Kincaid waited a beat, but he didn’t think over his answer. “No.”
Her expression didn’t change, but he thought her eyes were glistening. She was trying to be strong and probably knew begging wasn’t going to save either man. What would he do with two kids? What would his wife think? He didn’t want to know.
He hesitated long enough, or too long.
“We’ll take it,” she said.
“Better go below. Best to keep the kids away. Wait down there until I get you, and I’ll take the boat into shore and let you decide where you want to go. It’s the least I can do.”
She paused a moment, and he knew she was thinking about him taking away the only protection she had. He steeled himself to shoot her, knowing he might have to.
“He’s not all bad, you know,” she said. A tear finally broke free and slid down her cheek.
Kincaid smiled. “I’m sure you’re right. Just bad enough. And soon, he won’t even be a bad memory.”
She turned away then, but not before he saw absolute despair crumple her features into something terrible. It was the most ugly, heart-wrenching grief he’d ever witnessed. She made a choked, wretched cry and vanished down the stairs.
He waited a moment, then crossed over to the wheelhouse. He took the axe and walked slowly, with deliberate steps, back to the two men. He thought about where to cut them, and how. What would be best to ensure they continued to bleed when they hit the water? There was a thin line to walk.
He hefted the axe.
He wanted them awake when the sharks arrived.
67. Julie/Booth
Julie knew George was completely exhausted. Nothing short of a slap on the face would stir him before morning. He was sprawled on a couch with his face turned inward, sleeping.
“The water is still on,” Booth said. “Cold water, but the shower still works.”
She didn’t turn around, and started to undress. She unbuckled the gun belt and let it slide with a thump to the floor. Then she bent over at the waist and untied her boots, letting him see how flexible she still was. The flight suit was tight, and she knew her ass was good. He’d notice.
If he was looking.
She kicked her boots off, one at a time.
He was silent behind her as she unzipped the suit. Julie could feel his eyes on her.
She pulled her arms out of the sleeves and let the top half of the suit drop to her waist, wiggled her way out of the legs, and left the suit pooled at her feet. She stepped free, wearing only her boy short panties, socks, no bra. She hadn’t cared to with the heat.
Booth was so quiet behind her, she wondered briefly if he might have fallen asleep. That thought caused her to spin on her feet to look at him.
Booth was completely nude and gazing at her with a hunger that set her stomach fluttering. He was tan all over except from the waist to about six inches down his thigh; that area was startling white. His hips were narrow, and his torso rippled with lean muscle below wide shoulders. Her eyes drifted downward, and she couldn’t contain her grin.
“I didn’t know you were a heavy weapons specialist, Sergeant,” she said.
He smirked, stepped close to her and said, “Top secret, ma’am. Normally I’d keep it hidden, but being the president’s wife, I figured you have clearance and a need to know.”
Julie hadn’t had this much fun in years. Her hand trembled more than she’d care to admit as she reached down and wrapped her fingers around him. She whispered, “Well, let’s get cleaned up, and you can brief me on its operation and capabilities.”
Booth leaned down, got one arm beneath her legs, and the other across her back, and carried her to an open door. It was dark in there, but she could make out a tiled floor. She was still holding on to him.
He put his lips to her ear. “Just be careful, ma’am. It’s locked and loaded.”
68. Bronte/Daric/Janicea
Bronte was holding his rifle in a death grip, but he didn’t realize it. Even the amount of death he’d witnessed and dealt out in Iraq didn’t compare to this. The island was like a village. He couldn’t be sure how many houses there were, but quite a few people lived here once. He was getting depressed thinking about how many people needed to be buried.
There were bodies everywhere. He did notice a house with ten crosses in its front yard, the markers placed before a mound.. A mass grave. At least these people had started the job.
He wondered if there were any still alive. There’d been no time to check last night. They’d basically taken a big chance going to sleep like that. Had he even locked the door?
This realization made him give second thoughts to his plan. Perhaps he needed to go door-to-door on the island and make sure no one else— living or otherwise— was still walking around.
