Hell or High Water

by Julie Ann Walker

  “How many!” the man bellowed, smacking her upside the head with the heel of his hand and causing stars to dance before her eyes. “Talk, bitch!” Bam! Another blow had the stars going supernova. The only thing that kept her from stumbling sideways was the fact that he had her in a choke hold.

  “Two!” Captain Harry answered for her, his voice raspy and broken. “There are two belowdecks. Please don’t hurt her!”

  More, Maddy couldn’t help but think. Hurt her more. Because she’d already sustained a blow to the throat and two to the head. The thought of suffering more abuse at the hands of these vile men should have filled her with paralyzing fear. But she’d often been accused, usually by her brothers, of having more balls than brains. Which meant the fear she should be feeling was replaced by boiling rage.

  Chapter Five

  12:24 p.m.…

  “Never thought we’d be doing this again,” Wolf said.

  Bran Pallidino glanced across the table bolted in the middle of the computer room aboard Wayfarer-I to find Wolf checking the firing mechanism on his M4 rifle. They’d each taken one of the sawguns with them when they waved sayonara to the Navy. And even though, technically, they were supposed to return Uncle Sam’s hardware—after all, there was a law against civilians owning full automatics—their commander had understood their desire to keep the Colts that’d put a whole hell of a lot of rounds downrange.

  Most guys had a lucky pair of socks or a lucky set of golf clubs. SEALs had lucky sidearms or full autos, or both.

  “Welcome back, Kotter,” Bran replied, adjusting the M203 grenade launcher—simply called a 203—that was attached to his M4. He didn’t know if it was awesome or awful, but the gas-operated, magazine-fed assault rifle felt like an extension of himself. And he hadn’t realized he’d been bereft without it until he once more held it firmly in his grip. The metal was…familiar. The weight…comforting. “Shoulda known ol’ Uncle Sam wouldn’t let us get away that easy.”

  Mason looked up from fiddling with a hose on one of their dive tanks. He’d already readied his weapon and was now preparing their gear for the deep dive. “Don’t go blaming this fuckfest on anyone but those chowderheads at Langley.”

  Bran grimaced, nodding. “Yo, is it just me, or do you guys feel like any time they take the lead on something we get bent over and screwed without first being kissed?”

  “It’s not just you,” Wolf agreed.

  For a few minutes, nothing more was mentioned. The steady hum of Wayfarer-I’s big engines and the occasional beep or buzz from the wall of computers and sonar equipment were the only sounds to breach the silence of the room. Bran breathed deeply of air that was ripe with marine anti-fouling paint and gun black. One odor reminded him of the future they were all trying so hard to grab onto, while the other brought back memories of the past they all shared.

  Glancing around, he made a quick perusal of the room. This cabin was where they were supposed to map the ocean floor around their salvage site. This table was where they were supposed to lay out the old documents and charts that would hopefully lead them to the final resting place of the legendary Santa Cristina. These chairs were where they were supposed to sit and count their gold coins and uncut emeralds.

  Instead, what were they doing? Well, just like the not-so-good ol’ days, they were cleaning weapons and readying ammo. Bada-bing, bada-boom. Here we go again.

  “Did you see the look on LT’s face when he realized we had Agent Mortier with us?” Mason murmured.

  Bran flicked his gaze to the ceiling. Above them, Leo was in the pilothouse, doing what Leo did best. Namely, taking charge, leading the way, and getting them where they needed to go.

  And though Bran would never tell anyone this, there was a time back in BUD/S when he’d been green with jealousy over Leo’s rank of officer, furious at the military’s custom of putting guys like him in charge just because he had some college courses and a couple of bars on his collar. But that had only lasted a week. Because it soon became obvious that Leo Anderson was born to command.

  That was why Bran hadn’t hesitated to agree when Leo reluctantly said, back in the kitchen on Wayfarer Island, I reckon if we have any hope of keepin’ our promise, of cleanin’ up this mess the CIA has caused and keepin’ innocents safe, and of havin’ better luck findin’ the Santa Cristina than my ol’ man did, we should take Agent Mortier up on her offer of a big bag of cash.

