Seth (In the Company of Snipers Book 17)

by Irish Winters

  The white-capped waves, now gray in the lessening fury of the storm, had settled into calmer swells that lifted the pontoon, rubbing it against the dock. The wind had ceased, and Mother Nature was calm again. Most of the black clouds had already scudded farther west, where they’d drop the rest of their rain in the Gulf of Mexico or maybe far off Texas.

  Finally, Seth secured all stray boxes and bags on deck with bungee cords, then covered everything with a gray tarp. To another boater, the pontoon boat looked loaded with supplies instead of weapons and ammo.

  Predictably, Cord commandeered the wheel and expertly engaged the pontoon’s motor without a single sputter. Uncle George had chosen well. This sturdy watercraft would get Seth and Cord into Cuba safely.

  With a heavy heart, Dev waited. At last ready to go, Seth glanced over his shoulder and winked up at her. She blew him a kiss, and that was that. He turned his face to the open sea, his nostrils flared and his chin up. Cord waved in that overly confident way that he had, and they were gone.

  Dev turned to the shack, rubbing her biceps to chase away the chill and the blues of once more being left behind. But damn, Uncle George’s boat had better be just as good at bringing her guys home as it was at taking them away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The bumpy ride to Isla de la Juventud at night jarred Seth’s nerves as much as Cord’s terse silence. He could still smell Devereaux on his fingers. His tongue still roamed his mouth, greedily searching out every last taste of her skin like an alcoholic laps up the last drop of Everclear. He hadn’t dared turn around once the pontoon started south. He never would’ve left her if he had.

  It wasn’t until the pontoon boat skirted the western most tip of the Island of Cuba and headed southwest to Isla de la Juventud that Cord broke loose on him. “You do know I’ll kill you if you hurt my sister, don’t you, McCray?”

  “You do know I don’t give a shit what you think?” Seth shot back, sick to death of Cord’s bullshit. “Seems like you don’t mind putting her in danger any time you show up. At least I haven’t done that.”

  Cord turned from the wheel to face him then, his brows narrowed. “She’s not in danger.”

  Seth took a step into Cord’s space. He hadn’t minded when the cocky shit took over the wheel like he thought he owned Uncle George’s boat, but enough was enough. “Then tell me, who rents the house she lives in? Who pays the bills?”

  “She does,” Cord spat, his face twisted with venom. “She works hard, you asshat, so don’t go making yourself comfortable in her bed or in her life. Trust me, she doesn’t need the grief.” His thumbed the center of that big chest of his. “I take care of her and—”

  “Bullshit! You’re the one putting her and her son at risk. Climb down off your self-serving hero worship for a change and think. If it’s her house, why are you dragging your business into it every time you need her help? Did you happen to notice her cupboards are bare after waiting on your rescues yesterday, or did you go shopping on her behalf when you woke up this morning and discovered she hadn’t come back? What’s left for her to feed her son tomorrow morning or the next day? Is she supposed to hop on over to the local IGA in the middle of the night for milk and Cheerios before Scottie wakes up?”

  “She’s. Fine.” Cord clipped out two very definite bullets that Seth didn’t waste time dodging. “I’ll make it up to her when I get back.”

  By that time the men were nose to nose. Seth didn’t want to fight Devereaux’s brother, so he sucked in a breath of patience, and stepped off. If only Cord had. Mistaking Seth’s reluctance for retreat, his fingers fisted. The minute he cocked that big arm and his bicep flexed, Seth landed a fast as lightning sucker-punch to his broad nose.

  Cord dropped to his knees with a mighty, “Shit!” Scrambling to his feet, he charged, knocking Seth against the mountain of supplies aft, his arms around Seth’s chest. “I said, stay the fuck away from my sister, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what?” Seth asked as he powder-kegged Cord, boxing both of his ears with his fists, hopefully, not shattering his eardrums.

  Cord was a bull of a man, but down he went again. He wheezed, his eyes watering plenty. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “From a Marine,” Seth growled, wiping the sweat from his brow. Thank you, Zack Lennox!

  Cord stayed on his hands and knees on the floor of the boat shaking his head and spitting. “Shit, man, you’re good.”

