Shackleton had a plan, but he knew it was by no means flawless. The outcomes hinged on how events transpired. He refused to allow Churpov to pull him down. And commandeering his boat had been the ultimate humiliation. All he could do now was be smart and play the odds.
Around five in the morning, he parked the Ducati in the lot at the marina. He shucked his bomber jacket, tucked it with his helmet into a carryall, and looked unremarkable in a T-shirt, KC Royals ball cap, and black jeans. Only the cowboy boots said he was a landlubber. He had to sign out the boat with the harbormaster on duty, and he bowed his head in cursory greeting to a couple of fishermen on the dock who were loading up their outboard for a day of trolling along the shoals.
He boarded the houseboat alone.
If he were
