“I say we untie, start the engines, and get the fuck out of here.”
“Roger that,” Bran agreed, pushing to his feet just as movement at the back of the boat near the ramp where the Coasties launched their rescue dinghy caught his attention. “Behind you!” he yelled, grabbing for the M4 strapped to his back.
A sound around the corner of the bridge house told him he didn’t have time to get his weapon in the ready position. Mason bellied out and opened up on the two men sneaking aboard the back of the boat at the same time Bran spun and slapped the barrel of a SCAR-L away from his head just as it peeked around the corner and aimed. The metal was cold and wet against the side of his hand, and the rifle hit the deck with a clatter before skidding toward the railing.
Bran barely had time to brace himself before his would-be assassin let loose with a bloodcurdling scream and launched himself. The two of them slammed onto the deck in a tangle of arms and legs as the sound of two rounds zzzzzipped through the air beside them.
As Mason laid down a covering fire, keeping the assailants at the back of the boat pinned, Bran fought to gain the upper hand with all the rage and fury inside him. Still rolling across the deck, he yanked his knife from the sheath around his calf. With a grunt and twist, he was able to end up atop his attacker. He didn’t hesitate. He plunged the blade straight toward the merc’s heart, but the man grabbed his wrist at the last moment and stayed the deathblow.
“Who are you guys?” the mercenary gritted as they both struggled to control the direction of the blade.
It’s the dude with the Southern accent. Bran would recognize that voice anywhere.
“I’m the last guy you’ll ever see,” he snarled, putting his full weight against the hilt of the blade, ignoring the ache in his thigh. The local anesthetic the medic—the now dead medic—had given him was wearing off. “Brought to you courtesy of the United States Navy.”
“Please,” Southern Accent begged, his eyes wide and frightened inside the holes of the balaclava he still wore. “You wouldn’t kill a brother in arms, would you? I was Navy too.”
The tip of Bran’s knife pierced the merc’s flesh. Tears welled in the villain’s eyes. “You’re no brother of mine.” The monster was alive inside Bran. It yelled for blood. For death. For vengeance in the name of the brave Coast Guardsman who was dead on the deck not two feet away. “You sold your soul to the devil, dickhole. And I’m here to collect.”
With that, Bran twisted slightly to the merc’s left, toward the man’s nondominant hand, and was rewarded when his blade cut deeper. Deeper still. The mercenary tried to buck him off, tried to twist away, but it was no use. Bran’s knife slipped between the man’s ribs and pierced his black heart, blood bubbling around the blade, the sound of the mercenary’s scream slicing through the humid air before quieting to an open-mouthed wheeze.
Bran didn’t wait for the light to dim in the merc’s eyes before jumping to help Mason, swinging his M4 over his head. But Mason didn’t need his help. He’d already taken out the men who’d tried to board the vessel. Well…one of them anyway. The other was crawling across the deck, leaving a bloody path like a slug’s trail in his wake.
Mason walked up behind him, M4 trained, and yelled, “Stay where you are, motherfucker!”
The man flipped onto his back, revealing the pistol in his hands. But he didn’t have time to squeeze off a round before Mason drilled one right between his eyes at the same time Bran squeezed his trigger, his round hitting the merc center mass.
Mason looked down at the blood oozing up through the man’s wet-suit-clad chest and twisted his lips. “Thanks for the assist.” He glanced over his shoulder at Bran. “But I had that one.”
Bran shrugged and cocked his ears, straining to hear the sound of more swimmers in the water, or more men trying to slip stealthily aboard the cutter. But nothing breached the stillness except for the gentle lapping of the waves and the soft thump-thump of the boats rocking together.
The seconds ticked by. His breath held. And just when he thought it might be over, a voice split the odd peace of the night, sending an icy chill skittering down his spine.
“Madison Powers! Come out right now, and no one else has to die!”