He had to check on Sinclair first. No way was he going to leave a friend out here to rot.
The house where he’d left her was across the street. He could still see the front door hanging open, and bodies…but no Sinclair.
Was she walking around?
He belched, and then choked when stomach acid burbled up. It was one of the most miserable things that afflicted him, and his stress was only going to make it worse.
He’d better warn Janicea and kids and tell them to stay inside with the doors locked. He felt twin streams of sweat pour down his face as he turned back the way he came.
How was he ever going to feel safe again, let alone keep anyone else safe?
He ran down the middle of the street, and focused on doing just that. Don’t fall. Place each step precisely. He couldn’t afford a mistake now. Couldn’t afford not to plan, either. They should have all stuck together.
It was only a block or so, but that was more than enough distance for fear to distort his thinking and cause him to panic.
Bronte couldn’t stand the thought of losing anyone else that mattered to him. He ran as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels.
69. Johnny
Huff was at the lifeboat’s steering wheel, taking them away from land. The sun was bright on the wide expanse of Tampa Bay. There were quite a few gray-bellied clouds floating overhead, but the water was almost flat, and they were leaving a wide wake behind them. Gretchen had one of the cases open and was handing out vials and hypodermics. Johnny, Marcel, Ike, Anna, and several others were lined up to get theirs.
“Not everyone needs to go to the shelter,” Johnny said, carefully pronouncing each word, and trying not to think about how dumb he thought he sounded.
Gretchen was gaping at him. “Wonder why I didn’t think of that?” she said after a moment.
“Wonder what this shit is?” Ike asked, holding up the small vial filled with what looked like turquoise liquid.
“It’s the immunization serum, fool,” Huff said.
“No, I mean what’s in it?” Ike said, giving the smaller man an icy sidelong glance.
Huff shrugged. “Who gives a shit? Long as it works, I’m happy.”
“Gotta get bit to find out,” Ike said.
Marcel was standing to Johnny’s left. He leaned over and whispered, “I’m not sure I want to chance that stuff.”
“I know I don’t…” Anna said. “What if it’s toxic to children or something? We don’t know whether it’s safe.”
“Think about being bitten. Would you rather die?” Gretchen asked.
That silenced everyone.
Gretchen looked each of them in the eye. “Be glad that it’s being shared with you. At least a bite or scratch isn’t going to necessarily be a death sentence anymore.”
“If it works,” Ike said. “For all we know this may be fucking Kool-Aid.”
Gretchen shrugged. “Believe or don’t believe. I don’t care what you do.”
Johnny had counted how many people were in the boat. There were twenty-nine. If only ten of them could go to this shelter, there were going to be quite a few angry passengers.
Gretchen handed Johnny two hypodermics. “One for you and your friend.�
� She nodded toward Marcel. What about Anna? he wondered.
“I need two more,” Johnny said, and nodded to Anna and her child.
Gretchen shook her head. “No.” An evil smile played on her lips.
“What do you mean, no?” he said, feeling his temper ramp up.
“No, means no,” she replied, looking into his eyes.
What was the word? Capricious? That was it! It meant impulsive or something like that. This was something more, though, the fucking bitch was trying to get a rise out of him!
He forced himself to pause and calm down. “Give me two more,” he said.
Her smile morphed into a pout. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll get them myself.”
“Boring. Just when I was starting to find you interesting.”
Johnny stared at her, and at last her eyes fell. She handed him two more of the hypodermics.
Ike stood nearby. He wasn’t wasting time and was already injecting himself. He seemed practiced, and Johnny was a little nauseous just watching him.
“Wish this was an eight-ball,” Ike said as he emptied the needle into a vein in the crook of his arm.
“What’s an eight-ball?” Anna whispered.
“Cocaine,” Johnny answered. He was already regretting speaking. There were a lot of things that he had no desire to talk about. Drugs topped the list. Having drug addicted parents had a lot to do with that.
