“What do you mean?” Maddy asked, skirting the body of Bad Knee to come stand beside Bran.
When she reached for his hand, Mason saw Bran stiffen. But that only lasted a split second. Then it was like something inside Bran broke loose and he curled his fingers through Maddy’s, dragging her close to his side. The look on Maddy’s face when she glanced at Bran was one Mason recognized. Longing and hero-worship and…something more.
It was the something more that worried him.
Bran didn’t believe in happily-ever-afters. Which meant at some point in the near future, that bouquet of heart-shaped balloons flying above Maddy’s head would inevitably meet the sharp pins of Bran’s unshakeable resolve.
This’ll get ugly, Mason thought as he lowered his weapon and swung the strap of his rifle over his shoulder. The metal of the weapon was cool where it rested against his bare back, the weight comforting.
“While I was in the surf, watching and waiting to see what the masked assholes were getting up to,” Bran said, “Mason snuck aboard their fishing boat to disable their radio and satellite phone. Rule number one for any successful battle is knock out the enemy’s communications. While he was there, he cut a hole in their fuel line. Rule number two for any successful battle is to block any avenue of escape. They’ll make it maybe a mile or two before they run outta gas. You didn’t really think I was serious when I told them they could leave the island no questions asked, did you?”
“Well…I…” Maddy blinked. “I reckon I did.”
“Much to learn you still have,” Bran said, doing a pretty spot-on impression of Yoda.
A smile more radiant than the lighthouse’s glow spread across Maddy’s face.
Going to get so fuckin’ ugly, Mason thought again. Aloud he asked, “So what now?”
“Now, Maddy and I go get the girls,” Bran said, just as the sound of an outboard engine sputtered to life. Fuckheads One and Two were on their way to nowhere fast. “You still got that flare handy?”
Mason reached into his pocket to remove the flare stick.
“Good.” Bran dipped his chin. “If Alex is still out there, it’s time to bring her in.”
Mason was overcome by the urge to run up to the parapets and fire off the flare, but he managed to keep his cool. They had a plan to make. “If she is still out there, you think we should load everyone up on the catamaran and sail back to Wayfarer Island?” He’d seen just about all he’d wanted to see of Garden Key and Fort Jefferson, thanks.
“Not sure that’s a good idea.” A concerned line sliced between Bran’s eyebrows. “Bum Knee kept calling this a job. Which means this wasn’t their brainiac scheme but someone else’s. They won’t be able to call that someone else with their coms down. But the thought that there are others involved makes my asshole pinch. Being out on the open ocean when we aren’t sure who else might be skulking about…” He trailed off.
“Ya-huh.” Mason nodded. “Better to be inside a fuckin’ fort should whoever hired them get tired of waiting on their call and decide to come investigate.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Bran agreed. “Hopefully the marine radio on the catamaran will be able to reach Wayfarer Island. If so, we’ll have LT make a satphone call to the Coast Guard on Key West and tell ’em to get their asses here ASAP.” Before Mason could raise the issue of the wrench that might get thrown into that plan, Bran addressed it himself. “Sure, whoever those asswipes are working for might hear our call over the marine channels, but so what? Again, we’ll have the high ground, we’ll be inside a fort, and we’re not lacking in weapons. I think the odds are in our favor should anyone attempt to make landfall here on Garden Key.”
“Agreed,” Mason said. “And if Alex isn’t out there, then hopefully she’s well on her way back home and the end result will be the same. A satphone call back to Key West and Coast Guard to the rescue.”
“You got it, paisano.” Bran dipped his chin.
But there was one last hitch. And even though the flare stick was burning a hole in Mason’s hand, he forced calm and asked the final question. “What if the marine radio isn’t strong enough to reach home?”
“Then we stay holed up in the fort until the fast ferry or a floatplane arrives tomorrow.”
