Presidential Retreat by JT Patten

Author:JT Patten [Patten, JT]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Escape Your Reality Press
Published: 2020-01-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

New Englanders and those living along the northern coast of the Atlantic have come to expect the rapid weather changes with embrace. Sean followed the heard of vacationers back aboard the ferry that went from a boarding queue to a long drink line in what would amount to be less than a ten-minute boat ride.

Instead of fighting the swell of eager drinkers, Havens waddled with the line, then slipped out into a vacant seat along the wall facing the door, with an eye toward people standing around the small bar area.

As he sat, he processed a plan while flipping through the images Maggie had sent in the last hour.

Among the pleasant-spirited commotion, Sean paid little mind until a voice snapped, “Bugger me.”

A bearded man wearing a black National Geographic stitched polo raised his arm. “Bloody fuck. Door frame took a bite out of me.” The man wiped at his bleeding cut.

His friend winced. “Unlucky. I’ll run for a serviette there at the bar.” From his left hand, he dropped the small metal sharp.

“Here. I have some tissue,” a woman offered. She was with a small gaggle of women who turned to the small first-aid emergency. The woman held a long look with the man as she handed him a wad of Kleenex.

“Thank you,” he said, with a slow nod and longer assessment.

Soon after the exchange of assistance and pleasantries came laughs and offers for drinks and smiles and introductions.

You sneaky fuckers.

Suspected captors of his pal or not, Havens admired their ploy. Sean overheard in the conversation mention of the White House and staff and president. From the men he heard “shark research” and “on-hold” and “Secret Service” and “Coast Guard” and “fog” and “waiting” and a great white named Cabot. Then he heard “drinks” and “dinner” and “meet up.”

Havens kept his head down and away as they spoke. He wondered how many men were still left watching X, if indeed X was there at the beach location.

Havens lifted his head when one of the women inquired about a tattoo on the man’s wrist. The bearded National Geographic or BBC or whatever guy who’d cut his wrist and had it held up, applying some pressure with a napkin, had blue ink just at his watch line.

She gently pushed down his stainless steel dive watch before he could draw it away. “W-D-W. What’s the number. Your prisoner I.D.” She laughed.

Havens spied the guy’s friends’ reactions. One tried to change the subject; another bit his lip.

Luke laughed. “This tit marked the registry on his bonnet wing right on his hand, so he could tell the constable which auto was his when he’s pissed at the pub.”

“I have no idea what you even said,” another girl said, with a giggle.

They all laughed. Havens turned away as one of the men caught his stare.

“Which of you has a tattoo on their arse?” one of the men asked.

Sean didn’t look over. He was processing. British. Captors. WDW. Who Dares Wins. Fucking SAS. The numerical ink was no doubt the Special Air Service soldier’s NAAFI identification number.

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