* * *
1:15 a.m.…
“Mmm! Mmmm!” Gene grunted behind the length of duct tape covering his mouth. He struggled against his restraints and Tony’s death grip. For such a wiry old fart he was amazingly strong. Luckily Tony had three inches and thirty pounds on him, so he was able to muscle Gene closer to the rail of the yacht’s back deck without losing his hold.
“Shut up, Gene!” he snarled, pressing the pistol tighter against Gene’s temple and making sure to keep Gene in front of him.
Fifteen minutes…
Rory would arrive to implement Plan D in minutes.
Plan C had been for Tony to call in a Mayday. Once the Coast Guard cutter arrived to provide aid, the six armed men Rory had deposited on the yacht and in the surrounding waters would take out the Guardsmen and the two mystery men while Tony remained belowdecks with Gene. Then Rory’s guys would retrieve the bodies, grab Maddy and the girls, sink the cutter to destroy any evidence that might remain, and proceed with the original ransom scheme.
It was risky as hell. But Rory had assured Tony this plan would be a slam dunk.
Some slam dunk.
As far as Tony could figure from the number of bodies littering the decks or floating in the sea around the two boats, all of Rory’s men were either dead or dying.
This newest plan was devised during the quick, desperate phone call Tony had made when he realized their third attempt to secure Maddy and the teenagers and take back the bodies was going to hell in a handbasket. He had called for Rory to sail over as quickly as he could with the two men he’d kept with him as well as the two rocket launchers he had onboard.
“Stall them!” Rory’s voice had shouted through the satellite phone’s receiver, the sound of the trawler’s engines loud in the background but not nearly as loud as the Coast Guard’s mammoth machine gun as it set about chewing away chunks of the anchored yacht.
“And how would you suggest I do that?” Tony had screeched, cowering beside the bed in the main cabin, his ears ringing from the sound of the big gun. He reached for the bottle of scotch he’d brought down with him. Twisting off the cap, he took a healthy slug. The liquor burned his throat and belly, but he appreciated the heat. It told him he was still alive.
How much longer will that last?
“Grab Gene and drag him out on the deck,” Rory said. “Act like you’re holding him hostage. Pretend to ransom his life for the money you need.”
“But Maddy will see. She’ll know that I—”
Rory kept talking right over him. “They’ll hold their fire, and that’ll give me time to get there and blow them out of the water. Consign them to the devil and the deep blue sea.”
“Blow them out of the water? But Maddy—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rory said, his tone ice cold.
A shiver of dread rippled over Tony’s skin, raising the hairs on his body. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Tony,” Rory spat, yelling something over his shoulder at one of his guys before turning back to the phone. “It’s over. You need to forget about the damned ransom money and start thinking about a quick cleanup that’ll leave no trace and no witnesses who might lead back to us.”
Shit! He knew Rory was right, but it was impossible to accept. This was supposed to have been easy, a piece of cake. A quick snatch-and-grab. A fast ransom, and voilà, the company he and Gene had started would once again have full coffers, and once all the new ventures were up and running, Tony would get his just reward. Namely, money. Boatloads of it. We’re talking Rockefeller wealth.
He racked his brain for a way to turn it all around, to get back on track. But the scotch was mu
ddling his mind. Either that, or the truth was there was no way to get back on track. It’s over. I’m ruined! And all because of those two mysterious assholes!
He’d wanted to scream. He’d wanted to kick. He’d wanted to kill. But the only thing he could do was acquiesce to Rory’s final solution, grab Gene, and head out on deck.
“Maddy Powers!” he called now. It was the third time he’d repeated the words since towing Gene topside. “Come out and see who I have with me!”
Chapter 25
1:16 a.m.…
“Don’t go,” Alex pleaded, grabbing Maddy’s arm when she reached for the door handle.
Maddy glanced back to find Alex’s gaze beseeching. Rick wore the same expression. For that matter, so did the three teens peeking over the wall of mattresses.
It’s not like I want to go, she thought. What she said was “I have to.” Her knees and hands and stomach were quivering. And the only good thing she could say about the latter was that she could now affirm with one-hundred-percent certainty that the corned beef had finally digested. If it hadn’t, it would be all over the floor of the crew’s quarters. “What if whoever is up there is talkin’ about Bran or Mason when he says no one else has to die?” she asked.
