BOSSY BROTHERS: JOHNNY

by Huss, JA

  “We actually have lots of time because we don’t have to be at the island until noon.”

  “Trust me,” he says. And when he says it, he softens a little. “I know what I’m doing. I promise. So please.” He pauses, imploring me. “Just get in.”

  I hesitate. But what else can I do? We’re in the ocean, in the middle of a plan to infiltrate a Way laboratory, and no one here is on my side.

  Not even Johnny.

  I take his hand and Johnny holds me steady as I step onto the swim platform, and keeps hold of it. He doesn’t allow me the luxury of a moment to hesitate, just pulls me on to the tender boat with him.

  Then he steps aside and waves a hand at the two front seats. “Go sit,” he encourages.

  Again, with no other choice, I do as I’m told and take a seat in the passenger chair.

  Johnny slides into the captain’s chair, shifts the boat into forward, and then gives it some throttle.

  It’s clear this little tender boat has pick-up because I’m slammed back into my seat as we take off towards the waiting superyacht.

  This would be a very good time to have a very serious conversation about what’s coming, except for the fact that this is just a small, open speedboat meant to be docked inside the actual parental yacht, and the wind is so loud there’s no possible way we’d be able to hear each other, even if Johnny was interested in said conversation, and I’m getting the feeling he’s not.

  Not to mention my hair, even though it started this ride securely fastened into a ponytail, is now being whipped around my face.

  I make desperate attempts to tame it into submission, but the effort is futile. So by the time Johnny slows down and aims the bow of the tender boat at the waiting recovery net protruding from the stern of the superyacht, I’m too flustered to start a conversation that has no hope of progression and now I realize I was too distracted to carefully study the yacht as we approached.

  Logan is waiting inside the bowels of the recovery dock, making hand motions at us, and Johnny, who I didn’t peg as a sailor twenty-four hours ago, seems to know exactly what said hand motions mean, because he stands up to slowly and carefully navigate the boat into the recovery net as four large, rough-looking men, dressed in all black, scurry around holding winch lines and operating controls, or just generally look concerned and busy in the same moment as we are tugged inside. The dock we slide up on rises behind us, closing us up into semi-darkness like we’ve just been taken prisoner in a cave.

  I let out a long breath, exhausted by the short, but stressful, experience.

  This whole plan is starting to feel like a very bad idea.

  There’s like two seconds of calm silence and then the whole thing starts up again.

  Johnny jumps out and he and Logan quickly approach each other, talking in low tones. One man jumps in to take Johnny’s place, busy with the tender boat’s controls, while another holds his hand out to me and says, “Come on,” without fanfare.

  I scowl at him, don’t take his hand, and clamber up onto the sideboard of the boat myself, then pause before jumping over the gap to land on the actual inside of the ship.

  “This way, please,” the man says, putting his hand on the small of my back.

  I move sideways to break his contact, then call out, “Johnny?” Because I’m suddenly overwhelmed and scared, but I’m not exactly sure why.

  “Just… go inside,” Johnny says, noticing my uneasiness. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “What’s going on? What are we doing?”

  “Go inside, Megan. I said I’ll be up in a minute.”

  The big guy, who is apparently in charge of me now, grabs my arm and doesn’t let me slip away this time. So I’m tugged to a ladder and told to climb.

  I do.

  The next deck level is a passageway with lots of cabin doors, so I pause. But the big guy says, “This way, ma’am,” and directs me to keep walking towards another ladder.

  I climb without being told and come up to yet another passageway, but this one is wider and the floor is carpeted.

  Living quarters.

  My guard, because that’s what he feels like, slips past me with two hands on my shoulders, and then takes up the lead. He stops at a door, opens it up, and says, “This is your cabin.”

  I suck in a deep breath and hold it for a moment, then let it out and say, “Am I supposed to stay in there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure Johnny will be along soon.”

  Feeling cornered, and with no other apparent options, I enter the room. Then regret that decision and turn to ask him if I can wait topside instead, but he’s already closing the door.

  I reach for the handle to open it back up, but the tell-tale sound of a lock engaging from the other side makes me stop mid-reach.

  “Hey?” I yell. “Hey! Did you just lock me in here?”

  I grab the handle, try to turn it, and… that’s right. It’s locked.

  “What the fuck?” I call.

  But I can already tell by the sound of heavy retreating footfalls … there’s no one on the other side of my cabin door.

  So I turn and take in my new cell.

  It’s a suite. Large by boat standards. Maybe not super large, like this yacht. But certainly better accommodations than the crew probably has one deck below.

  There’s an en suite bathroom with a shower, toilet, sink and vanity, and even an oval tub. Not a big tub. Not what I would call luxurious, but still. It’s a tub on a ship.

  The room has one king-sized bed, a few dressers built into the side of the bulkheads, a closet, and a large TV mounted on the wall.

  With no other apparent choices, I sit on the bed and wait.

  It does not take Johnny a minute to come find me. In fact, the clock on the bedside table that’s built into the bulkhead tells me it’s been exactly thirty-seven minutes before he arrives.

  By the time he walks through the door we’ve been on the move for thirty of those minutes. Going pretty fast from what I can tell.

