“Crap,” Harv said.

“What?”

“I forgot there’s no exit onto I-eight west and we just passed Sea World Drive.”

“Don’t worry about it. Take Rosecrans. We’ll take Sports Arena Boulevard to West Mission Bay. It’s not much a detour.”

“Lots of traffic lights.”

“We’ll just have to risk running them. The delay won’t be too bad. And Montez isn’t in a big hurry.”

“Do we know that for sure?”

“Blowing a kiss good-bye seemed awfully cocky. I’m willing to bet he thinks he’s home free.”

Harv’s Mercedes screamed down the Rosecrans exit and ran the red light at Hancock Street. The light at Kurtz turned green before he got there. He ran several more lights along Sports Arena Boulevard. The street changed to West Mission Bay Drive once they passed under the I-8. The late hour allowed Harv to reach ninety miles per hour as they crossed over the San Diego River. At Sea World, he pushed the Mercedes to the limit of its traction as he navigated the tight loop that would keep them on West Mission Bay.

“We’re less than a minute away.”

“Good driving, Harv.”

“Can we see the marina from the road?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s make one pass. If we can see the yacht, the reverse is also true. We’ll cruise by slowly, but not too slowly. We’re just a late-night driver in no hurry to get home.”

Harv slowed as they approached the Bahia Hotel.

At a pedestrian crosswalk, Nathan looked over his right shoulder toward the marina. He saw it right away—a large motor yacht, just pulling away from the marina.

“Is that our yacht?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it. We’re too late again.”

“Where can he go? We can call the harbor patrol and have the boat intercepted. I’m pretty sure SDPD has jurisdiction over Mission Bay.”

Nathan reached down to remove his shoes. “Make a U-turn and pull into the Bahia’s parking lot.”

“You are not going to—”

“He’s not getting away this time.”

Harv made an illegal U-turn at Mission Boulevard. “Nate, this is crazy.”

Nathan didn’t respond.

“You’re recovering from a nasty concussion. This isn’t Tahiti. That water’s cold. And you’ll be out of communication. You can’t take your radio.”

He pulled the Predator knife from his ankle sheath. “This is all I need, but to make you happy, I’ll duct tape my Sig to my left calf. Don’t worry. I’ll shake the water out before I shoot anyone.”

“Well, that’s comforting. Do you realize how dangerous this is? That yacht’s got a huge screw. It’ll suck you down and chew you up like hamburger.”

“Not if I’m careful. I’ll grab the safety rail or the mooring cleat on the rear deck and tuck my legs up. I’ll be okay.”