“We aren’t going back to the ship,” Marcel said. “Looks like we are going back to St. Pete.”
Johnny looked and had to agree. He wanted to know what the plan was, but that meant that he’d have to ask. He closed his eyes.
“What are we gonna do?” Anna asked. “I want to be back on land. There has to be someplace we can be safe.”
“Here’s your shots,” Johnny said, opening his eyes. He nudged Marcel, although both he and Anna were looking at him. Neither of them could get used to the idea of him actually speaking.
Marcel grimaced but took the hypodermic. Anna was still looking at hers.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” she said.
“Me either,” Marcel chimed in. “What about you, Johnny?”
“Yeah,” Anna added.
They were looking at Johnny, now. Johnny looked back and shrugged.
“Where’s yours?” Anna asked.
Johnny thought he’d wait and see how it worked for others. He was taking a chance, but living life was a risk now. “I’m going to wait.”
“Me too,” Marcel said.
“We’ll all wait, together, then,” Anna said.
70. Clive
Candace was clinging to Clive’s arm in the back seat. They were packed in next to the camera and sound equipment. She leaned against him, and he liked that, but he’d had enough.
Ritchie was a reckless driver. There was no doubt about that. He drove with a lead foot and only one hand on the wheel. The only good thing about it was that he was also a good driver. He had the reflexes of a fighter pilot. He was drinking raspberry flavored rum straight from the bottle, and smoking cigars with the reporter, Mathers, who was either used to his driving or too drunk to care.
In the last half hour, Clive and Candace had gotten a firsthand demonstration of Ritchie’s driving talent. He swerved around stalled cars and wrecks, took hairpin turns far too fast for Clive’s taste, and there might be more luck involved with their continued survival than skill.
“I’ve had enough, Ritchie,” Clive said, and drew his gun.
“Relax, Secret Agent Man,” Ritchie replied, “we’re almost there.”
“I don’t like to repeat myself, Ritchie. Pull over.”
“Don’t distract the man when he’s driving,” Mathers interjected.
“He’s already distracted,” Candace said. “Christ, he’s drinking and smoking and going much too fast for these roads!”
Mathers turned around in his seat to face the both of them. Other than his flushed cheeks, he came across as sober and in control. “Calm down; the man’s a pro. He used to drive for the paparazzi!”
“I don’t care if he was an ambulance chaser!” Clive shouted. “I want him to stop this car now.”
Mathers’ face darkened, and Clive couldn’t help himself. “Pull over!”
“We didn’t have to give you a ride!” Mathers shouted back.
Clive sat back in his seat and pointed the gun at the newsman’s mouth.
“That’s not the first gun I’ve had pointed at me, Clive.”
“No,” said Clive, “I don’t suppose it is. Only difference, just so you know, is that I will kill you.”
“You’ll kill me because he’s driving too fast?”
“Better than letting your friend kill me, Lance,” Clive answered.
Ritchie pulled over to the left side of the road. He turned around in the driver’s seat to face them. “Listen, I don’t want trouble. I was driving like an idiot. Lance knows it. I’ll let you drive, if that’s what you want, Clive.”
Clive gave them his best hard-eyed, no-nonsense stare. “You’re both drunk. If you want to die, just go over to the railing there and toss yourself over into that ravine. Otherwise, get in the back, and I’ll drive.”
Both of them nodded.
“Leave the engine running,” Clive said.
“Okay, man, okay,” Ritchie said, “just don’t shoot.”
“Better get your heads on straight both of you. Get drunk on your time, not mine.”
Candace raised an eyebrow at him as they both slid into the front seats. Ritchie staggered a bit climbing in, and almost fell on his ass. Mathers walked over to the railing and unzipped. He wasn’t looking debonair at the moment as he urinated. He looked more like a disheveled, hung over James Bond. When he finished and turned around, a five o’clock shadow was visible on his cheeks, and his shirt beneath his coat was undone to his navel. There were dried sweat streaks on his dress shirt. TMZ would have liked to catch him like this.