Alex pushed up her glasses and swung the strap of the machine gun over her shoulder. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No. Stay with the girls.” Maddy turned to include Rick. “Both of you.”
Before they could argue—no time for that—Maddy pulled open the door, leading with the barrel of the weapon in her hands because she hadn’t the first clue who or what might be waiting for her on the other side.
A pitiful mewling sound, like that of an abandoned kitten, burst from her when she saw Bran was waiting for her. Big, bad, still-breathing Bran.
She launched herself at him, overcome with joy, with gratitude—thank you, Lord!—that none of those bullets that had sounded overhead had found a home in him.
“Whoa.” He snatched the machine gun away from her. It was a good thing, because she didn’t know how she’d have managed to tighten her hands around his neck otherwise. She pressed her lips to his throat just so she could feel the steady beat of his heart.
“Y’okay?” he whispered in her ear. And she allowed herself three glorious seconds to close her eyes and simply feel him against her. Then she pushed back to glare at him.
“Am I okay? I’m not the one who’s been in the middle of another firefight and—” She stopped when she saw the blood spattered on his chest and the big, ugly stains on his shorts. “Holy shit, Bran!”
“It’s not my blood.”
Before Maddy could respond, Alex’s voice, thickened by fear, sounded from behind her. “Mason?”
“Was fine when I left him to come down here,” Bran assured her with a quick bob of his chin. “But I can’t say the same for the Coast Guardsmen.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Alex blew out a wheezing breath, doubling over from the relief. Then she straightened and winced. “I meant about Mason. I-I’m really sorry about the—” She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“How many didn’t make it?” Maddy asked, sending up a prayer for those lost. Simultaneously, she cursed those responsible straight to the bowels of hell.
“Can’t say for sure,” Bran told her, his jaw sawing. “I think all but two.”
Before Maddy could fully digest the horror of that, the voice from above sounded again. “Madison Powers!”
“Who is that?” she whispered. And on the subject of bowels, hers threatened to loosen every time the man screamed her name.
“Hell if I know.” Bran tossed the strap of her machine gun over his shoulder. “I only got a peek at him before coming down here. Thirty-five years old. Sorta slick-looking. He’s holding an older man in a pearl-snap shirt and Wranglers hostage.”
A pearl-snap shirt and Wranglers? Dread started at Maddy’s toes and filled her until she was pretty sure she felt it leaking from her ears.
“Well, I reckon we better go find out what he wants, yeah?” she said, impressed with how steady her voice sounded.
Bran hesitated for a second, the look in his eye saying the last thing he wanted to do was to take her above deck. Then he puffed out a ragged breath and glanced over her shoulder at Alex and Rick. “You two stay here and guard the girls.” Great minds. “This ain’t over.” Gulp.
“Be careful.” Alex grabbed Maddy’s arm again, giving it a squeeze. Her grip was strong, but her palm was clammy, her fingers shaking. “And if you see Mason, tell him to be careful too.”
Maddy searched her eyes, seeing in them a whole host of familiar thoughts and feelings. “You got it,” she assured Alex, giving her hand a squeeze before following Bran down the narrow hall and up the stairs to the bridge house.
The dread that had filled her was now something darker, a thick, murky foreboding. She wasn’t going to like what she saw, who she saw, on that yacht. She knew it.
Bran stopped at the door to the bridge house when he heard the captain’s voice. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! I have men down! I’m requesting assistance at the following coordinates and—”
Bran pushed open the door, and Maddy peeked around him to find the captain sitting on the floor, his back to the console, a satellite phone in one hand, a pistol in the other.
The pistol was aimed right at Bran’s heart.
Maddy nearly fainted.
“Careful, Captain,” Bran said easily, ducking into the room and dragging her down so their heads weren’t visible in the windows.
