“Here’s the scoop—it’s a luxury yacht with all the amenities,” he says. “Four decks, one hundred and eighty feet, six state rooms, two with balconies. Shit cost him forty million two years ago.” I’m not surprised Cash knows all that about the mothership. He’s a bloodhound for details. He probably had the ship’s schematics on hand long before tonight. If I wasn’t still trying like hell to forget our botched rescue, I’d have known it, too. I told myself forgetting was the best way to get over Bali. Cash, he never tried to get over it, not for a day since we returned. He was dead set on getting
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