Even though the pilot finessed the six-thousand-pound helicopter to the
pad, there was enough of a jolt to send savage pain through Dáire’s throbbing head. He
put his palms to his temples and bent forward beneath the agony.
“I want you to drink another case of Dago Red,” Jackson said sweetly as he
unbuckled his seatbelt.
“I want to die,” Dáire complained.
“Gentry just might oblige you,” Jackson warned.
Forcing one foot ahead of the other, Daire walked away from the helicopter,
following Jackson into the ship. He mumbled acknowledgements to those members of
the crew who greeted him, but didn’t lift his head any higher than it was necessary for
him to navigate the interior of the plush motor yacht.
“The boss is in the office,” Dáire heard someone say.
26
HardWind
Two hundred and thirty feet of luxury motor boat, the HardWind had a twenty-foot
draught and was built for extended ocean voyages. It was registered to a Dutch
company with a homeport in Jamaica. Onboard the boat, a garage held the owner’s
custom-equipped sports utility vehicle and a helipad graced the top deck. Two fortyfoot sport-fishing boats were strapped snugly to the side decks. Manned by a twentymember crew, the HardWind had eight double-suite cabins with queen-sized berths, two
twin suites with full-sized berths, and dining and entertainment facilities large enough
to accommodate twenty-four people in luxurious comfort. The owner’s private deck
bore a suite with a retractable moon roof and was decked out with a sitting area
complete with a sixty-inch plasma television, a concave ten-feet-wide acrylic twohundred-and-sixty-five-gallon aquarium, a fireplace, high-tech office, well-stocked bar,
his and hers walk-in showers, a sunken whirlpool tub and a Hollywood king-sized bed.
The HardWind was the company ship and a little piece of floating heaven for those
granted access to her. At any given time, three operatives of The Cumberland Group
were onboard along with their boss Tyndall Gentry, the boss’ private bodyguard and
the crew.
Flanking the doorway into the luxuriously appointed office were two of the three
operatives and they neither smiled nor replied when Jackson wished them a good
morning.
Whistling beneath his breath, Jackson leaned over to Dáire. “Methinks you are in
deep doo-doo this time, old chap.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dáire acknowledged.
One of the gatekeepers reached behind him to open the office door then stepped
back for Dáire and Jackson to enter. He quietly closed the door behind them once they
were inside.
A rock-solid man with wide shoulders, a bull-like neck, arms the size of pine tree
trunks, cold black eyes set in a face only a mother could love, with a bald head that
glistened as though it had been polished with oil, stood off to one side of the room,
thick arms crossed over a powerful chest. Like the operatives outside, he did not smile
or greet the men in any way. His gaze was locked on Dáire with obvious dislike.
Tyndall Gentry was sitting behind an elegant mahogany desk in a chair Dáire knew
held an eight-motor massage unit. The ergonomic chair had been crafted especially for
Gentry in soft Corinthian leather that matched the exact same shade as the desk’s
uncluttered top. Only a telephone, pad, pen and a cup of tea rested on the pristine top
of the huge desk.
Without being told, the men took the two uncomfortable leather chairs that sat
before the desk. Neither spoke for it was against Gentry’s rules that anyone speak until
spoken to. For a long time, the boss did not speak, just stared angrily at Dáire until the
young man began fidgeting in the chair.
“Sit still!”
27
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
The order was a hiss of sound that brooked no disobeying. Though not spoken
loudly, the two words nevertheless carried with them a harsh