“Right.” Mason nodded. And then he couldn’t stand it a second longer. He turned and ran for the nearest casemate and the stairs that led up to the top of the parapets. As his legs chewed up the distance, his fisted heart seemed to pound out a name in Morse code against his ribs.
Alex…
She was the thorn in his side. The bane of his existence. But he hoped she hadn’t set sail for Wayfarer Island. Because everything that was anything inside him desperately needed to see her and make sure she was okay.
* * *
8:17 p.m.…
“It’s takin’ too long,” Gene insisted.
For the last hour, he had been trying to pace a hole through the deck of the yacht, and it was starting to drive Tony in-fucking-sane. The fact that he was on his third cocktail should’ve meant the sharp edges of his nerves were smoothed over by top-shelf scotch, but to his dismay, they were not. He was so wired it was a wonder he wasn’t shooting sparks from his ass.
And Gene wasn’t helping, damnit!
“Sit down, Gene,” he snarled, not hiding the impatience in his voice.
“Screw you, Tony,” Gene snapped, whipping off his Stetson to run his shaky fingers through his thinning hair. The ocean breeze blowing across the back of the motor yacht caught the sweaty strands and lifted them in hunks. “I don’t take orders. And I’m tellin’ you, it’s takin’ too goddamn long. Somethin’ is wrong. You get on that satellite phone, call up your guys”—when Gene stressed those two words, Tony squeezed his highball glass so hard it was a miracle he didn’t shatter it—“and get a situation report right now.”
“I’m not going to do that, Gene,” he said as calmly as he could.
“The hell you say!” Gene thundered, his blood pressure boiling so hot and fast that his face flushed ruddy in the overhead light, his eyes going bloodshot in an instant. “In case you’ve forgotten, Anthony, we’re partners in this. And she’s my fuckin’—”
“I won’t call them.” Tony cut him off and waited to see if that vein snaking up the center of Gene’s forehead would blow. It pulsed frantically for a couple of seconds, but seemed to hold. “We need to stick to the plan. And the plan is I wait for them to call me. I won’t disturb them before then. Who knows what they’re dealing with? They could have run into some kind of issue.”
All the blood drained from Gene’s face as he stopped pacing to glare at Tony. “Like what?” he demanded. “What possible issue could a group of highly trained, armed men run into on a remote island filled with nothin’ but three teenage girls, one woman, and a guy who decided to make a career out of huggin’ trees?”
“If I knew the answer to that,” Tony told him, feeling the vein in his own forehead pulse menacingly, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? Now sit down, Gene. I’m sure everything is fine and the phone will be ringing any minute to tell us they’ve got them. Then they’ll sail Maddy and the girls out to international waters and call in the ransom, just like we planned. The ball will be rolling into our court.”
“I don’t know…” Gene shook his head.
Tony glanced over his shoulder at the man who covertly poked his head around the door leading into the cabin. Gene thought he was just another one of Tony’s guys, brought onboard to help pilot the little yacht. And that was true. That was part of his job description. The other part of his job description was that he would help Tony implement Plan B, should the need arise.
The man lifted an inquiring brow and Tony subtly shook his head. Not yet. Let’s give it a little more time.
* * *
8:35 p.m.…
Alex tossed the anchor o
verboard and watched it sink to the shallow, sandy bottom. She’d sailed the catamaran to within forty feet of the beach on Garden Key, and on an impulse she decided to forgo using the dinghy to make it the rest of the way.
It’ll take too much time.
Tucking her glasses into the front pocket of her shorts, she pinched her nose and chucked herself over the side of the sailboat, hitting the water like a lead anvil—gracefulness had never been her strong suit. The sea was colder than she anticipated when it rolled over her head. The average water temperature in the Gulf of Mexico this time of year was anywhere between sixty-five and seventy-five degrees. But the raised goose bumps on her bare arms and legs told her this particular spot was far below the norm.
