6
If Carlos Torres was busy picturing her in some skintight superhero outfit, she wasn’t going to drown him—she was going to gut him like a salmon.
Assumptions, Goodwin. She could hear McAllister even over the roar of the two Detroit diesels as she took them up on the planing hull to twenty-two knots and headed toward the open ocean.
“What’s your problem, Torres?” Sarah shouted over to him.
“My problem?” He wasn’t clutching the chair arms like some desperate civilian as they began popping over the two-meter waves washing in from the sea. Instead he sat with his hands folded in his lap as calm as could be. “I got no problems. Sunny day. Out for the morning on a 47-MLB with a beautiful and skilled woman who wants to jettison me overboard every time I pay her a compliment. What’s up with
