Instinct by Nick Oldham Page B

was actually a man of few words, most of them usually short and to the point. Complimenting did not come naturally to him – unless he was trying his seduction techniques – but somehow Michelle’s radiant ambience had made him gibber like a jerk, he realized.
    He smiled simply at her and gave a shrug. He certainly wasn’t trying to seduce this woman, not just because she and Boone were an item, and Boone was an old foe-turned-friend, but because Boone would probably have killed him outright for chancing his arm. That kind of thought always made Flynn hesitate.
    Boone coughed. ‘OK guys, end of the BS.’
    â€˜I have a wonderful spicy chicken casserole for the evening meal,’ Michelle announced. ‘All breast,’ she added cheekily, ‘with sweet potatoes and ice-cold local beer.’
    â€˜Jul-Brew?’ Flynn asked. She nodded and his mouth watered at the prospect. He loved its taste. His stomach gurgled hungrily at the thought of a decent meal. He and Boone had grazed on sandwiches, crisps, cola and strong coffee all day on the boat and he was famished, his body yearning for proper food.
    But the rub was that however hungry you might be, or ill, or whatever, the boat came first. Flynn said, ‘I’m really hungry, but I’ll clean her and the equipment first if that’s OK?’ He jerked a thumb at Faye2 . ‘Then I’ll clean myself, too.’ He said to Boone, ‘Ray, you get on and I’ll do it. Be about an hour if that’s OK?’
    â€˜You sure, pal?’
    Flynn had spotted the exchange of lustful looks between Boone and Michelle. From Boone’s boasting, Flynn was fully aware of the full-on sexual nature of this relationship and Flynn guessed it would be a good move on his part to let the two of them get it out of their system before the evening meal.
    â€˜Certain.’
    Boone gave him that smug wink again. Flynn watched as the two lovers sloped away, draped around each other like teenagers, Boone with a hand firmly gripping one of Michelle’s buttocks. Flynn readjusted his cap again, smiled slightly enviously, then took the three strides back across on to Faye ’s deck.
    There was the accumulated debris of a long sea journey and then a six hour fishing trip for tarpon to clear up. Flynn liked to keep the boat spotless and was intensely proud of the way he cared for Faye2 and the fishing tackle, so he got to work.
    He hosed down the decks, vacuumed and dusted the small galley, lounge and stateroom. He cleaned the rods of any salt and fish debris, all of which took longer than an hour, by which time the sun had dropped in the sky, then dramatically hovered hugely over the horizon before disappearing. A hot, sultry night had fallen over the Gambia River.
    Flynn, sweating heavily, was desperate for that beer. Still, he took the time to grab a quick shower and shampoo, applied a manly underarm spray, then mosquito repellent, a wicked combination that he hoped would defeat even the most determined insect invader. He changed into his beloved Keith Richards T-shirt, a pair of three-quarter length pants and flip-flops. From the fridge he grabbed the box of chocolates he’d been keeping there. Then he ensured the gas bottles were tightly closed and the engine cut-off that he’d wired to a secret compartment under the tackle station was definitely in the ‘off’ position. As he extracted his hand from this hidden compartment, his fingers brushed against the Bushmaster .223 AR-15 Predator rifle also secreted in there. An additional piece of kit only he knew about, kept for purely defensive purposes, he would argue. Pirates and desperate refugees were a growing menace.
    Next he secured the boat and rechecked everything, because he knew theft was endemic around these parts. Lastly he set the alarm which, if breached, would scream loudly and deafeningly for twenty minutes. He stepped ashore clutching the chilled