  “Guess all those workouts with Zack Lennox paid off then,” Seth growled at Cord, not trusting this blowhard for a moment. Marines fought dirty, and they never gave up. If you were dumb enough to believe them when they said they did, then you were dumb enough, and not likely to remember what happened by the time you woke the next day. If you woke up.

  Seth kept his distance and his footing, ready to strike the cocky son-of-a-bitch again if he had to.

  “I give,” Cord grumbled, his hand extended but his lying eyes on the floor.

  “Then drag your sorry ass to your feet and let’s get this night over with,” Seth ordered, not falling for that old I-need-a-hand-up ruse. Oh, hell no.

  Cord peered up at Seth then, his nose bloodied and his forehead dripping with sweat and humidity. “You’re all right, McCray.”

  “And you’re an ass,” Seth hissed. “Now back the hell off, cuz I swear, the next time you hit me’ll be your fuckin’ last.” Zack Lennox hint: ‘Never back down to a Devil Dog, not until you’ve whupped his ass enough that he respects you.’

  Cord dragged to his feet, wiping the blood off his chin and lips. “Damn, you got some fight in you after all.”

  “And another thing, I’m not staying clear of Devereaux,” Seth told him just to be clear.

  Cord cocked his big square head, his eyes as black and fierce as the night. “Then you’d better be good to her, McCray.”

  “I will,” Seth snapped, but then added, “I know you’re her brother, and I know you love her, but she needs out of this business of saving your ass every time you turn around, Cord. Give her a break. She’s Scottie’s mother, not yours.”

  Cord’s head snapped up at that. “You think I don’t know that, wise ass?”

  “Not the way you take her for granted, you don’t. For hell’s sake, Shepherd, move the fuck out of her house and grow up.”

  The muscles on Cord’s bulging shoulders flexed, and for a split second, Seth thought he’d charge like the bull-headed idiot he was. But then Cord huffed. His mouth twisted into a grimace as if he’d tasted something sour and couldn’t spit it out. “Damn it, that’s what I’m doing, aren’t I? You might be right, McCray. Well, I never...” He ran a hand over his bulging head, though the muscle housed in there wasn’t well used. “You might just be right.”

  “I am,” Seth told him. “Devereaux’s running on fumes and a prayer. Can’t you see that? She’s so quick to help you, but that means she’s always putting herself last. Tell me, who buys the supplies after your guests eat her out of house and home? Do you think all that cereal and bread in her cupboards just shows up like she’s got a Cheerios fairy?”

  “Dev’s smart. She saves coupons and she shops bargains,” Cord answered, but Seth had done what he’d meant to do. He’d given Cord a few things to think about, and if Cord were half the man Seth knew he was, the big guy would do right by his sister. “Jesus Christ. I do need a bigger place. One with more beds. Better beds. Dev’s crappy little apartment’s always so crowded and messy.”

  And that pissed Seth off. “Then clean it!” ripped out of him before he knew what he’d said.

  “You’re right. Guess Wonder and Sonic could—”

  “Not your guys. You.” Seth poked a finger into Cord’s chest, surprised that all that muscle really did feel like a brick shithouse. Not that it stopped him. “Devereaux’s also quick to clean up after your mess. It’s time you opened your eyes and your wallet and put her first for a change.”

  The first hint of mo
onlight broke through the cloudy sky, shining off Cord’s wide shoulders. “That’s not as easy as it sounds, McCray. There’s never enough money, but you’re right. I have been using Dev. Haven’t meant to, just grabbed onto the first thing that worked for me, and Dev’s always been there, and...” His voice trailed away as the whine of an approaching outboard motor sounded portside.

  Seth squinted into the darkness. Like the pontoon boat, the incoming watercraft displayed no running lights. “How far are we from Isla de la Juventud?”

  “Less than one click,” Cord replied, his voice hushed. “Grab a weapon, McCray. Let’s see if you’re as good with a rifle as you are with your big mouth.”

  Seth dropped to one knee, one of Uncle George’s VP Tactical pistols already snug in his palm. His Glock still rested in the back holster of his pants, but he’d always wanted one of these nine-millimeter babies. Now he had a box full of them. Their threaded barrels lasted longer and the polygonal bore on their barrels made for increased muzzle velocity, a straight-up damned good weapon to have in a firefight. But Jesus H. Christ, how’d Uncle George procure these weapons? It made a man wonder what else the old guy was into; if maybe he hadn’t dabbled in arms dealing as well as fighting human trafficking.

