Breaking the Line

We reached a fringe of low vegetation, then the concrete decking that framed a curving, internal organ shaped pool.  I hazarded a brief glance over my shoulder, then slowed to a trot.  The pursuit appeared, at least temporarily, abated.  The gunman had turned back and was now clambering aboard the wreck of the Marlin III.

“He's stopped,” I said.

“Good,” Scott called back.  “Let's not.”

We jogged through the resort, up the slope stacked with staggered hotel blocks, over the crest surmounted with the lobby, front desk, and restaurant complex, and down the other side of the ridge, not pausing at the guard shack with its bemused, uniformed sentry.

Across the street, about a couple of dozen yards eastwards near the marina entrance, waited a line of cabs.

“C'mon,: Scott said, “let's get back to the hotel.”





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