  “Yeah, it looked like he was seconds away from swallowing his tongue,” Wolf said. “I don’t know why he hasn’t tried to contact her since Syria. Maybe it’s a case of ‘From passion arises fear.’”

  “And what’s that?” Bran frowned over at the guy. “Some more Buddhist bullshit?” Wolf prided himself on being a student of the religions of the world and, as such, was always quick with an esoteric quote—much to the irritation of the rest of them.

  “It’s the truth,” Wolf said simply.

  Bran begged to differ. “Dude, the only thing that arises from my passion is centered directly behind my fly.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t called her because this transition has been hard as fuck for him,” Mason speculated, ignoring their exchange. He tapped the gauge on another tank before setting it aside. Bran knew for a fact those tanks were heavy as shit, but Mason—a.k.a. their resident Incredible Hulk—handled them like they were made of goose down. “He may’ve taken off that fuckin’ uniform, but he still feels responsible for all of us. Still feels like he has to put us first. And since we’ve got all our eggs in his basket and are depending on him to come through with this big score…” He let the sentence dangle.

  Wolf let out a deep, weary-sounding sigh before adding, “‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.’”

  “Now that one I’m familiar with,” Bran mumbled. For a few more minutes, they attended to their tasks in silence, the gentle bob and sway of the ship a constant reminder they were sailing toward uncertain waters.

  And that was something Bran hadn’t missed. That feeling that things would either come up dog shit or daisies, and there was nothing he could do to steer his destiny toward one or the other. Maybe it’d been growing up on the mean streets of Newark, New Jersey, after his son-of-a-bitching alcoholic father killed his mother and was sent to prison, leaving Bran all alone. Or, hell, perhaps it had to do with the number of times some armchair commander back at the Pentagon had sent them out on a mission without having firsthand knowledge of what was happening on the ground. But feeling like his immediate future was completely out of his hands…well…not to put too fine a point on it, but it made his ass twitch. Like, seriously.

  “I wish Doc and Romeo were here,” Mason said after a bit, the change in subject a welcome distraction from Bran’s thoughts.

  “Why?” Wolf asked. “Because seven of us against a possible eight tangos would be better odds?”

  “It feels wrong to be doing this without them.” Mason shrugged. “Plus, you know those fuckers will be pissed when they get back to Wayfarer Island and find out they’ve missed all the fun.”

  For a few minutes after Leo had been forced to take Olivia up on her offer of a duffel full of Benjamins, they’d discussed the efficacy of using their Marine VHF radio to alert Doc and Romeo to their plans. But that idea had quickly been axed when Olivia brought up the possibility that the mole or moles could be monitoring the high-frequency marine channels, waiting to hear if there was any news coming in from the Coast Guard.

  “Yeah, maybe they’ll be pissed,” Wolf mused. “Or maybe they’ll be happy as a room without a roof.”

  “You did not just Pharrell Williams us,” Bran said dubiously.

  “I did,” Wolf admitted. “Because, I mean, if you had a choice between spending the day sailing the catamaran back to Key West while taking turns going belowdecks to get naked with a warm, willing woman or having your brain squeezed in two hundred feet of water in search of three capsules of deadly chemicals, which would you choose?”

  “Good point.” Mason nod
ded, making a face. “Which brings me back to LT and Olivia.”

  Both Bran and Wolf groaned. “I like it better when he’s playing the part of Mount McCarthy,” Bran stage-whispered to Wolf. “Big and silent.”

  “Agreed.” Wolf nodded.

  “Just hear me out, fuckheads,” Mason said. “I was thinking maybe the reason LT hasn’t called Olivia is because that thing they had in Syria was just some sort of foxhole In Love and War bullshit. Nothing real. Then again, that wouldn’t explain the look on his face this morning.”

  “It was real,” Bran gritted out.

  “You say that like you’re sure,” Wolf said. “He said something to you?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Bran nodded, gifting Wolf with the facial equivalent of Have you lost your ever-loving mind? “He told me right after we exchanged manicure secrets, shared skin-care advice, and listed all our favorite Britney Spears songs.”