  “Shit, they’ve seen us,” Cord growled. “Keep your head down, McCray. They’re speeding up. We’re going to crash!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dev slipped her trusty boat alongside Molly’s dock just after midnight. If she timed it right, she’d have time to swing by the twenty-four-seven market on Sea Turtle Drive for a half-gallon of milk and a bag of Krispy Kreme Donuts on her walk home. Scottie loved the sweet glazed confections, and she couldn’t blame him. Sugar and fat were her best bad habits, too.

  After making certain her boat was secure, Dev shrugged out of her slicker and stowed it under the pilot’s seat, where it would keep until she went out in the boat again. It never hurt to be prepared. Tucking the keys and most of the lanyard into her shirt, she cradled the burlap bag with Gru wiggling and hissing inside, then set a quick pace for those donuts and home.

  Seth loved her; she’d seen it in his eyes before he and Cord had taken off for Cuba. Like no man yet in her life—and Cord didn’t count—Seth would come back to her. She was sure. Thinking about those strong arms of his around her, and the way he’d smelled when she’d first kissed him, of whiskey, the color of his eyes, put a bounce in her step. Life was going to be good again. She knew that, too.

  Until she rounded the corner, where Molly’s wooden dock joined with the city’s concrete sidewalk. Sly Valentine stood leaning under the streetlight there, his arms crossed over his chest, and… Lookee there. His right hand’s sporting a bright, white gauze bandage. Poor asshole must’ve hurt himself trying to kill an iguana.

  “Knew you’d be back ’bout now,” he said, pushing his dark glasses down his nose with his index finger, though why he needed those sunglasses at night was worrisome. Dev had always assumed he was a dealer, but did he use, too?

  Tugging the burlap bag under her chin, Dev stuck her chin at Sly even as the hairs on the back of her neck lifted. “Gru’s alive, you ass. You didn’t kill him like you thought you did, so let me pass.” If she could only suppress the nervous quaver in her voice, she’d sound a lot tougher.

  “Just here to walk you home, Baby Doll,” he drawled. Dressed in black denim pants, a black t-shirt, and a denim jacket, he’d tied his hair in a queue, but Sly still looked the same. Slick. Twisted. Guilty.

  Dev edged around him with poor Gru struggling against his confinement. “Stop it. I don’t have time for this, and you know it. I have to get home.”

  “But Baby Do—”

  “I said stop!” she hissed. Sly had never laid a hand on her, but the velvet insinuation in his voice creeped her out, especially now, in the dead of night when most people were home and traffic was light. Despite continually setting him straight, he’d always acted as if he’d owned her. Dev’s heart kicked into overdrive as Gru wiggled again, as if he sensed the jerk who’d tried to kill him stood nearby. “I have to get some milk on the way home,” she blurted, frightened now and ready to run.

  Gallantly, Sly bowed and gestured her forward. “Be my guest. It’s late. I’ll escort you to… where? Figarino’s good enough for you?”

  “Y-yes,” she muttered. “That’s where I was g-going anyway.”

  Shrugging out of his jacket, he swept it over her shoulders before she knew what he’d done. “Nights get chilly this time of year, especially after the storm we just had.” He tugged the collar up her neck and situated the shoulders over hers, so it wouldn’t slip. “Don’t want you catching cold.”

  Dev cringed, the weight and smell of that denim, cigarette smoke and sweat unbearable. Wrapped up in Sly was the last place she wanted to be.

  “Don’t,” she growled, fear driving her now. Figarino’s was two blocks away, her safe little bungalow another three after that. “I’ll… I’ll be fine on my own and tomorrow, I’ll return your jacket. Now, take off and leave me alone.”

  “’S no problem,” he murmured, his voice husky and deeper than usual.