  “It’s about fucking time!” I yell at him. “They locked me in here! Did you tell them to do that?”

  “Yes,” he says, closing the door behind him.

  And again, there is the tell-tale sound of the lock from the other side.

  “What the fuck is going on, Johnny?”

  “We’re just…” He stops to study me, frowning. “We’re being cautious.”

  “Cautious about what? Me?” I point to myself and laugh.

  “Look,” he says, walking over to the closet and pulling it open. To my surprise, there’s actually clothes in there. “This operation is a lot bigger than I first thought.” He takes a shirt out of the closet, throws it on the bed next to me, then does the same with a pair of pants. “Put those on.”

  I look at the clothes. Black tactical pants, black long-sleeved shirt. “What? Why?”

  But by the time I say that he’s throwing an armored vest on top of the pants. “That too,” he says. “We don’t have much time. We’ll be taking off in about ten minutes.”

  “Taking off?” But as soon as the question leaves my mouth I recall the one detail about the ship I did notice on that stressful ride over.

  The helicopter.

  “I thought we were boating in? I thought we had a plan?”

  “It changed,” Johnny says. He’s got his own shirt, pants, and armored vest on the bed now and he lifts his white tank-top t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion. Then he stares at me, eyes narrowed down into slits as he kicks off his water shoes.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  He sighs, then the locked stare we were holding breaks and he starts unbuckling his belt. “Just change clothes. I’ve got it covered.”

  I pick up the armored vest, which is a lot heavier than it looks. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m just trying to keep you safe when we go in.” He’s unzipping his pants when he says this. And then he drops them to the floor and steps out. Reaching for
the tactical pants in the same movement. He pulls them on as I watch. Both of us silent.

  But when I don’t move he says, “Please, just get dressed,” as he buttons and zips his pants.

  I grab my own pants and shirt up in my arms and then retreat to the bathroom, slamming the pocket door closed behind me.

  What the fuck is happening? Why is he being like this?

  I start pulling the pants on over my shorts, and remember the phone in my pocket.

  Should I make a call?

  Could I even get a signal out here?

  Probably not. But I don’t even bother to check. Just button and zip the heavy, thick, many-pocketed canvas tactical pants up my legs.

  I’m going to die of heat stroke in these.

  The long-sleeve button-down shirt is even worse. Why are these clothes so damn thick and heavy? I’m already suffocating and I’m standing right under the AC vent.

  I take it off, then slip my tank top back on—because if I have to sweat my ass off in the ungodly heat of August in the tropics, I’m not doing it until I have to. Then I open the door and step back out, holding the long-sleeved shirt in my hands.

  Johnny looks up from his boot tying and says, “You have to put that on,” in the same moment.

  “I’m sweating my ass off. Why do I have to wear long sleeves?”

  “Because the shirt is armored too. So if a bullet hits you in the arm, you’ll just get a bruise instead of a hole in your flesh.”

  He stands up, looks down at his boots as he shuffles his feet like he’s testing them out, and then walks towards me to take the shirt from my hands. “Here, let me help you.”

  And since this is the first almost-nice thing he’s said to me since we woke up, pathetic me feels a little better when he holds the shirt open and nods his head for me to slip my arms inside.

  So I do.

  He buttons the cuffs first, and holy mother of God, I’m so hot, I groan.

  “It’s just for a little bit,” he says, finishing one cuff and moving on to the other. When that’s done he reaches for the button of my pants and I grab him by the wrist.

  “You need to tuck it in,” he says, locking eyes with me. “The shirt. You need to tuck in the shirt.”

  Everything about this morning is so confusing all I can do is nod.

  So he opens up my pants, then starts buttoning the shirt.

  I don’t say anything about this either. Just stare at his fingers as he makes his way down my front. Then, when all the buttons are fastened, he slides his hand along the lower portion of my shirt and slips it right down inside my pants.

  I suck in a breath and hold it, unable to move.

  I had sex with him last night in the ocean and on the beach. I was with this man. It didn’t feel scary, or uncomfortable, or like the beginnings of a very bad decision. He turned a gold satin ribbon into a knotted promise and tied it around my wrist. I’m still wearing it.

  But right now Johnny feels like a whole other person. And his hand inside my pants feels like a transgression.

  He looks up at me as he continues to tuck in my shirt. Smiles. Just a little bit. Then looks back down and starts tugging and fixing the shirt before buttoning my pants back up.

  “OK. Now the vest.”

  I look over at it with dread. It has to weigh at least five pounds. Which may not seem like much, but I’m pretty sure that once Johnny’s done outfitting me like I’m about to enter a war zone, I’m carrying at least ten extra pounds all together.

  And I’m hot. “Did I mention I’m hot?”

  This makes him smile. A real smile. He aims that grin at me and says, “I have eyeballs.”

  “Joke. That was a joke, right?”

  “Put your boots on,” he says, back to business.

  “Yes, sir.” I fake-salute, then sit on the bed, slip my feet inside, and he laces one boot while I lace the other.

