Who brought a knife to a gunfight?
Frank Knight, that’s who.
***
Frank figured he was going to need a body bag—triple XL—when Becky’s fingers covertly reached into the back of his gear belt, silently withdrawing the deadly length of his KA-BAR. With the three of them crowded up against each other, front to back, Sharif couldn’t see that she was in the process of stealthily removing his knife from its sheath at his back and transferring it into the front pocket of her shorts.
Oh man, Rebecca. That’s a supremely bad idea!
But there was nothing he could do or say as Sharif commanded, “Hands over your head!”
Yeah, yeah. You’re in charge, you fucking fancy-talking pirate.
He gritted his teeth as he reached for the ceiling. His trick shoulder had been whimpering ever since he’d Spider-Manned it up the side of the ship in order to reach their access point. Now that he was holding it above his head? Man, it was flat out shrieking.
Of course, that was the least of his worries considering ol’ Sharif was equipped with fifteen rounds of lead death while Rebel Reichert had just armed herself with seven inches of carbon steel.
“Now move to the right, over into that corner,” Sharif demanded, and Frank had no choice but to obey. He took six steps to his right, wedging himself into a tight space between the bulkhead and a piece of machinery with about a zillion switches that gouged into his side like sharp, bony fingers.
“Don’t turn around!” Sharif screeched when he started to do just that. “Keep facing the wall.”
Becky yelped at something Sharif did to her and Frank growled, the sound low and menacing as he rhythmically clenched his hands above his head. The muscles in his arms coiled and uncoiled, coiled and uncoiled.
Grinding his jaw hard enough to pulverize his teeth to dust, he listened intently as the two of them shuffled over to where he’d kicked the M4 and his reserve. The automatic made a familiar clacking sound as Sharif swung it over his shoulder and the .45 shushed as the fancy pirate shoved it into the waistband of his shorts.
“Now I’m going to count to ten,” Sharif explained quickly, panting slightly.
The guy was panicking.
Not good. Not fucking good at all.
Panic could easily make a man forget just how much pressure he was applying with his trigger finger.
And the thought of losing Becky like that—
No. He couldn’t even contemplate it without having to suppress the urge to throw up. And right now he didn’t have that luxury. He needed all his senses and wits about him if he was going to get them both out of this clusterfuck of a situation alive.
“If you so much as twitch before I finish,” Sharif sneered, “I’ll splatter her brains all over this engine room!”
And there you go. His worst nightmare put into words. He screwed his eyes shut and prayed to God Becky wouldn’t do anything stupid. The woman had more guts than most men twice her size, and he respected the shit out of her for it, but she didn’t have the reflexes or the training needed to get out of this situation unscathed. Sharif had three weapons to her one, which meant the guy had all the advantages. He only hoped she realized this and acted accordingly.
“One, two…” As Sharif started his countdown, Frank’s heart double-timed it, pounding in his ears so loudly it was difficult to hear the man’s voice as he moved Becky toward the exit. “…five, six…” The sound echoed dully, and he slowed his breathing, visualized his next move. “…eight…” His muscles coiled one last time. “…nine…” The Pentagon Elite II blade strapped to his chest was a comforting weight. “…ten.”
In a lightning-fast series of fluid movements, he burst from the cramped corner, reached under his web gear, unfolded the knife from its Kevlar-reinforced handle with a satisfying snick, caught sight of Sharif’s dark head above Becky’s blond one, and sent the stainless steel blade zinging through the air.
A split second before the knife would have embedded itself between Sharif’s villainous eyes, the guy slammed shut the airlock door. The blade bounced off the reinforced glass porthole at the top of the hatchway with a loud clink, but inside the engine room the sound was drowned out by his enraged roar.
Becky…no!
***
“Everybody back to the bridge!”
Eve was milling around the deck with the rest of the Hamilton’s thirty-some-odd crew members, still trying to absorb the astonishing fact that less than ten minutes ago she’d been liberated by a group of three dripping-wet, black-clad men who’d suddenly appeared like phantoms from out of the darkness of the night. They’d managed to disarm or otherwise incapacitate each and every one of the pirates.
And all in about six seconds.
It’d been a sight to see, that was for sure. Catlike reflexes and precisely choreographed movements. The pirates hadn’t known what hit them.
Eve didn’t know what’d hit her.
Because Becky hadn’t been suffering from insanity brought on by heatstroke. He was here…
Billy Reichert was right in front of her, and he certainly wasn’t a mere motorcycle mechanic. Heavens, no. He looked more like the real-life version of Jason Bourne or Ethan Hunt. And he was yelling for everyone to return to the stifling bridge where the pirates had been holding them, shoving those people who didn’t move quickly enough to suit him. He was…well, he was not what she remembered at all.
“You too, Eve.” He barely looked at her, but even his brief glance was enough show his eyes, those chocolaty brown eyes she’d fallen in love with as a girl, were no longer soft and warm. The light shining through them was fierce, almost feral, like a wild animal.
Geez Louise.
