Susan sat on the pier, dangling her legs over the edge. Her pants were soaked but her shirt was dry, because it wasn’t her shirt. The cargo truck’s driver had survived Bond’s attack and appeared inclined to be hostile when Susan had dragged herself out of the water. It had been necessary to kick him in strategic anatomical areas and club him with his own gun. He was out cold up by the truck with Susan’s wet shirt as a pillow. The driver’s shirt was too big for Susan, but at lea...
