Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(94)
“Give us the case with the chemicals,” he said, his accent so slight it was hard to tell exactly where he was from. Certainly not Miami, though the brief glimpse she’d gotten of his attire would say otherwise.
“No!” Leo yelled in return. She held her breath and scooted over the threshold, standing slowly, careful to keep herself concealed behind the wall of the living quarters. Night had fallen over the Straits of Florida. Only a dim line of sunshine kissed the sea along the western horizon, limning the sky in an eerie orangey-red. Silver stars were beginning to punch through the darkness overhead. And since the waves had died down, the glassy water reflected the pinpoints of light until it looked like there were two skies. She noted all of this in passing as she skirted around the side of the main cabin and carefully took the port-side stairs down to the lower deck. She crept forward slowly, turkey-peeking around the edge of the living quarters twice to get her bearings.
“Give us the chemicals!” the stranger shouted again, his voice carrying out over the dark water.
“Fuck you!” Leo barked.
“I believe you are the one who is f*cked!” The stranger snorted a laugh. “We have you outgunned.”
And that’s when Olivia made her move. She stepped from around the corner, the AK-47 raised to her shoulder, a head wearing a floppy hat smack-dab in the crosshairs of her sights. “Count again!” she yelled.
*
7:26 p.m.…
At the sound of Olivia’s voice, Leo briefly closed his eyes and managed, just barely, to stifle a pained groan.
Brave, fearless, idiotic woman! Why can’t she just stay put? Oh, right. Because she’s brave and fearless. Shit on a shovel.
The group of men glanced at her from the corners of their eyes, but they didn’t stop aiming at Leo and his friends in order to center her in their sights. He took comfort in that. That’s right, *s. Just keep pointin’ those sawguns right here.
“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” the * in the ridiculous T-shirt and floppy hat called. It had been clear from the get-go he was the ringleader. He’d been the one to convey orders the whole time the fishing boat was throwing over bumpers and tying up to the Black Gold. Leo and the SEALs had remained leaning against the bulkhead of the main living quarters, their M4s carefully concealed behind their backs—you know, just in case—as the yacht’s crew helped tie off ropes and started handing over quarts of oil.
And that’s when things went to hell in a handbasket. Because just as Nigel the Deckhand was poised to toss over a couple more plastic bottles of Pennzoil Marine Motor Oil, Floppy Hat drew down on him. And then it was a case of who can arm themselves the quickest? For the record, it was a draw. Which is why they were now in the middle of a Wild Wild West-style showdown.
“Did you hear me?” Floppy Hat called. “I said we don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Yeah, right. Leo barely refrained from snorting. Over the years, he’d looked into the eyes of enough radicals to recognize a killing gleam when he saw one. And these boys? Well, they wore those familiar gleams in spades. Chemicals or no chemicals, they planned to kill everyone on board the Black Gold the first chance they got.
“We just want the case,” Floppy Hat insisted.
“You’re too late,” Leo growled, biding his time and channeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins until all his senses were heightened. Floppy Hat’s face was crystal clear. The sound of the boats rocking against each other with a gentle thunk, thunk was amplified, and the smell of outboard engine fuel and silver polish hung heavy in the air. “The chems are already gone.”
Floppy Hat’s eyes narrowed. “You lie.”
Leo lifted one shoulder, sensing Olivia behind him as if there were an invisible cord attaching him to her, tugging at his heart. He wished she’d just stayed inside. This situation was a powder keg waiting to go kaboom, and he wanted her hell and gone when it did.
“I don’t make a habit of it,” he said.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Bran adjusting his stance, slowly slipping one foot back, twisting his body just slightly. It was a posture Leo knew all too well. The one his best friend assumed when he needed to take out multiple targets in quick order.
Right. So that’s the plan.
He, Wolf, and Mason would each pop off one guy—the one who was directly across from them. And Bran, Mr. Crack Shot, would pop off the two who were directly across from him. Now, they just had to time their shots at precisely the same moment, taking the whole group by surprise.
Good thing they’d trained for exactly this type of situation.
“You say they are no longer here. So then, where do you propose they have gone?” Floppy Hat demanded, his tone telegraphing his belief that they hadn’t gone anywhere.
“Doesn’t matter,” Leo said, tightening his finger on the trigger, breathing out slowly to steady his heart and solidify his hold. He could feel his friends’ tension vibrating through the night air like a storm about to break. They were ready. And waiting on his signal. His world squeezed down to Floppy Hat and the spot in the center of his forehead. “You’ll never see hide nor hair of ’em.” And before Floppy Hat could reply to that, he bellowed, “Now!”
The roar of three simultaneous shots and another a split second later boomed over the deck, making his eardrums pop. Even still, he heard his own trigger click ominously. Jammed. Fuuuuccckkk! Down the length of his sights, he saw red holes erupt in the heads of Floppy Hat’s men just as the muscles in Floppy Hat’s forearm bunched when he tightened his finger around his trigger.