She came up sputtering.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she heard Mason curse. Sound traveled easily on the water. “Of all the crazy-assed—”
She wasn’t sure how he ended that sentence. She was too busy stroking for shore. With every second that passed, with every inch she gained toward the beach, the composure she’d managed to don in the last few minutes slipped away.
Ninety minutes…
Ninety minutes! That’s how long she’d been forced to sit out there, desperate to know what was happening after they’d gone overboard. Longing to help. Terrified out of her mind.
Ninety minutes of conjuring up a million horrible scenarios that ended with Mason and Bran dead or dying—after all, there had been all that gunfire right at the start. Ninety minutes of wringing her hands and tearing out her hair and deciding to pull anchor and set sail to help, only to remind herself that Mason had told her to stay put. Ninety minutes of pacing. Ninety minutes of peering through the binoculars. Ninety minutes of angry crying that turned into scared crying that inevitably gave way to frustrated crying. And around and around it’d gone in a vicious circle.
And then, after all that crying and pacing and hair-pulling and hand-wringing and second-guessing had come the three gunshots. Just three. Bam! Followed by boom, boom! Then more silence. Silence that was eventually broken by the roar of an outboard engine grumbling to a start. That had lasted all of about fifteen seconds before the deeper sound of inboard engines resounded across the open water. Through the binoculars, she’d watched the fishing boat emerge from around the side of the fort and zoom away from the island, its twin motors frothing up white water that played havoc with the dingy trailing behind the boat on a long rope.
It was then she’d really had a meltdown of near-nuclear proportions. Because she’d known with one-hundred-percent certainty that Mason and Bran weren’t on that boat. No way would they have left her floating alone without a word.
They’re dead.
Her heart had shattered, just…crash. And a million sharp pieces had shredded her soul. And then she’d seen it…
It had risen above the brick parapets, glorious and golden and bright beside the light of the low-hanging moon. The flare.
He’s alive! They’re alive!
She’d raced to start the sailboat’s engines. And when she’d rounded the island, and through the binoculars saw Mason waiting for her on the beach—all big and strong and alive, his shaggy black hair glinting in the glow from the lighthouse, his granite jaw set at that stern, uncompromising angle—she’d wondered if it was possible for a person to die from sheer joy and relief.
“Damnit, Alex,” Mason said now, his voice shockingly close.
She splashed to a stop, coughing on the seawater that invaded her mouth when it opened in a shocked O. He’d waded away from the beach to meet her and was standing in water up to his chest. The waves toyed with the silver piece of eight he and all the rest of the Deep Six Salvage guys wore around their necks.
Even without her glasses on, she could see his expression wasn’t exactly welcoming. Neither were his words. “You couldn’t bring the dinghy with you? Now I have to swim out to the—”
She didn’t let him finish. She was so happy to see his sourpuss face and hear his cantankerous complaints that she swam straight into his arms, squeezing him until he grunted. Burying her nose in shoulder, she breathed in the unique scent of him. Watercolor paints and coconut oil.
Yes, big, bad Mason McCarthy was an artist. That’s how he’d gotten the SEAL nom de guerre of “Monet.” Though she rarely heard the others actually call him that. Maybe because watching him sit on that little stool with his easel and his paint palette was like watching an elephant perform The Nutcracker. It simply boggled the mind.
She gave him another heartfelt squeeze and decided it was sort of like hugging a sack of potatoes. He was all hard and lumpy…and hot. “What happened to your shirt?”
Not that she was complaining. Mason McCarthy in the semi-buff was quite a sight to behold.
She pulled back to find he had the strangest look on his face. It wasn’t derisive or sarcastic. It wasn’t even mildly annoyed. Nope. It was…shocked. Or pained, maybe?
“What?” She peered into the water around them. “Did you step on a jellyfish or something?”
“No.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
And then it occurred to her… “Is Bran okay? Oh, for the love of… He’s not hurt, is he?” The roar of her heart sounded like a waterfall in her ears.
