Page 3 of The Honeymoon Heist

I flicked my head, and she dropped the bumpers. I slid next to the boat, gently kissing it, and Jennifer tossed the deckhand the rope. Within seconds, we were tied up. I said, “See, I can do this. It’s not that hard.”

Knuckles said, “You’re just lucky. You almost slammed into that other boat.”

Which was a lie.

Everyone at the bar had watched us approach, and I could see the men ogling Jennifer. Which I knew would happen. Long and lean, Jennifer looked like a surfer, with blond hair stuffed into a baseball cap and an athletic motion that told anyone who was looking that she was more than their equal. It actually gave me pleasure, because the entire point of this expedition was to get ready for our honeymoon, andIwas the one with her.

Jennifer and I had finally tied the knot and become officially married, not the least because we needed to be a “parenting unit” for the adoption of Amena, and Jennifer had demanded a honeymoon. Like, a real one. Not some three-day Caribbean cruise or a beach house on the Isle of Palms here in Charleston. So, she’d done the research and found the town of Positano on the Amalfi Coast of Italy, at a hotel called the Villa Magia—which was rated as one of the best hotels in the universe.

With less than a dozen rooms, and a staff at your beck and call, she’d booked it, spending the better part of our yearly wages. She’d started researching various excursions, and had come upon a boat trip to Capri, complete with a captain. I’d balked at that, deciding I could be my own captain and save some money, and here we were, me learning how to drive a boat from a guy who didn’t know any more than I did. But that didn’t really matter in Charleston.

Most people here faked driving a boat just like Knuckles and me, with everyone apparently thinking the engine was powered by Bud Light.

Jennifer put on a cover-up, and Amena followed suit, because she did whatever Jennifer did. She, like Amena, had no idea of her effect on the opposite sex, which I just loved, because I wasn’t what you’d expect to see with her. Knuckles, yes. Me, no.

Knuckles looked like he belonged with the women on the boat. About six-two, with shaggy black hair, broad shoulders, and ropy muscles, he had a chiseled face like he’d been ripped from a romance novel. Me, not so much. We were about the same height, but I was thicker than him in the muscle department, and had a face that was a little battered, with a nose bent slightly off-kilter from a fight and a scar that traced a path through my eyebrow and into my cheek, cutting a swath through my two-day beard.

Jennifer said I looked like a pirate, and I took that as a compliment.

We scampered across the two other boats tied to the dock and went up the ramp into the bar itself, lucking out with a table right next to the water. The waitress came over and we ordered, me glowering at every male who ogled Jennifer. They, naturally, would not meet my gaze. Sometimes looking like a pirate works out.

Knuckles said, “So, when’s the test?”

“Three days. It’s just on paper. Nobody’s going to make me drive a boat like a car test, which is a little bit ridiculous, if you ask me.”

He laughed and said, “Well, they’re probably more concerned with you knowing the rules of the water than they are about being able to operate your boat.”

“Still a little bit stupid.”

Amena said, “Especially since you can’t operate a boat.”

I said, “Hey, come on. That docking was pristine, was it not?”

Nobody said anything, so I turned to Jennifer, repeating, “Was it not?”

She looked at Amena and said, “I guess we’ll let you rent the boat. But you arenotgoing to go ripping around the Amalfi Coast like you did today. It’s supposed to be a pleasure cruise.”

“I can do that.”

Knuckles said, “How are you guys paying for this? Did you fall into some money or something?”

I glanced at Jennifer, not sure if we should spill the beans, and then Amena said, “Grolier Recovery Services is going to take a look at some old church in Positano. Jennifer says it’s a tax write-off.”

My mouth fell open, and Jennifer hurriedly interjected, saying, “That’s not what I said. Thereisan excavation in Positano, and it’s ongoing. All I did was ask if we could see it with our company, and maybe offer our services. They agreed.”

Knuckles laughed and said, “Didn’t take long to figure out how to use the Taskforce to pay for your honeymoon.”

Jennifer and I—and Knuckles, for that matter—were all members of a special operations unit called Project Prometheus, whose sole purpose was preventing terrorist attacks against United States national interests. The project itself was comprised of a bunch of seemingly civilian organizations, all in deep cover. Grolier Recovery Services was ours—a boutique archeological firm that ostensibly traveled the world looking at pottery shards. We’d used it plenty of times to put some terrorist’s head on a spike, but had never abused it.

Until now.

Technically, it wasn’t a true abuse of power, in that we had to do some real work to keep the cover functioning and realistic, but we were stretching it by using it on our honeymoon.

I said, “Hey, that’s not what we’re doing. It’s more like using airline points for a flight. It’s not like the Taskforce is paying the freight on this. No taxpayer money. All we’re going to do is deduct the expenses of the trip from our taxes. That’s all.”

He held up his hands and said, “I’m not judging. And knowing how you two operate, I’m sure there’s going to be a shitshow at the end anyway. A tax write-off will be the least of it.”

Chapter 3

---