A shiver raced down her spine despite the heat of the night. She’d never been afraid of Billy, not all those years ago when he’d been a bad boy from the wrong side of town. But looking at the hard set of his jaw, at the barely leashed power in the bulging muscles of his shoulders, it occurred to her that the tender boy she’d known was gone, replaced by this hard, callous man…this dangerous man.
“Why?” she asked as she tried to still the pounding of her heart. “What’s happening?”
“Becky’s in trouble,” he said, hustling her across the deck. “The guy who was guarding her is missing.”
Eve opened her mouth but didn’t manage to utter a word as Becky’s terrified voice broke through the confusion on deck. “Billy!”
Eve turned, along with the rest of the crowd shoving to get in the door leading to the Hamilton’s bridge, and her stomach sunk to her toes. The muttering of the group sputtered to a halt as everyone slowly realized what was happening.
Sharif stood in the center of the deck with one arm around Becky’s throat, keeping her in front of him as a living shield while he pressed the hard barrel of his handgun to her temple.
“Stay back!” he yelled when Billy coiled like a spring, ready to pounce.
“Just let her go!” Billy demanded. But Sharif paid him no mind as he dragged Becky toward the Hamilton’s portside railing. The harsh lights shining onto the deck from the top of the bridge spotlighted the two of them like a movie set.
It was totally surreal…and totally terrifying.
“Boss?” Billy said, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the strange black band he wore around his throat while he tracked Becky and Sharif’s movements with deadly end of his big, intimidating gun. “You copy? Our sixth target is topside with Becky in tow.” He paused, listening, then cursed viciously before finishing with a grumbled, “Roger that.”
“Stay back! Stay back! I’ll shoot her!” Sharif screeched, his black eyes darting between the crowd of the Hamilton’s crew bunched at the door and the right side of the bridge house. One of the men who’d arrived with Billy stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been sl
inking around the bridge house, trying to outflank Sharif.
“Eve,” Billy whispered, never taking his eyes off his sister.
“Yes?” she rasped, noting he was beginning to inch to the side, making Sharif split his attention between him and the other guy with a monstrous black machine gun.
“When he’s not looking, I need you to slip back through the crowd, make your way down to the engine room, and unlock the door.”
Gulp.
“O-okay,” she said, even though the very last thing she wanted to do was go crawling around, alone, in the bowels of the tanker.
You can do this, Eve Edens. You can do it for Becky.
Her legs were trembling as she waited until Sharif was distracted by the man near the bridge house, then she inched backward and began pushing her way very carefully and very quietly through the Hamilton’s gawking crew. “Move, move, move!” she muttered beneath her breath as she slithered between the crush of sweaty bodies.
Finally, she made her way to the interior of the ship, ignoring the gloomy corners and dark stairwells as she used her years of yachting to direct her toward the engine room. Racing along the metal gangways, she didn’t make one wrong turn. Of course, she was helped by the fact that once she got close, she heard an unholy clambering and what sounded like a lion’s roar.
The clambering turned out to be the third man who’d arrived with Billy, the giant one. He was bashing a huge wrench against the glass porthole on the airlock door to the engine room. And the lion’s roar was coming from him, as well.
Holy moley!
She swallowed past the dry knot of fear clogging her throat, licked her parched lips, and reminded herself that this wasn’t a monstrous creature but a man. A guy. One of the good guys even.
On three, she told herself, then did a quick countdown before turning the wheel. No sooner had the lock released than the door burst open, slamming against the bulkhead. She instinctively jumped back, but the giant didn’t spare her a glance. He just barged past her, his soft Neoprene wet suit boots pounding up the metal stairs.
Chapter Five
Sharif—that asshole—was a dead man.
No one put a loaded gun to Becky’s head and lived to tell about it.
“Are you in position?” Bill’s low voice rumbled through Frank’s earpiece.
“Affirmative.” He crouched behind a small shipping container located about twenty yards from where Sharif stood with Becky against the Hamilton’s portside railing.
When Sharif attempted to step over the top rung, he and his guys would make their moves. He only hoped Becky didn’t try to “help out” before then. If…no, when, when he got her out of this, he was going to take her home, lock her inside the Knights’ compound, and throw away the goddamned key.
It was just too dangerous letting Rebel Reichert wander about. And after this night, he figured he’d need, oh, about two years of absolute peace and quiet before his blood pressure dropped back down to levels his doctor wouldn’t blow a gasket over.
“He’s going to do it,” Angel’s ragged voice whispered in his ear. “He’s going to jump.”
“He’ll have to let go of her to step over that railing. When he does, you take him out,” he ordered, his heart thundering in nervous anticipation.
Angel was in the best position to put a bullet in Sharif’s brainpan, and Frank hoped like hell the guy was as good as he promised. It made his balls turn to raisins having to put that much faith in the abilities of an unknown, but what other option did he have? Bill wasn’t in a position to take the shot, and he was without the means to take the shot.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was totally unarmed.
He had a pair of French-made throwing knives held loosely in each fist. They had little, hidden vials of liquid mercury that would keep the blades oriented forward when he hurled them at his target.
Now, as a rule, he wasn’t too partial to the French. They tended to be too effeminate for his tastes, and he could not listen to them speak English without thinking of Pepé Le Pew. “I am zee peanut butter; you are zee jelly. Come, cherie, let us make a sandwich of luuuv.”
