Rafael grabbed the tiny remote from the table to his left and turned the PSP off.

"Hey!" Jeff snapped, looking up. "I was on level four and I didn't save it."

"Screw level four. I need you to get out of here, pronto."

"And go where?"

"My boat in the marina."

Jeff curled his lip in distaste. "And do what?"

"Live through the night, which is more than you're going to get to do if you don't stop lipping off. Now get up and get started. I've bought you some time, kid, but it's finite. You have to go lie low for a week."

While Jeff made juvenile noises of discontent, Rafael's attention fell to his laptop, which was on the table at Jeff's feet—that should do to keep him occupied and out of trouble.

At least until the poor bastard published something again.

Picking the laptop up, Rafael handed it off to Jeff. "Go write your great American novel, but for God's sake, do what everyone else does and make the whole story up."

Jeff grimaced at him. "You know I get seasick."

"You'll survive seasickness. Lead poisoning's another matter. There's enough staples and such on board that you should be fine. Keep your ass below deck and if you so much as look at the helm, I'll cut your head off myself. You're not to go joyriding or anything else on my boat—it really is worth more to me than your life. Do not leave the lower deck under any circumstances barring fire, and whatever you do, keep a bucket nearby and don't puke on anything."

Jeff screwed his face up as if that were the most sickening thought he'd ever had. "But I want to stay here."

"And people in hell want ice water and if you don't go to the boat, you'll probably be able to take it to them in person in about twenty minutes. Get out, Jeff. Now."