A bright glow through the mist to the east signaled dawn on the horizon.
He shifted to neutral and drifted, lightly working the throttle on and off to compensate for a swift current that drew him back toward the river’s center and east to the sea.
A nest of blurred lights sparked ahead.
Four arranged in a row.
He shut off the outboard and listened.
Davis had told him about Adventure. A two-hundred-foot-plus, state-of-the-art sailing sloop. The ship’s outline appeared ahead, and he heard activity on the deck. Men shouting.
Swells drove him closer.
He could not strike the hull.
More activity seemed to be happening beyond the ship, toward shore, perhaps on the dock. Jouncing beams of light stabbed the dark. Two together, like headlights. Nothing could be seen clearly, the fog masking reality, as if he were viewing the dark world through a smoky bottle.
He gripped his gun and shifted the outboard into gear, keeping the throttle barely out of neutral, easing closer.
He found the hull and angled left, following the waterline.
An anchor chain appeared, apparently used for stabilization even while docked, which made sense given the river’s strong current.
Above him stretched fifty feet of thick, wet chain.
He could do it, but he needed to know something.
He spun the wheel hard to port and shifted the throttle into neutral. Immediately the boat drifted away. Satisfied as to the current’s direction, he reengaged the throttle and gave himself a gentle nudge forward. He stuffed the gun between his belt and waist, switched off the engine, then grabbed the wet links above him and climbed.
He glanced back and watched the current grab the boat as it disappeared into the night.
Only one way left to go now.