  Wolf simply sat there in that Wolf way of his. Totally still. Totally enigmatic. To date, Bran had yet to find what it took to ruffle Wolf’s feathers. So, he was left with no recourse but to relent. “I mean seriously, dude. Can you imagine Leo ‘the Lion’ Anderson admitting he’s in a state of serious forlorn yearning for a cute, raven-haired spook?” Pigs will fly, hell will freeze over, and Sicily will elect an incorruptible government. “No. He hasn’t said a damn thing. And the truth is, at first I thought the reason he was walking around with a hangdog expression on his face like he’d been kicked in the apple bag was because of what happened back there.”

  Wolf shot him a look, one brow arched, one corner of his mouth quirked. “Like he’d been kicked in the apple bag?”

  “What?” Bran grinned, spreading his arms wide. “You know me. The master of motherfucking tact.”

  “Unquestionably.”

  “But I’ve known the guy for over fifteen years now,” he continued, unperturbed by Wolf’s quick agreement. “I’ve known him to lose men and soldier on.” Wolf opened his mouth to argue, but Bran raised a hand, cutting him off. “I know; I know. Rusty was different. One of us.”

  And by “us” he meant the original eight-man team they’d put together right out of SEAL training. The Crazy Eight. The Eight Amigos. The motherfriggin’ Great Eight. One of whom was in the grave. One of whom, Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright, had returned home to Atlantic City to build ships in his family’s shipyard and make babies with the saucy redheaded diplomatic secretary they had saved from a bombed-out embassy in Pakistan during their final mission for the Navy. And six of whom—them—were living and working in the Keys, hoping like hell to find a better way of life than the one they’d left behind.

  “But my point is that no matter what kinda shitstorm he’s weathered, no matter how many good men he’s loaded into flag-draped coffins for transport back home,” he continued, “LT has never once sworn off the ladies. Not until Syria. Not until Olivia. So yeah, it’s real. Now whether ‘real’ means unrequited lust or ‘real’ means unrequited love is anybody’s guess.”

  He hoped to hell it was the first. Because there was no way Leo and Olivia could make it work in the long run. The huge list of divorced spec-ops guys and spies he knew assured him of that fact. Tradecraft and civilian life just didn’t mix. And Bran sure as shit didn’t want to have to stand by and watch while his best friend got his heart broken.

  “So maybe we just need to make sure we give Olivia and LT some alone time,” Wolf speculated. “Maybe after she’s waxed his ax a few times, he’ll realize one…um… What is it you Jersey boys call it?” he asked.

  “Chucky.” Bran smiled despite himself, remembering the conversation he’d had with Wolf their very first night on Wayfarer Island when he’d explained the origins of that particular piece of slang.

  “Right.” Wolf nodded. “Maybe then he’ll stop pining and realize one chucky is as good as the next.”

  “That’s possible,” Bran mused. Though he had some doubts. He’d never seen Leo look at another woman the way he looked at Olivia, his eyes chockablock full of heat and hormones and…something else. It was the “something else” that made Bran twitchy. “And since we’re on the subject of ax waxing and one chucky being as good as the next”—he turned his attention to Mason—“when will you get back on that horse and ride, eh?”

  Mason shot him a look meant to shrivel his balls. “Who the fuck says I haven’t?”

  “Me,” Bran declared.

  “And me,” Wolf added.

  “It’s complicated,” Mason insisted, his expression about as friendly as a jar full of scorpions, which was pretty much SOP—standard operating procedure—whenever they dared bring up the subject of his philandering ex-wife. Bran had never hated a woman in his life. But he hated the former Mrs. Mason McCarthy with the fiery heat of a thousand suns. No good puttana.

  “What it is, is way past time,” Wolf was quick to insist. “Besides, it can’t be healthy. How many years has it been now? Six?”

  “I thought it was seven,” Bran added helpfully.

  “You can both immediately and rigorously go fuck yourselves; it’s only been five. And I got your healthy right here.” Mason flexed one arm, his massive bicep rolling into a hard sphere that looked about the size of a bowling ball.

  “Have you ever noticed,” Bran mused, grinning evilly, “that guys who work out and get super beefy are generally trying to overcompensate for embarrassingly tiny sex organs?”