That being said, he had to give credit where credit was due. They made one helluva set of throwing knives, and if Angel’s shot missed its mark, he was right there ready to replace a lead round with a steel blade.
“Wait for it,” he whispered as Sharif swung one leg over the railing. “Wait until she’s clear…Ah, goddamnit!”
Becky whirled on Sharif like a dervish as soon as he lowered his weapon to balance himself, whipping out Frank’s razor sharp KA-BAR from where she’d hidden it in her shorts and driving all seven inches into the guy’s gun hand. Sharif squealed like the pig he was, dropping his Glock over the side as Becky lunged at him.
Sonofa—
Frank burst from his hiding spot, “Take the shot! Take the shot!” he yelled as he freight-trained it toward the struggling pair.
“She’s not clear!” Angel’s voice blasted into his ear.
Motherfucker! He didn’t have a shot either. Becky’s blond head kept bopping in the way as she played conquering heroine and valiantly struggled with the guy.
Frank threw every ounce of strength he had into making it those last fifteen yards. Becky managed to land a hard elbow to Sharif’s nose—that-a-girl—causing blood to spray in a wide arc that glistened in the bright illumination of the bridge’s spotlights.
Dazed, Sharif stumbled backward, and with one foot already on the ocean side of the railing, it was all the impetus needed to have him slipping right over the edge. He scrambled to grab onto the top rung, but with the KA-BAR skewering his right hand like a shrimp on the barbie, his fingers refused to work.
His left hand found its grip, however…in Becky’s long ponytail.
Frank saw it all happen in slow motion. Sharif windmilling backward over the railing with one arm while he used the other to jerk Becky headfirst after him.
Good Lord! Frank couldn’t get his legs to work right.
It felt like he was running through sticky molasses, and no matter how hard he pumped his arms and pleaded with his legs to turn faster, he seemed to be humping it at one-quarter speed. His terrified heart threatened to explode. Boom! Lights out!
No, no, no!
This couldn’t be happening. Not to Becky.
And then, like a hiccup in a stop-motion film, he was suddenly there, at the railing, just as her feet slipped over the top rung.
He had only one chance.
Dropping his knife, he plunged one arm through the space between the top rail and the one below it, managing to snag her slender ankle. He was instantly jerked forward by the combined momentum of her and Sharif’s falling bodies, and his head slammed into the top rung. Bam! A bright burst of stars circled in front of his eyes as, with a hard thump, Becky and Sharif simultaneously crashed against the Hamilton’s hull.
That’s when it happened.
He felt it.
His shoulder just…wow, it just…gave way. Bone and muscle and tendons tearing away and snapping. The sharp blast of agonizing pain was quickly followed by burning numbness, and then the weight pulling against him suddenly disappeared.
Oh sweet lovin’ Lord, no!
He’d dropped her! She’d slipped through his numb fingers and…
With a roar of gut-wrenching fury, he managed to blink away the happy stars giddily swirling in front of his vision to peek over the side and—
Oh, thank God.
He still had her. She was flailing and cursing and trying to grab onto the hull, but he still had her. Sharif—that asshole—wasn’t so lucky. He’d lost his hold on her hair and was falling, screaming, into the sea below.
Good riddance.
With a mighty heave, his wet suit boots scrabbling for purchase on the d
eck, Frank started reeling her in. And then his feet slipped, jerking him hard against the railing until all he could do was grit his teeth and hang on. Just when he thought he might lose her for real, Bill and Angel were there beside him, reaching over the top rung and grabbing her legs.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear sweet Lord…and Bill and Angel.
Only when Becky was safely in her brother’s arms, Bill crooning, “You’re okay. We gotcha,” did Frank manage to uncurl his fingers from their death grip around her slim ankle.
Interesting. He had absolutely no feeling in that hand.
Staggering back, he glanced up to see Angel quartering the sea below with his M4. After a few moments, the guy turned with a shrug, “I don’t know. Maybe the fall stunned him, and he drowned. I can’t see…oh, um, Boss?”
“Yeah?” Frank frowned at Angel’s strangely apprehensive face.
“That, um, that does not look too good.” He pointed at Frank’s right arm.
Frank glanced down and noticed, with a sort of odd detachment, that his hand was dangling at an unnatural angle against his thigh.
“Dislocated,” he said, not giving a rat’s ass about his arm. All that mattered was Becky. That she was safe…
“I think it’s more than that,” Angel murmured, then suddenly spun on his heel, racing back to the railing.
A grumbling roar managed to split through the loud ringing in Frank’s ears, then Angel was discharging his weapon. The harsh thump, thump, thump of the M4 sounded curiously muted, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to remember what the guy was shooting at.
Angel swung around a few moments later, his face fixed in hard lines. “So he didn’t drown. He’s on the catamaran, and I managed to take out one engine, but”—he shook his head—“he’s too far out of range now.”
Ah, yes. Sharif—that asshole. That’s what Angel was shooting at. Now he remembered…
In Rides Trouble: Black Knights Inc. Page 6