  “OK.” He sighs. “I think we’re ready. I can hear the helicopter spinning up outside so…”

  I cock my head to the side because I didn’t hear it until he said that, but yes. Indeed. That is the sound of a helicopter on standby.

  When I glance back at him he’s staring at me with a weird look. “What? What’s going on? Why did everything change? Why are you so… weird today?”

  He smiles again but this time it’s not real. “It’s a job, Megan. How I’m acting isn’t weird. This is just another normal day in my life. You just don’t realize that yet because… because you don’t know me.”

  Then he turns, bangs on the door three times, and I make a little ‘o’ with my mouth as I process that statement and see two men standing guard outside, waiting to escort us topside.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - JOHNNY

  I don’t wait for Megan to respond to my last statement, just push past the two guys assigned to shadow me today and head towards the stairs that lead to the lower main deck, then go up one more level to the main deck where Logan is sitting in the war room, scanning a live satellite image on a large HD table display.

  “Set?” he asks.

  “I’m ready.”

  “She good?” he asks, jutting his chin to Megan as she walks up beside me.

  “Yup.”

  Logan raises one eyebrow. “You sure? She… doesn’t look ready.”

  “I’m not ready,” Megan says. “I don’t understand what’s happening and someone needs to fill me in right now.”

  I liked her better yesterday before I actually started putting all her little puzzle pieces together. I prefer the snarky, sassy, foul-mouthed version of Megan Machette. The one who isn’t in my way. But… oh, well.

  This is a job.

  I turn to her and fake a smile to ease her down. “The people who took our boat?” She nods and I pause. Because it’s not our boat. It’s my boat. But I let that slide for now and get back on point. “They’re decoys of you and me. We’re going on the helicopter. So Fake Johnny and Fake Megan will approach the island just like we planned, while the rest of us”—I pan my hand to the room of men—“will come afterward.”

  “We’ll land with the helicopter,” Logan tells her as I clip a helmet to the belt buckle at her waist. “And escort you to the entrance. Then we’ll go inside and get what Johnny needs.”

  Megan turns to look at me, shocked. “What? I thought this was a very simple look-at-maps kind of operation? When did it turn into a full-fledged aerial assault? And it’s not even time yet! We’re early! We’re hours early!”

  “We’re still looking for maps, OK?” I say. “And the time doesn’t matter. Trust me. It’s gonna be fine.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but Logan cuts her off by saying, “Good, let’s go. Everyone topside.”

  And everyone moves on his command. I grab Megan by the arm because I get the feeling she needs the encouragement, but she shrugs me off and slips ahead of me so she’s right behind Logan.

  The helicopter was the main hold-up yesterday when Logan started putting together my list of supplies. The helicopter he usually keeps on this yacht only seats four and he decided we’d go in with a team of six, plus Megan. So he borrowed this one from… somewhere.

  We pile in. Logan sits up front with the pilot and I step aside, taking Megan with me, to let the three other men pile in the third row, then I motion her to move forward.

  She says nothing, but that’s only because the rotors are spinning and it’s far too loud to speak until we settle in our seats and slip the headsets on.

  Logan is already running through plans with his men. Checking things off a list. And I have to give him credit—because when he told me he was gonna retire two years ago I pictured him lying on a beach somewhere getting soft and fat. But this team is top-notch. The whole operation says ‘professional.’

  Logan’s voice comes through the headset tinny and crackling. “Ten minutes out.”

  I settle into my chair, then glance over at Megan and realize her harness isn’t fastened.

  “Here,” I say into th
e mic. “Let me help you.”

  She scoots away from me when my hands reach for the harness behind her shoulders, then realizes what I’m doing and… sort of relaxes. A little.

  “You’re not wearing yours,” she says, her voice thin and faraway in the headset. “No one else is wearing theirs.”

  “Yeah, well. They do this shit for money. They don’t get paid if they fall out of a helicopter so they’re not gonna fall out. At least not by accident. So you’re gonna put yours on.”

  The guys behind us elbow each other when I strap Megan into her harness, but I ignore them.

  “Three minutes,” Logan says.

  I glance at Megan and find her chewing her lip. “You OK?” I ask.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she hums, turning her head away from me to look out the window.

  I place a hand on her leg and give it a squeeze. “It’s fine. It will all be fine.”

  She side-eyes me. Just a little. But mostly she ignores me.

  “We’re interior now,” a voice comes through the comms. Our decoys on the island. “Heading towards the coordinates. No blowback so far.”

  “Perfect,” Logan replies back. “We’re touching down in ninety seconds.”

  I reach over and start unclipping Megan from her harness, but she brushes my hand off and finishes releasing it herself. “Stupid,” she mutters.

  I know what she’s thinking. This feels off. This feels wrong. She’s been lied to.

  She’s thinking that because it’s all true.

  But I did warn her. I specifically told her.

  She has no idea who I am.

  But after she let that shit slip out last night about her work… I know exactly who she is.

  “Just so everyone’s clear,” I say into the mic as we speed towards the interior of the island, “I’m in charge on the ground.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - MEGAN

  “Here.” One of the men behind me is slapping my upper arm with a pair of heavy gloves. “Put these on.”

  I stare at them for a moment. “What?”