“What the hell is happening?” Webber demanded. “Who the hell—”
“You know as much as we do,” Bran said, cutting him off. “Now where’s your other man? Mason is down on deck guarding this whole ship by himself, and I know he’d appreciate some backup.”
“Backup?” the captain asked hysterically. His eyes were wide and unblinking. “All my men are dead.”
“All of ’em?”
“See for yourself.” The captain waved a hand at the bay of windows. “I count three on the yacht and two more on the deck below. My whole damned crew!”
From her spot crouched by the door, Maddy couldn’t see the carnage he was talking about. And she was glad for it.
“Fungule!” Bran cursed, scooting over to the row of windows and tapping on the glass. He flashed a hand sign Maddy assumed was meant for Mason down below. The gist of the gesture, she reckoned, was something along the lines of You’re on your own.
“Last chance, Madison Powers!” the man on the yacht called again, and his voice pierced her eardrums like an ice pick.
“Steady,” Bran said when he saw her startle. He motioned for her to follow him across the bridge to the line of windows facing the yacht. “Stay on your knees and peek above the sill ’til you can see ’em.”
I don’t want to see them. I just want to crawl into a cabin down below and forget any of this ever happened.
But her daddy hadn’t raised a coward. So with a firm chin and a quaking stomach, she did as instructed. At first sight of the men, she gasped, her vision tunneling as shock and confusion washed over her like a tidal wave.
“I take it you know ’em.”
“Yes.” She nodded, unable to believe her eyes. “The one with the gun is Tony Scott. And the man he’s holdin’ hostage is my uncle.”
* * *
1:19 a.m.…
“Uncle Gene!” Maddy called through the window Bran opened to allow himself a clean shot, should he need to take one. “A-are you okay?”
Her uncle tilted his head back and scanned the windows of the bridge house. Bran knew the instant the man spotted his niece because his eyes filled with tears and his handlebar mustache quivered around the duct tape pasted over his mouth. Bran wasn’t convinced her uncle was nodding so much as trying to get away from the pistol pointed at his t
emple. But Maddy took the motion as an affirmative.
She made a little sound of relief and tightened her grip around the lip of the windowsill until her knuckles showed white through her skin. Bran longed to go to her, but his need to maintain his firing position stopped him.
“Give me a quick rundown on what the relationship is here,” he commanded. Did he need to take out Mr. Slick, a.k.a Tony? Or should he hold his fire?
“Gene is my father’s younger brother,” she explained in a whisper. “He and Dad started Powers Petroleum together, but Gene’s always been more an idea man than a businessman. He’s real good at beginnin’ things. Not so good at finishin’ them. After a year, he got bored, cashed out, and used the proceeds to start up somethin’ new. He’s been doin’ that for thirty years. Birthin’ new companies and sellin’ them off if they’re profitable. Declarin’ bankruptcy if they’re not.” Her lips twisted with disapproval at this last bit. Despite that, Bran could see her love for her uncle shining in her eyes.
“Three years ago he met Tony, who was workin’ as a mid-level executive at BP.” He assumed she meant British Petroleum. “The two of them concocted a scheme to use Tony’s contacts in the business and Uncle Gene’s family name to start an oil company specializin’ in new and risky means of extracting oil from previously untapped sources like shale grounds, tar sands, and ultra-deep rigs.”
“They’re partners?” Bran asked, scrutinizing the two men.
Maddy nodded.
“So what’s he doing holding your uncle hostage then?” Bran demanded.
“Let’s find out,” she muttered more to herself than to him. Raising her voice, she cried, “What do you want, Tony?” She pushed up slightly, trying to get a better view of the men.
A sense of warning crawled over the back of Bran’s neck like a millipede. “Stay low,” he commanded. “Low, Maddy.” He scanned the interior cabin of the motor yacht through his scope. Or at least what he could see of it through the tinted windows. He didn’t like anything about this situation. He didn’t like that Mason was alone out there. He certainly didn’t like that he had no idea if there were any mercs left.
Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six) Page 27