“No.” Now his eye was twitching.
“Madison Powers? Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
“And the girls?”
“Fine.”
“So what is it?” she demanded. “Why do you look like someone shoved a porcupine up your ass?”
“Don’t,” he said, reaching behind his back to unhook her ankles. Then he unwound her arms from around his neck and gently pushed her away.
“And Monsieur Monosyllable strikes again!” she said, frowning and treading water beside him.
“I need to get to the catamaran and try to use the marine radio to call back to Wayfarer Island.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He cut her off, wading further into the sea.
“But aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?” All those happy, sparkly feelings she’d been having were starting to wear off. She was reminded why she and Mason didn’t get along. It was because he was the most impossible man. “After almost an hour and a half, I think I deserve an explan—”
“Later,” he muttered, stroking toward the sailboat.
“Wow!” she called after him. “How is it you’ve never been voted Mr. Personality? I mean, with conversational chops like that?”
He didn’t turn back. Didn’t stop swimming. Simply ignored her and kept stroking across the tops of the waves, his huge arms and massive shoulders making the exercise look effortless.
So…same ol’, same ol’.
And why that should cause an ache to form somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, she didn’t know. Or maybe she just didn’t want to know.
Yup! And there they are. Right on schedule.
All her conflicting feelings were back in full force.
Chapter 13
8:51 p.m.…
“It’s empty,” Alex said after peering into the park ranger’s refrigerator, causing Bran to bite the inside of his cheek.
After he and Maddy rescued the missing girls—thankfully, they’d been precisely where the masked asshole said they’d be, scared but unharmed and terribly happy to see Maddy—they’d trudged from the fort and across the bridge, intending to gather Rick and Sally Mae before heading back to the fort to keep watch. But about halfway down the beach, they saw Alex wading onto the sand.
After the introductions had been made and Alex had been brought up to speed on the events of the night, she proceeded to do what she did best: jabber nonstop and make herself right at home.
“I mean, I’ve never seen a fridge this empty,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. Her riot of curls was drying and poking out every which
way until it looked like she’d gone through hell in a high wind.
“It’s not empty,” Ranger Rick assured her, leaning against the Formica countertop. “It’s just…slim pickings.”
“Slim pickings?” Alex glanced from him to the refrigerator, back to Rick, and then back to the refrigerator. “It’s like The Grapes of Wrath in here.”
Bran snorted, happy for the levity Alex brought to the situation. It helped him feel more like his usual self. The monster having been safely tucked away. Its claws sheathed. Its fangs filed.
He blew out a deep breath that immediately strangled in his throat when Maddy walked over to him and laced her fingers through his. She’d passed out water bottles and comforted the teens as best she could. But now, to his complete dismay, she gravitated toward his side and acted like that whole hand-holding thing after the standoff by the gunpowder magazine house wasn’t a onetime deal.
He’d allowed it then because she’d seemed to need it, seemed to need his physical touch for reassurance. But now? Well, now, if he let her hold his hand it would mean…something it shouldn’t.
“What do you usually eat?” Alex asked Rick, dragging Bran from his thoughts. He extricated his hand from Maddy’s by pretending he needed to check something on the side of his M4. Cowardly? Sure. But at least it got the job done. And never mind that the skin of his palm missed the feel of hers against it.
“Mostly PB and J,” Rick said.
“Oh, good!” Alex beamed. “One of my faves.” She reached into the refrigerator and grabbed the jar of strawberry jelly from the middle shelf. Turning, she brandished it triumphantly and asked, “So where are the PB and the bread to go along with this J?”
Rick opened the breadbox and pulled out a loaf of classic white Wonder Bread. He passed it to Alex and opened a cupboard door to take down a half-empty jar of Jif.
“Thank you.” She gave him a toothy smile that, unless Bran was mistaken, made Rick blush. It hit Bran then… Alex was pretty. In a wholesome, quirky kind of way.
Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six) Page 13