  Shivers skittered up Dev’s spine. There was no way out of this creepy walk home. She set her eyes on the sidewalk and started walking as quickly as she could. Better to get this over with fast. Maybe she’d be safe once she got into Figarino’s. Maybe one of Key West’s police officers would be there for his nightly caffeine and a Krispy Kreme. Maybe she could accidentally on purpose bump into him, spill that coffee, and convince him that she had a stalker on her six. ‘Please, yes,’ she prayed.

  Sly’s heavy hand cupped her shoulder. “Where’s the guy who’s been hanging around you?”

  “He’ll catch up any moment,” she lied, casting a quick glance over her shoulder. I wish!

  Sly chuckled, more of a growl than a laugh. “Well, good,” he purred, drawing out the good. “I’d like another chance at him. What’d you say his name was?”

  “Seth, Seth McCray. He’s George McCray’s—”

  “Shit. That explains a lot.” Sly’s palm gripped her shoulder tight, forcing her feet to stop moving. “Where is he? I know he wasn’t on that thing you call a boat. He’s gone after the prince, hasn’t he?”

  She forced a laugh, though it sounded more as if she was choking. “P-prince? Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “Knock it off!” Sly ripped the bag from her arms and flung Gru aside. “You ought to get out more. Play poker with the big boys. You can’t bluff worth shit.”

  Her poor baby had landed with a thump in the rain-filled gutter. “No!” she cried, reaching for the iguana. “Not again! I can’t, I won’t lose him again!”

  “And I can’t afford to lose you,” Sly growled as he jerked her off her feet, his arm around her waist. “You know too much, Dev, now shut the fuck up!”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you! No!” she screamed, kicked and bucked, fighting for her life. Scottie and Gru needed her. Seth and Cord, too. She couldn’t let this happen. Whatever Sly had planned, she had to fight until—

  A black limousine with its headlights turned off pulled to the curb, its windows dark, narrowly missing where Gru struggled to get out of the bag.

  “Stop, Sly! At least let me let Gru out. He’ll die in that bag.” Beads of rain dripped over her panicked reflection in the shiny gloss coat of the limo, now parked directly in front of her.

  “Shut up,” Sly growled, one hand at her throat, “or this’ll get worse.”

  “Get your slimy hands off!” One warning was all she gave him as she tipped her head back and let out the loudest scream she could muster. Then another! She turned her mouth and lungs into an air raid siren—

  “Looks like you have your hands full,” another male with a definite Mideastern accent called out from the vehicle.

  Dev stopped screaming then, hoping against hope that this guy would help her, and buying time for one of those Key
West officers to drive by, catch Sly in the act, and arrest the creep.

  The olive-skinned stranger lifted to his feet from the backseat of the limousine. Of course, he had money and a chauffeur. “Put her down, Mr. Valentine. Please. Introduce me.”

  A shiver rattled up her spine. This man might look handsome and his black eyes might sparkle, but there was something sinister to him. Oh. My. Hell. He’s Lianna’s husband, the man who’d tortured her fingers, that Bagani fellow. Dev still burned to know exactly what had happened to Lianna. Now, she just might find out.

  Dressed in an immaculate, gray linen suit, white shirt, and black tie, Prince Bagani stood there on the sidewalk, fiddling with what looked to be pure gold cufflinks at his wrists. Tall, slender, and a definite man of the world, he flashed straight white teeth beneath a perfectly trimmed mustache. It wasn’t as heartbreaking a smile as Seth’s, when he’d finally smiled, but it was a smile. Kind of smirky. Kind of suave. Kind of—not.

  This guy’s eyes were dark, rimmed with either kohl liner or the thickest, blackest lashes she’d ever seen. Man, he had debonair down to a fine art, the way he’d enunciated his request in perfect King’s English. But he was no Englishman, not if the seal engraved in lovely Arabic script on the gold ring on his finger meant what Dev suspected.

  As if he’d read her mind, Bagani swept one arm to his waist and performed a small bow just as Sly muttered, “Your Highness, Prince Basheer Bagani, meet Devereaux Shepherd, the girl I’ve been telling you about. Dev, the Prince who’s going to make you wish you’d been smart and worked for me.”

  Prince Bagani tilted his head. The corners of his lips curled with the most evil smile. Even his mustache seemed delighted to see her.

  Dev screamed into the chilly dark night. But this time, no one came to her rescue.