Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

important and devil take the rest. No rational person would argue with that, of course, but the real trick was in deciding what the most important thing was. Albright knew one thing for sure. It sure as hell wasn’t politics. He leaned back against the leather, working the Gripmasters he had bought the day after the diagnosis, lifted up and carried by the music booming from the speakers. He closed his eyes and was swept away.

They used the express lane at the U.S. border and a short time later arrived at the marina on the American side and climbed into the big Zodiac Albright stored in one of the covered slips. From there it was a quick half-mile run to the little floating dock at the foot of the anchored yacht’s gangway. The three of them went aboard and into the great saloon where Clint rang for the steward and ordered drinks.

“Leave the bottle,” Albright said. “We won’t need you again tonight.”

“You two set up the ring.” He picked up the intercom and spoke to the captain. Five minutes later he heard the anchor come aboard and settle in its chocks and then the increased revs as the boat tilted and picked up speed as it swung onto its new course and accelerated northward back into Canadian waters.

Albright drained his glass and thought about Cat and his anger grew. He wasn’t used to being refused by anyone, let alone by a goddamned woman. He poured himself another drink and considered the situation. Surely it couldn’t have anything to do with that sad little dickweed she was going around with?

He’d had the party’s detective agency do some background checks on her long before he’d made the offer, and his name had come up as her current boyfriend. Jared Kane, a born loser if ever he’d seen one. A commercial fisherman who made mediocre money six months of the year and worked on and off at odd jobs for the other half. Pathetic really, even discounting the prison history and that Indian family he hung out with in the East End. Any comparison between the two of them was an insult. Well, he supposed there was no accounting for taste. She’d soon enough learn better.

But he had other things on his plate at the moment. First things first. He thought about the man chained up in the engine room and smiled in anticipation. This was exactly what he needed; it had been far too long since he’d had a chance to test himself. Although it was no longer all that much of a test if he was being perfectly honest. Maybe he’d tie one hand behind his back this time.

Although maybe not.

The brothers unrolled the stained canvas and centred it in the ring and fastened the corners to the clips at the base of the four posts. They tightened the tensioners on the ring ropes and measured them to the pound with a spring gauge, conscious of Albright’s oversight. Everything had to be done to strict professional standards, right down to the smallest detail. Given what had transpired already in the ring and what was in store, it seemed ridiculous, but they weren’t about to question his instructions. They opened the storage room door and removed the stools and the half-filled buckets with their sponges and set them inside the ring in opposing corners with towels carefully aligned over the ropes alongside them. They returned to the closet and reached onto the shelves for the wrapping tape, boxing gloves, and helmets that were lying there.

“We won’t be needing any of that this evening, boys,” Albright said. “We’re going old school tonight. Bare knuckles and whisky, and may the best man win.” He raised his glass in a toast.

The brothers glanced at each other and tried not to roll their eyes. They’d seen this show before, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Finish your drinks and fetch him up.”

Richard Sullivan stumbled through the door wearing only faded old boxing trunks, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. He was unshaven and the grey stubble only partially hid the bruising and swelling that marked his face. His body was covered with purple, red, and blue welts, and his eyes were blackened and hopeless. They wandered the room, avoiding the presence at the bar that dominated it.

“Howdy, partner,” Albright called out with a genial smile. “How about a drink before we get started then? As my old daddy used to say, you never know when it might be your last.”

Chapter 33

Annie leaned forward on her outside knee and dipped the paddle in the water and pulled as she straightened, then leaned forward and repeated the stroke, shaking her head to get the rain out of her eyes and cursing the weather and that Tlingit cow who’d decided not to cancel practice. She cursed Joseph as well, who she suspected was sneakily ramping up the drumbeats. She’d seen the woman speaking to him before the session. She looked familiar, but Annie couldn’t place her. She seemed too old for Danny and too young for his grandfather, although she wouldn’t absolutely rule anything out in either case.

It was her arthritic knees that bothered her most, and she’d made an arrangement with the paddler across from her to switch sides every thirty minutes so she could alternate on the pressure points. The cow had whined about teamwork, bonding, synchronicity, and some other yuppie bullshit, but she and the other woman, a fellow sufferer, had ignored her. Annie knew they were two of the stronger paddlers on the team and equally competent at either station.

They’d been going for a while now, and she was warming up and almost starting to enjoy it. Or, to be more precise, dislike it less. It was always like this at the beginning, she thought, the questioning of your sanity, the idea of other things you could be enjoying, like coffee and a book in a warm place, but then the