by Tiffany Snow
“I ain’t a fucking cowboy, princess.”
“Don’t call me princess, jackass.”
I watched this exchange slightly open-mouthed. It seemed really odd and unnecessarily argumentative for the situation in which we found ourselves.
“Are you done with the foreplay?” Devon cut in, slamming the magazine home in his pistol. “Because I believe they’re still shooting at us.”
He grabbed another bulletproof vest and bundled me into it before I could say anything. Not that I was protesting. Being even partially bulletproof sounded pretty darn good.
“You two head aft,” one of the crewmen said, pointing at Beau and Alexa. “We’ll head forward and split up. They’ll try to board from the side. You stay here, defend the captain upstairs driving the boat.”
Devon didn’t particularly like being left behind, but I was glad not be alone. Beau and Alex didn’t look happy being stuck together, but they didn’t protest, just followed orders. I watched them head out the back door.
The two crewmen went out the front, coordinating together and rushing out together amidst the gunfire. I winced, fearing the worst, but they seemed to make it without getting hit.
“What should I do?” I asked, feeling useless. I didn’t have a weapon. If anything, I was just cannon fodder, which rankled, but I wasn’t going to pretend I had any kind of training for something like this.
“You’re going to go about the very important business of staying alive.” Devon took up a position next to one of the small windows, his gun at the ready as he peered out.
“That doesn’t seem very helpful,” I groused.
“If someone makes it past me and gets upstairs, they can take control of the boat,” he said. “I’d much rather not end up in a third-world shithole tonight.”
“But aren’t we headed for Cuba?”
He shot me a look, but his lips twitched at my joke.
Probably not the best time, but I was nervous and my filter was gone. I had every faith that the agents, Beau, Devon, and even Alexa, would keep us safe. But I didn’t think it was going to be pretty and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. My stomach churned with dread and a sense of the inevitable.
The yelling and gunshots sounded much closer, which made me jump.
“Get down,” Devon ordered.
I obeyed without question, not wanting to distract him by having him worry about me.
There was a weird thumping sound from both sides of the boat, and more yelling in Spanish.
“They’re boarding from both sides,” Devon said. “There must be more than one boat.”
“More than one?” I squeaked. “We can’t fight off so many.”
“Of course we can,” Devon said. He spied a fire extinguisher on the wall and ripped it off. “We just may need to be a bit creative.”
“With a fire extinguisher?”
“Surprisingly effective, given the right preparation.”
He began pulling open drawers in the console. He grabbed a box of something, then kept searching, finally pulling out a roll of duct tape. In seconds, he’d dumped the box, which contained nails, and taped a bunch of them to the outside of the fire extinguisher.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Causing more damage.”
He grabbed the extinguisher and watched out the window again. “They’re climbing over the side. Help me out, darling. When I count to three, you pull open the door.”
I hurried to the door and grabbed the handle.
“Careful to stand behind it when you open it,” he cautioned. I nodded. “Okay then. One . . . two . . . three!”
I yanked open the door, staying behind the thick wood as Devon tossed the fire extinguisher, sending it rolling right toward the men boarding. I saw one of the crewmen go down and prayed he wasn’t dead.
Devon aimed, firing off two shots, and the fire extinguisher exploded. The force of it pushed two men overboard right away. The third was knocked to the ground and I saw his body jerk as the nails hit him. The fourth and last one was killed instantly with a well-placed nail that made nausea climb into my throat. Then Devon was back inside and slamming the door.
“We’ve betrayed our presence,” he said way more calmly than I felt. “But it couldn’t be helped. Do get down, darling.”
I ducked behind the console again, my heart in my throat and my pulse racing. I wanted to cry but held back the tears. They were more of a reaction to the stress and fear than anything else.
More gunshots, and this time Devon said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to go out there.” He looked at me. “Stay put.”
I kept my mouth shut, but wanted to scream in frustration as he headed out the door. I hated feeling so helpless. And now the man I loved—my husband—was heading straight into danger while I cowered, hiding.
I waited, heart in my throat, and prayed as gunshots sounded outside, and thumps, and yelling in English and Spanish in voices I couldn’t distinguish. I searched for a weapon, opening the same drawers Devon had, and found a hammer. I grabbed it. It was heavy in my hand and a bit unwieldy, but certainly better than nothing.
The door flung open. My nerves flew into a panic as I stared at an unfamiliar man nearly twice my size. He was carrying an assault rifle and it was pointed directly at me.
I froze, my breath caught in my lungs, staring at the muzzle. But to my amazement, he didn’t fire. He smiled in a slow, sneering way that made my skin crawl. He said something to me, but I’d only had freshman Spanish in Kansas, so it was completely lost on me. I could gather the meaning, though.
He saw the hammer I held and laughed outright.
I knew with a sick feeling in my stomach that he wouldn’t be standing there if Devon had anything to say about it. I prayed my husband was only hurt and not dead. I couldn’t think about that right now, though, because this guy was walking toward me, and whatever he had on his mind, I didn’t want to have any part of.
My hand gripped the hammer. It was all I had. And by God I’d go down swinging.
