Chapter - 318
The Cigarette boat cut through the South Pacific swell at sixty knots, its hull slapping the water with a rhythmic, bone-jarring violence that matched the pounding in Rick's head. Behind them, the orange glow of the burning villa was shrinking, a bonfire of vanity and seven million dollars' worth of real estate sinking into the horizon.
Rick stood at the helm, the salt spray stinging the fresh stitches on his forehead. He was shirtless, wearing only his linen shorts and a tactical vest he'd looted from a dead mercenary.
"You know," Rick shouted over the roar of the twin engines, "I owned that island for exactly forty-eight hours. That has to be a record for property depreciation. I didn't even get to try the jet skis."
