It lasts all of five minutes. Then Sam yells, 'pull over pull over fuck!' and Jake is using his mobile trying to act like he's talking on it and pulled over for that reason, not because Sam is projectile puking out of the side of the car. He's about to give up that illusion when something like ten police cars come screaming by.
He hits the radio.
"...casualties in a domestic dispute, resulting in a standoff with police. The suspect is armed with a rifle..."
"Oh, fuck me," he says, remembering the display case with the rifle in it. "Fuck me."
He kicks the dashboard hard, it's all coming apart, and the glovebox falls open and fuck if just maybe Sharon might have thought about helping them before she got the better of herself. Their passports are there, plus there's a big envelope in it with a lot of quid.
"Fuck me," he says, and Sam is wiping his mouth.
"Fuck me," he repeats, sweating. They'll be tracking the licenseplate of the car any minute now.
He runs around to the side, hopping over Sam's puke, and thank god it poured the rain, checks to see if there's cars coming, scoops up the muddy ground and tosses it all over the car, frantic, almost to the point where it barely looks like a VW.
"What the fuck are you doing," says Sam, finally starting to get over the sickness, though it's pretty obvious he's in the clouds.
Jake has the address, ten miles, it's the middle of the day on a Monday so they should be mostly alone, and he starts to GPS it before it occurs to him the damn thing is a homing beacon so he rips it out, smashing it. He knows more or less what direction to go and just guns it, right into a bunch of thick shrubbery, but then there's a dirt road and open sky. He's done damage, that's for sure, like six lights on the instrument panel are telling him to stop, pretty sure he wiped out the oil pan at least. But there's only a few miles to the docks their 'friend' Peter, who's prolly lying in his own blood atm, told them about, and under pressure of a few dozen vodkas with Sam, they know where the key is hidden.
Sam is laughing, he can't stop, and it's starting to piss Jake off. There's no one around, just a few sad boats and their target, a boat maybe forty feet long give or take.
"You know how to sail?" asks Sam, drooling a bit and laughing again.
"Of course," lies Jake, who has only been on a boat once, on a pond, and got so sick he puked himself. It's now or never, though, and he isn't being patient, he grabs the wad of cash and the passports and stuffs them into a bag with all the pills they stole and takes the jack from the trunk and drops it onto the accelerator and slips the car into drive and the Phaeton takes off like a rocket, bouncing off a pier before flipping over and disappearing into the sea.
Nothing like shutting down options, he thinks, but there's no time to think, and Sam is useless.
Fuck this bad planning. He struggles to pick Sam up, and fuck, stop laughing, dammit, tossing him into the cabin of the boat.
To be stopped by a knot is embarassing, but he's just staring at it, now, trying to figure out how the hell someone tied this thing up. Finally he figures it out and is a bit shocked when the boat seems to get a mind of its own and starts to peel away, he leaps at it, just barely catching it while losing a tooth, clawing his way onto it. A sail swarps overhead, almost knocking him out, and for a minute he just tries to hold it the right way before realizing he can control it from from a lever.
"Fuck, fuck," Jake says. This isn't how things go for Jake. He's supposed to know this shit well before it happens, and he's sweating like crazy, now he's sort of figured it out but the boat is getting tossed up and down and he has to puke over the side.
The port is way back there behind them, disappearing now, a speck, and nothing in front, and he's got it trained to west-southwest, by the compass at least it should be aiming that way. The chop calms, then, and the sail stretches its legs and now it's moving fast, where, he isn't sure, just away.
He stops and wipes the sweat off his face, the sun burning him but he doesn't care, it's just fresh air and salted spray and he drags Sam off the cabin floor to experience it.
He strips off his T-shirt and then all of it, and Sam looks at him with a strange expression, starting to realize that he's on a boat in the middle of the ocean and Jake is acting a little insane.
For once, Jake has just realized, he has no control over any of it, and it's the best feeling he's ever had.