I backed up as he approached, until I hit the wall. He laughed again, sure I was cornered. I waited until he was close enough that I could smell the sourness of his breath.
He reached for my hand holding the hammer, which I’d hoped he’d do. It distracted him from my other hand, which held the pair of scissors Devon had used to cut the duct tape. Gripping them tight, I struck, not stabbing overhead, which would only cause the point to hit his breastbone. No, instead I went down low on his side, aiming upward.
I wasn’t prepared for what it felt like to actually stab someone. The resistance of the flesh and muscle made me falter, a mistake as it turned out. Only about an inch of the scissors made it in, which basically just served to piss him off.
He jerked around, cursing, his automatic response was to backhand me. My teeth rattled at the force of the hit and I slumped to the side. It hurt. It hurt a lot. And it made me angry. I channeled that rage and when he grabbed my hair and yanked me back, I came up swinging.
The heavy steel head of the hammer caught him right underneath the jaw with a sickening crack of bone breaking. Blood flowed from his mouth as he fell backward, his eyes wide in shock and pain.
Fury propelled me forward, hammer in both hands as he tried to get his rifle up. But we were too close for him to get a good angle and I swung again, using both hands. My teeth were gritted in a grimace of rage, and I felt an unholy satisfaction as the head of the hammer caught him at the side of the head.
He went down, and then I was on top of him, hitting him again and again, barely aware of what I was doing. He’d hurt Devon, I was sure of it, maybe even killed him. And he’d been going to hurt me, too, the same way I’d been hurt too many times before.
The hammer grew too slippery to hold and I dropped it before I realized blood covered the handle. His blood. I stared, aghast at what I’d done. He was dead. Very dead. I began to shake, but I didn’t have time to fall apart.
How many of
them were there still? How many of us were still standing?
Swallowing down my nausea, I leaned down and took his rifle. I didn’t know anything about how to fire a rifle like that, and I prayed it was as easy as point and shoot.
The door was closed and it was quiet outside. I went to open it carefully, not flinging it open but just easing it a scant few inches.
The dead men from Devon’s jury-rigged bomb were still on deck, as was one of the CIA crewmen. I hurried over to him, crouching down and praying he was all right. But to my dismay, he’d been shot in the head. His eyes stared sightlessly at me and the back of his head was gone.
I couldn’t keep the nausea down and crawled to the railing, vomiting over the side into the ocean. All I could picture was Devon’s face with sightless eyes. I didn’t know if I’d find that or not if I kept looking, but I had no choice.
I’d just stood up when a noise made me turn. Devon stood a few yards away, having come around the gatehouse.
My relief was so overwhelming, I felt like I’d be sick all over again. Scrambling to my feet, I ran to him, throwing myself in his arms. He held me tight.
“Oh God, I thought you were dead,” I managed to get out.
“Not today,” Devon said, and I could hear pain in his voice. Hurriedly, I stepped back, my gaze surveying him for injuries.
“What’s wrong? Did they shoot you?” I asked.
“It degenerated into a brawl,” he said. “Think they broke a couple of ribs, dislocated a finger. But they’re gone now.”
I was relieved to hear he hadn’t been shot, breathing out a sigh. “What about the others?”
“Only one casualty,” he said, indicating the man on deck. “Though Alexa’s been injured.”
“What happened? Is she all right?”
“One of them had a knife, which she ended up using on him, but not before he sliced her. Beau is taking care of her now.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, his expression turning anxious. “What happened to you? Why is there blood all over you? Are you hurt? Did someone get in? I left no one up here, or so I thought.”
“A guy came in, but I took care of him,” I said. “It’s his blood. Not mine.”
“His blood.” Devon looked pained. “Darling, I didn’t leave you with a weapon.”
“I found a hammer.”
I swear Devon grew pale.
“I left you alone and you had to defend yourself with a hammer,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m the worst fucking husband on the planet.”
“Stop,” I said. “It’s not your fault. You defended us, didn’t you? They’re gone. I’m fine. I did what I had to do.”
He shook his head slightly, staring at me in something close to stunned disbelief. “You’re amazing,” he said. “And calm.”
I didn’t know how calm I was, not on the inside, though maybe outwardly I seemed that way. I was reminded of when I was a kid. How do you keep going after a traumatic event? The answer was: You just did. You do what you have to do . . . and that’s what I’d done, before, during, and after the man had attacked me.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Devon said.
He took me back inside to what I called the bathroom and he called “the head,” assiduously washing my hands, then taking a cloth and wiping splatters from my arms and face. I tried not to think of how all that blood had gotten there. We’d skirted the body coming in, Devon taking a long look while I averted my gaze.
“Wait outside,” Devon said. “I’m going to run up and see the captain.”
He waited until I was out the door before climbing the short set of stairs to the top. I gazed off into the blackness that was the ocean at night, listening to the sound of the engine and waves. I didn’t look at the body of the crewman. I couldn’t. Tonight had turned into a nightmare.
The boats were long gone, thank God. As I was waiting, Beau and Alexa came around the corner. The other crewman was walking behind them. He stopped when he saw his partner’s body on the deck, but I couldn’t tell what he thought by looking at his face, which remained blank.
