As in:
Ben didn’t know what to say. It was an easier stretch of misery, and a less hopeless waste of time, when he’d held intact the idea that Solly was a very rich fool with too big a boat and too much food and drink on board.
But there was real menace in Solly’s voice when he lectured Ben about the rules being over the horizon. Ben walked to the stern to think about it, staring back at the water show of the wake and the vanishing shoreline now fifteen miles behind them.
When he finally turned he saw Solly at the rail and one of the young deck hands next to him, cradling a shotgun, pointing it at Ben.
“Ah shit,” he thought to himself. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
“You get to choose,” Solly said. “Reme will blow your head off, or you can swim for it.”
Ben glared at Solly to see what his eyes could penetrate, to see how serious he was in his proposition.
“Why would you do this?” he asked.
“We don’t like you and we don’t want you on board,” Solly said.
“We?”
“Me especially,” Solly said.
“I don’t swim well,” Ben said.
“That’s too bad,” Solly said, “because when Reme shoots you it’s going to make quite a mess of the boat. We’d really rather you swim.”
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