The Gentlemen's Hour

169

Boone pulls into the little parking lot.

Hard to find a spot, because the boys are really out.

Or not quite—most are still on the beach, getting ready to hit the water. Ten or twelve guys, Boone estimates, all of them white.

One of them is Mike Boyd.

Boone gets out of the van, walks up to him, and says, “You’re gone.”

“What?”

“You filled those stupid kids with your garbage,” Boone says, “and pumped them full of your shit, and you’re guiltier than any of them. I don’t want you in my ocean or on my beach—here or anywhere, anytime. I don’t want you in my world. You and all your buddies, you’re gone.”

Boyd smirks, looks behind him at his crew, and then says, “You’re going to throw us all out, Daniels? Just you? You’re believing your own legend there, dude.”

“I’m going to start with you, Mike,” Boone says. “Then I’m going to work my way through the rest of them.”

Boyd laughs. “Check yourself, Daniels. You’re a fucking mess. You won’t last five seconds against me, never mind the rest of the boys. Walk away while I still let you. You know what? Better yet, don’t. Stay right where you are so we can stomp the shit out of you.”

His crew has gathered around him, eager to back him up.

No compunction.

Boyd smiles at Boone again, then the smile disappears from his face and his eyes widen as he focuses over Boone’s shoulder at:

Dave, Johnny, High Tide, Hang Twelve, Petra, even Cheerful.

The Dawn Patrol.