Brent: Military Heroes (The One I Want Series Book 2)

by Ellie Masters

  Donald photographed the cannon while she tied lines around its base and the end. They would use two lift bags due to the weight of the cannon. Minimally inflated, the bags floated over their heads as he secured the lines to the gusseted eyelets.

  When everything was secure, he checked her knots. Again, using exaggerated gestures, he told her to inflate her lift bag. Watching him closely, and knowing how important it was to keep the upward lift on the nose and base of the cannon equal, she focused on her task.

  Slowly, the cannon lifted.

  Wild gesticulations caught her eye as he pointed beneath the cannon at the outline of a square chest. Ravaged by the years, there was no mistaking the rough timber, or the steel bands encircling the wood.

  Donald pointed, telling her to take a closer look. She glanced at him, not certain she should abandon her position by her lift bag, but he vigorously pointed, demanding she look. Leaving the lift bag, she swam beneath the cannon, which now hung suspended, neutrally buoyant, neither rising nor sinking, five-feet above her head.

  Peering at the remnants of a three-hundred-year-old strongbox, she missed the rushing of bubbles, but felt the full impact of the three hundred-pound cannon as it fell on her legs and pinned her between it and the strongbox. Struggling not to lose her shit, she fought her fear and reminded herself she was not alone.

  But what was keeping Donald?

  Frantically, she twisted as much as she could, face down, with the cannon pinning the back of her legs. She managed to glance over her shoulder and gasped when Donald cut the lines attaching the cannon to the lift bags.

  More weight settled on her legs, immobilizing her on the sand. Wide-eyed, she stared at Donald, but only received a harsh glare as he left for the surface. The two lift bags, relieved from their burden, raced to the surface. Donald followed them up, not sparing a second glance at her pinned form.

  He left her to die and headed back to the ship where Brent slept in his bunk, sickened by what had to have been no accident, incapacitated, and completely oblivious to the treachery of his friend.

  Chapter 19

  Brent

  Brent faded in and out of consciousness. Each breath brought more clarity and slowly strength flowed into his body.

  Something Brie had said didn’t make sense and the fog shrouding his brain failed to make things any clearer.

  The sense of something wrong finally pulled him from his lethargy and forced him to stir. Sitting took a force of will; the cabin swirled around him as he forced his legs over the side of the bed. The spinning wasn’t due to the natural rhythms of a boat rocking on the water, but rather the aftereffects of his last dive. He didn’t feel strong enough to stand and decided to sit for a few minutes hoping more strength would return.

  Bad air.

  One of a diver’s worst fears.

  It could kill.

  Something hard pressed against his hand. He glanced at the black satellite phone as Brie’s words returned to him.

  No stranger to satellite phones, he nonetheless didn’t know Donald had one onboard.

  All their communications went through the ship’s radio. Ingenious devices, satellite phones boldly went where no cell phone could go. They allowed calls to be made virtually anywhere on Earth and weren’t reliant on terrestrial cell phone networks. Rather, they beamed their data directly to and from satellites orbiting the planet. They were great for people in remote locations, like the middle of an ocean, but the Pendragon had a satellite radio on the bridge. There was no reason to have a personal one in Donald’s cabin.

  Again, it struck him odd Donald had a sat phone. Most concerning, Brent knew nothing about it. He would use it, though, because his legs weren’t cooperating and he didn’t have enough strength to walk.

  At least not yet.

  When Donald surfaced from the dive, they would have a private conversation. Not that he worried. Okay, he worried a little. Donald had changed out that filter. He claimed it was a horrible mistake, but what if it wasn’t?

  He thumbed on the phone, thankful there wasn’t a security lock, and felt the bottom drop out of his world. A string of texts had him gripping the edge of the bed and hyperventilating.

  On site. More to follow.

  In position. Waiting.

  Then later another more terrifying string of texts.

  Site confirmed.

  A string of digits followed, GPS coordinates of their position.

  WILCO. Three hours out. And B&B?

  Subdued.

  ROGER.

  The last two texts had been sent less than an hour ago, after his ill-fated dive.

  He lurched to his feet. He’d sent Brie down with Donald. To what lengths would Donald go to subdue?

  Was he supposed to have died on that last dive? Was that what Donald intended? And why? Other than treasure, what motivated his friend to consider something as heinous as murder? It couldn’t be about the treasure. Even splitting their share, they both stood to become wealthy beyond their imaginations.

  Unless Donald never intended to turn over the treasure?

  None of it made sense.

  Palpitations had his heart racing. He tried to stand, but found himself breathless on his initial tries. He needed to get to the deck. He needed to find Brie. The weakness of his body trapped him, effectively subduing him.

  He palmed his face. This was exactly what Donald intended, take him out of the equation, but then what? And what about Brie? A violent shudder wracked his body. He prayed Donald didn’t know Brie had found the phone.

  The phone!

  He was such an idiot.