Clive didn’t miss the fact that Candace watched, apparently unperturbed.
“You forgot to zip back up, Lance,” Candace remarked when he climbed in behind her and next to Ritchie in the back seat.
Mathers frowned, fumbled at his crotch, but otherwise made no comment.
“No more booze for either of you until we’re all safe. Are we clear on that?” Clive asked. He looked at both men in the rear view mirror.
“Sure thing,” Ritchie answered. “I won’t cause you any more trouble.”
Mathers had no comment. His sullen silence was comment enough, Clive supposed. Prima donna. He probably had to have all kinds of special perks to be able to work every day.
“You get flowers delivered to your dressing room every day, Lance?” Clive asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mathers demanded, full of bluster.
“It means I’m asking you if you’re a man or a diva,” Clive replied.
The inside of the SUV was quiet, save for the whistle of the wind, the hum of the tires, and the engine noise.
“Might surprise you what I am,” Mathers said in a restrained voice. “I’ve been in some of the tightest places in the worst hellholes on this planet, and if you want a piece of me, I’m ready whenever you are.”
Clive grinned. “Okay, good to know. Can we get moving now?”
Mathers shrugged. Clive started the engine, and as they moved off, he could feel Mathers’ eyes boring into the back of his head.
71. Hicks
He didn’t usually start drinking before noon, but this was a special circumstance.
It wasn’t every day he stuck his neck out and revealed a piece of himself. Especially not to someone who wasn’t receptive. He thought for sure that he had Lassiter pegged as at least a latent homosexual. He was late forties, no ring, uptight or uncaring about the lack of women for everyone.
Turned out Lassiter was just fucked up in the head. Hicks laughed, but even he could hear the harsh, bitter edge to it. He drained the glass, and thought a
bout what he’d drink next. Maybe a Long Island Iced Tea. Well, without the ice. Too bad about that, but the job would get done. Yes, sir! Sergeant Scott Hicks (Yes, in reality he was a sergeant) was about to pass the merely drunk stage. He was well on his way to trashed. There was a big difference.
At the trashed stage, Hicks lost the inhibitions or niceties that normally kept him in check. He was capable of anything at this point. At heart, he was a tormented soul. He’d never been married, never committed to anyone. Mostly he floated from one relationship to another. Other people’s relationships, that was. He was the third. He provided the spice. He was the rough, tough alpha male for more married couples than he could remember. He wasn’t sure if he had a sexual preference other than being in charge. He liked to control people and push them beyond their limits, make them go places they would never have gone alone. It segued well with his military background. He was accustomed to having his way, being the boss, telling people what he wanted them to do.
Booth was an obstacle though. He was one person who could scare Hicks. They were friends, but he took things to another level. Plus, he was shrewder. If Hicks wasn’t careful, Booth would see what he really was. That couldn’t happen; there was too much uncertainty about the outcome.
If he had to, Hicks could kill all of them without a flicker of remorse, but only if he had to. Truth was, though, Hicks liked and needed people. He didn’t like to be alone. Or drink alone. But he could be alone, if he had to. There were ways to compensate.
Hicks lined up all the bottles he needed: gin; vodka; triple sec; rum. What else was there? Wasn’t it seven liquors, or was it five? He did need sour mix. And soda. What was he forgetting?
He felt the twinge of a headache. That never was a good sign. Headaches were bad. He’d been known to go over the edge if a headache was bad enough. Right over the fucking edge!
He searched through the bottles, hoping for inspiration. What was he forgetting? Not fucking Lassiter, that was for sure. He’s better watch out! For that matter, Booth, the first lady and that kid better watch their step too.
Hicks didn’t give second chances.
He made the drink with the ingredients at hand. Took a swallow. It was too strong, and it needed more soda and sour mix to make it smoother, but that wasn’t the priority here. He needed to take the edge off. He lifted the glass, and drained it. Thought about having another.
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