  “I have noticed that.” Wolf played along, nodding sagely.

  “Puh-lease,” Mason snorted. “You could lay both your dicks end-to-end and they still wouldn’t compare to the hog I have packed in my pants. And why did this get turned around on me, anyway? Weren’t we talking about LT and Olivia?”

  “Speak of the devil and she will appear,” Wolf muttered softly. Then he raised his voice. “Come on in, Agent Mortier.”

  Bran spun in his seat to see Olivia standing in the doorway. And he could totally understand why Leo dug her. On the one hand, she was lean and mean, an honest-to-God government fighting machine. On the other hand, she was soft and pretty, a woman in her prime. And that combination was incredibly dynamic. And very hard to resist. Especially for guys like them who could appreciate more than most a woman with a backbone forged of white-hot alloyed steel.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked, her smoky voice rougher than usual. And from the shuttered look on her face Bran wasn’t sure how much of the conversation she’d heard.

  Hopefully none. Because Leo would skin them alive if he knew they were talking about his currently nonexistent sex life. But if he knew Olivia had overhead as well? Good God, a mere skinning would seem like child’s play compared to what Leo would do to them. Bran imagined it would be something rather foul and undoubtedly painful involving their coglioni.

  “Nah.” Wolf motioned for her to come in. “We’re just gearing up. So, what’s up? Is there a problem with the receiver or something? Are the signals—”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “Everything is fine. The signals are coming in loud and clear, and all indications are that the capsules haven’t moved. I just got off the satphone with Morales. He says the contractors are about fifty minutes behind us, but headed our way to provide support should we get close and find the tangos are still on site. So we should be…uh…we should be good.”

  “Roger that,” Bran said after she’d sort of stumbled to a stop. Standing there in the doorway, her expression appeared to be filled with… Was that doubt? Okay, now that wasn’t very Olivia-like. “Was there something else you needed?”

  “I…” She took a step into the room, then paused. For a split second, Bran thought she might turn tail and run. But then she squared her shoulders and marched toward them, stopping next to the table to spread her feet and balance herself against the gentle sway of the ship. “I was hoping Wolf would tell me about that promise he mentioned,” she blurted.

  For a couple of seconds, no one moved. Bran was pretty sure no one breathed. And not because their vow wa
s a secret or anything—for shit’s sake, they each carried the evidence of it right there on their bodies. But more because it wasn’t something they talked about with anyone…ever. Why would they? No one but the seven of them, the remaining members of the Crazy Eight, could ever understand what it meant.

  “Because it’s been… Well, it’s really been bothering me,” she continued. “And I…I know I’m asking a lot of you guys and I know you all thought you were finished doing this kind of stuff but I figured a half a million would make it worth your while—more than worth your while—but if helping me means that you’re going back on your word to someone, then maybe I should call Morales and tell him to find another dive team. I mean you guys are our best shot right now for retrieving the weapons and staying off the CIA’s radar but it’s not like we couldn’t tap someone else if we had to and I just—”

  “Whoa, whoa!” Wolf cut in. “Slow down. I don’t know about these two”—he flicked a thumb at Mason and a finger at Bran—“but I could really use some punctuation here.”

  Olivia blinked, then grimaced, realizing she’d run through about ten sentences without pausing or taking a breath. As if to make up for it, she blew out a big, blustery one. “I just don’t want you all to feel like I’ve backed you into a corner, that’s all.”

  Wolf lifted an eyebrow, casually turning his wrist to glance at his big, black diver’s watch. “And you thought to bring this up now? When we’re an hour from our ETA?”

  Olivia’s lips flattened. “I figured better late than never.” She stood her ground, hands on her hips, her eyes darting between the three of them for a good ten seconds before throwing her hands in the air. “Okay, so are you going to tell me about the promise or not? Because if not, then—”

  “I’m thinking this is something you should take up with LT,” Wolf said, his tone polite, though when Bran looked over at the guy, his eyes were flashing with suggestion. Oh, ay! Well played, Bran thought, suppressing a grin. “Probably in private,” Wolf added, emphasizing the last word.