  Quickly, he dialed Erika Black’s number. The executive officer on board the US Coast Guard Charles Sexton, Commander Erika Black had been recently reassigned to the Keys. The USCGC Charles Sexton patrolled nearby. She knew about his salvage operation and waited on standby for his call for assistance.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the kind of assistance Erika would be expecting. The US Coast Guard was supposed to secure the historic site and monitor recovery of the contents, but now Brent called his old high school friend to help with what could only be high seas piracy.

  Sad to think Donald would do such a thing, but all evidence pointed to exactly that. Brent still didn’t understand why.

  Why would Donald try to kill him? Granted, the tank accident only incapacitated him, but it could have been much worse.

  What were Donald’s plans for Brie? How was he going to subdue her?

  He tapped his fingers on his leg, trying to sort through the possibilities as he spoke with Erika.

  “No problem, we’re an hour out from your position,” she said.

  He ran a hand through his hair and ignored how hard it shook. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what’s happening or what to do.”

  “You said they’re in the water?”

  “Yes.”

  “How mobile are you?”

  “Weak, but getting stronger.”

  “I wouldn’t normally recommend this, but are you armed?”

  “No. We don’t carry firearms on the boat.” Or rather, he didn’t. Who knew what Donald had stashed in his cabin.

  “Okay, anything else you can use?”

  “Knives from the galley?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend a direct confrontation. He’ll overpower you in your current state.”

  He hated to admit weakness, but Erika had that spot on. He’d wrestled Donald before, once many years ago. It had been over a girl and the only time they’d ever fought.

  Donald said Brent took his girl. That may or may not have been true. Brent didn’t remember Trisha and Donald being a thing. By the way she threw herself at him that one night, they most certainly weren’t a couple.

  Donald remembered things differently. He said Brent tried to steal his girl.

  They fought, beating each other up pretty good, but there had been no clear winner. Trisha turned out to have the morals of a whore on crack, sleeping with anything with a di
ck. In his mind, he saved Donald from a disaster.

  “What about a spear gun?” Erika asked. “Surely, you have one.”

  “Yes!” They had two in fact. Spearfishing was a great way to grab dinner when at sea.

  “Okay. That’s an option. Do not initiate, but if you need to defend yourself—”

  “—or save Brie.”

  “Or protect Brie, then aim for the leg. A nonlethal shot. Do you understand?”

  He understood. Erika couldn’t officially recommend any lethal action, but at least now he had some sort of defense. His mind was so foggy, it hadn’t occurred to him to use anything but his fists. He blinked hard, trying to lift the fog covering his mind.

  “Thanks, Erika, I really appreciate it.”

  “We’re on our way, but won’t get there before that dive ends. It’s up to you not to rouse his suspicions until we get there. Play it cool. Don’t let your temper take over. The cavalry is on the way. Buy us enough time to get there. That’s safest for all involved.”

  “Gotcha. We’ll see you when you get here.” He ended the call and felt ten times better.

  The only question was how far out was the person on the other end of Donald’s string of texts? Was there more than one person? Were they armed? Odds favored that they were.

  “Shit!”

  How much time had passed? How far into the dive were Donald and Brie, and what—or rather how—would he confront his best friend?

  Chapter 20

  Brie

  Brie struggled not to lose her ever-loving mind. Now was not the time to freak out, but if she didn’t think of something, and fast, she would run out of air. After that, she would drown.

  Instinct had her hyperventilating as fear overwhelmed her, but she tamed her fears and set the full force of her will on calming down.

  Alone, she had nobody but herself to get her out of this situation. Before she did anything else, she closed her eyes, took three deep breaths, and forced her heartbeat to slow.

  It helped.

  A little.

  She was still scared as shit, but at least she wasn’t in full-on panic mode.

  What did she have that could help?

  A quick check of her instrument cluster revealed she had less than a thousand PSI left in her tank. That was good. At forty-feet that gave her about ten to twenty minutes to figure things out. Normally, that much air would allow her to dive for another thirty minutes, or longer. She was what they called good on air in the diving community. However, this wasn’t a situation where she was calm and at peace, enjoying a relaxing dive.

  It would be a battle to make her air last.

  Think!

  She tried to dig around her legs. The thought was she could dig free and get out from beneath the cannon. Unfortunately, she was pinned between the cannon and the thick wood of the strongbox. It may be old, but there was little decay. She remembered what Brent said about decomposition being delayed for things buried under the sand, then wondered why she was wasting time.

  Maybe she could get the box to sink further in the sand, but her arms weren’t long enough, and the effort that would take would burn through her remaining air. The cannon would only sink with her.

  What else?

  She had a dive knife, which did no good, and the rest of her gear.

  Wait!

  Brent had stashed a spare lift bag in the pocket of her BCD and she still had her bailout bottle. That gave her an extra five-minutes of air. This gave her hope as did one other thing. Donald cut the lines around the cannon. All she had to do was thread the cut ends through the grommet holes in the lift bag she had, inflate it enough to lift some of the weight off her legs and scramble out.

  She could do this. Only the lines were just out of reach.

  Dammit!