“How are you?” I asked Alexa.
Her face was creased in a grimace and white with pain. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just a scratch.”
“Bullshit,” Beau said. “You need stitches.”
“I’m not going to bleed to death,” she retorted. “Stitches are to prevent scarring, and I don’t really care if it leaves a scar.”
“You don’t have to prove to me you’re tough,” Beau said. “You held your own tonight.”
“Like I care what you think of me,” she said. “And you can bet your sweet American ass I held my own. As if there were any doubt.”
Beau grinned a little, not as much as he usually did, but it was enough for me to see that he liked Alexa. He liked her a lot.
The next couple of hours were spent with the men cleaning the deck while Alexa and I stayed in the gatehouse. She argued that she would help, but Devon told her in no uncertain terms that she was to stay with me. She opened her mouth to protest again, but then caught sight of the mangled body of the man I’d killed.
“Bloody hell, Devon,” she said. “Did you run out of bullets?”
“Ivy took care of that one,” Devon said.
She didn’t say anything as Devon dragged the body out. We sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Ever killed anyone before?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“You’ll get used to it.”
I didn’t know if that was sad or if it should make me feel better. Both, I thought.
“How many people have you killed?” I asked her.
“Too many.”
That sounded ominous. “And was the first time hard?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s like your first time having sex. You never forget even the smallest details.” She paused, staring off into space as though she were remembering. “He was an informant. Within our own government. A citizen turned spy.”
“That must’ve been hard,” I said. “It being one of your own countrymen.”
She turned to look at me. “Not just my countryman. My fiancé.”
I stared at her, open-mouthed. She looked away again.
“I suspected something was amiss, but I didn’t want to believe it. We were happy together, or so I thought. In the end, both of us were lying to each other. It was sad and tragic and all those adjectives they use in Nicholas Sparks novels. Only for us, there was no happy ending. He looked me in the eye when I shot him. He made his choice, and I had no alternative but to make mine.”
It sounded awful and horrible, and though she talked about it so matter-of-factly, I couldn’t imagine how an event like that had scarred her.
“Since you left the Shadow, have you just been running?” I asked. “Always looking over your shoulder in case Vega sends someone to kill you again?”
She shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but I’m still alive. Perhaps once Devon has done what he needs to do, I can stop running.”
“Will you help him?”
“I’ll do what I can,” she said. “But ultimately, only Devon has the power to take down Vega. No one else.”
I frowned in confusion. “Why do you say that?”
She looked at me, studying me as though trying to decide whether I could be trusted. She opened her mouth—
“All done,” Beau said, walking in the door. “And we’re almost there. Another ten minutes and we’ll meet our escort that’ll take us into Gitmo.” He walked up to Alexa. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m fine, I said.” She huffed in exasperation. “For a CIA spook, you sure worry like an old woman.”
“I just don’t want British MI6 crawling up my ass because you got yourself killed. They want you to work for them.”
Alexa snorted in disgust. “Like I want to sacrifice any more of my life for the noble cause. I’m through. I just want to live my life.”
“The CIA could help with that.”
“I�
�m sure they could.” The disbelief in her tone was obvious. “But I prefer my freedom. I answer to no one.”
“And there’s no one to know or care if you live or die.”
I wondered at the worry on Beau’s face and the stubborn set of Alexa’s delicate jaw as they stared each other down. Devon was taking it in, too, but where I was fascinated, he was impatient. Our gazes caught and he rolled his eyes. I hid a grin.
The military escort got us in to Gitmo and I was sorry it was still dark as it was hard to see much of anything. I was nearly dead on my feet from exhaustion and the adrenaline, not to mention the mental shock that still hovered on the edge of my mind from killing someone.
Little was said to us as Beau spoke with the guards who met us at the gate. We were taken to some kind of bunkhouse where I promptly flopped down on a semi-comfortable bed. I was out in minutes.
We left around mid-afternoon the next day, flying out on a private military plane, which bordered on luxurious. One of the men acting as a flight attendant said the plane had been confiscated from a drug lord, which explained the plush leather furniture. I felt better after some sleep and put what had happened on the boat from Key West to Cuba out of my mind.
Alexa was with us, after having been sewn up and given antibiotics by the medical officer on the base. And to my surprise, Beau came with us, too.
“I didn’t realize you were coming along,” Devon said to him. “Is this a recent development?”
It didn’t take a genius to hear how sardonic his tone was as he eyed Beau, then Alexa, who’d elected to sit in the last of the seats.
“Thought you could use another set of hands,” Beau said with a careless shrug. “I got authorization, and my boss wouldn’t mind a set of American eyes on events over there as they unfold.”
“I see. All very valid indeed.”
“Yes.”
The two men stared at each other, but neither one broke. It was interesting to watch Devon interact with another man, a friend. I hadn’t seen that before. Devon’s lips twitched slightly and he gave Beau a nod, then took the seat next to me. Beau hesitated a moment, then went back and sat in one of the two seats facing the rear directly in front of Alexa. I saw her raise an eyebrow.