  What else could she do? She searched frantically stretching out her arms to feel along the bottom. When her hand hit one of the lines forming the grid, she stopped cold with a Hail Mary idea. She tugged at the line, pulling at the stakes on both ends. Driven deep into the sand they barely budged, but they did move. She rocked the stakes back and forth, concentrating on the closest one, as she tried to loosen it. It took forever and she was about to give up when a hard tug yanked the stake free.

  She pulled, invigorated with her small success, and freed the other stake. This gave her slack in the line and a two-foot pole to extend her reach. She cut one of the stakes free and used it as a fishing rod to catch the free end of the line Donald had cut.

  There wasn’t much to work with, and not much air left in her tank. She had less than five-hundred PSI left. Normally, this would be when she would need to ascend and make a safety stop. Working carefully so as not to lose the line, she threaded the cut end through the corner grommets of the lift bag and tied them off. One lift bag wouldn’t be enough to raise the cannon to the surface, but she only needed to lift one end to free her legs.

  By the time she finished her knots, her tank was nearly empty. Less than two-hundred PSI remaining. There wasn’t enough air left to get her to the surface, but there might be enough to fill the lift bag. She took the regulator out of her mouth and fed it inside the lift bag. Depressing the purge valve, she emptied her tank. The lift bag slowly inflated, displacing water, and generating an upward force on the cannon.

  The pressure on her legs eased. With her lungs burning, she used all her strength to push on the cannon.

  It moved.

  It barely moved, but it was enough.

  She scrambled out, then grabbed her bailout bottle. Taking a breath, she watched the cannon slowly rock up and down.

  Overhead, the hull of the Pendragon cast a shadow directly overhead.

  Now what?

  Donald left her for dead. She couldn’t exactly surface, swim to the dive platform, and climb on board. Not if she wanted to warn Brent.

  Or worse.

  Donald had plenty of time to surface and take care of Brent.

  Fear clutched at her heart, squeezing it with a string of what-ifs she didn’t want to pursue.

  She kicked off the bottom and slowly made her ascent. Afraid Donald would see her bubbles boil at the surface, she swam lateral until she was under the keel of the Pendragon. She intended to come up beneath the hull of the ship, hiding her bubble trail, and surface at the bow.

  He wouldn’t expect that, and it would give her time to figure out the next step.

  Chapter 21

  Brent

  Brent half climbed, half dragged, himself up to the main deck. By the time he located the spear gun, he was out of breath, chest heaving, pulse pounding, and head swimming.

  He took a seat on one of the storage boxes to catch his breath and prepared to confront Donald.

  The minutes ticked by, too slow, and with each sweep of the second hand on his watch, the anger inside him grew. He was at full boil when someone surfaced at the back of the boat. He stood, or tried to, but fell back with a solid thunk.

  Erika said to stall. To that end, he had tucked the spear gun behind him, well within easy reach.

  Splashing sounded and he lifted his chin. His eyes narrowed as he prepared to meet Donald. His heart pounded, and he prayed Brie returned safe from the dive.

  Donald climbed onto the dive platform, water streaming off his body, as he glanced up and caught Brent’s eye. A moment passed between them, words communicated in milliseconds; regret, anger, and rage, and something sinister. This was not his best friend.

  Brent stared into the face of a killer.

  As Donald slowly removed his dive gear, Brent waited for Brie to climb on board. A few seconds passed, then a few more. His gut twisted, then churned.

  “Where’s Brie?”

  Donald set his fins on the deck. Each movement deliberate and exaggerated. He set his gear to the side, then reached down to the straps securing his dive knife to his calf. With a snap, he released the buckles and cradled the knife in his hand. Donald looked at Brent, then cast his gaze out across the water.
r />   Brent firmed his voice. “Where the fuck is Brie?”

  Donald glanced back out to the water. This time, he didn’t look by the boat, but rather scanned the horizon.

  Brent listened for any sound indicating Brie had surfaced, not believing what his heart told him. It couldn’t be. The simmering rage he’d been trying to tamp down boiled to the surface.

  Erika said to stall and give the cutter time to arrive, but his anger couldn’t be contained.

  “What the fuck did you do to Brie?”

  Donald’s eyes narrowed. “You recover quickly.”

  He cocked his head. “Yeah, I guess you didn’t subdue me well enough.”

  “Ah, I guess that answers that question.”

  “And that is?” It didn’t escape his notice Donald had yet to answer him about Brie, but there was no ignoring Donald came up from that dive alone.

  “She said she gave you my phone. It’s a shame really. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

  “Get hurt? You nearly killed me.”

  “Incapacitated you, but you’re a stubborn fucker and recovered much sooner than I thought.”

  “Where the fuck is Brie? What did you do to her?”

  “I wasn’t planning on doing anything, except maybe tie her up until my friends got here, but the little twit had to snoop where she shouldn’t.”

  “What did you do?”

  The bottom fell out of his world, a gut-wrenching sensation told him the worst had happened. Brie had been the one; the one he wanted. The anger in his veins turned to ice as he reached behind him and gripped the spear gun. Erika said nonlethal force, but Brent knew only one thing.