In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(12)
Indeed.
Only that was a complete and total crock of caca. On the outside, he might look calm and collected, because he’d learned to combat the mounting tension by concentrating on the words streaming across the pages of a book.
But on the inside?
Hell, on the inside he was a complete disaster. A bundle of jumpy nerves and crushing anxiety, tormented—just like always—by a nearly paralyzing battery of what-ifs.
What if they couldn’t get to Becky? Intelligence reports said she’d been sequestered down in the engine room. That huge space was a rabbit’s warren of machinery nooks and mechanical crannies. If they didn’t play their cards just right, it’d be a cinch for the guys guarding her to use her as a human shield and bring about a standoff that could very easily end in a bloodbath.
What if the pirates refused to be taken alive? Would they turn on the hostages? Images flashed through his brain like a strobe light. Becky getting hit, falling to the ground, bleeding out, her light forever extinguished.
He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to swallow the bile that climbed up the back of his throat, filling his mouth with the burning taste of battery acid. Ever since they’d received the news of Becky’s abduction, his ulcer had been chomping away at his stomach lining like the stuff was made of foie gras.
Of course, none of this showed on his tightly controlled face as the red light above the aft doors clicked from red to green.
“Suit up,” Boss commanded, and he pulled his Neoprene hood over his head and shoved his mask over his eyes.
The large steel door through which the SWCC—Special Warfare Combatant Crewmen—boys usually deployed their super sweet Mark V Special Operations Craft rolled open with a well-oiled hum. The low glow of nautical twilight bounced off the nearly glassine seas. It was the time of day when the molten sun slipped below the horizon, throwing golden rays skyward and reflecting off the ocean until it was hard to tell up from down.
Boss grinned and winked. “Perfect time of day for a rescue, my man. Time for the barbarians to come out and play. Hoo-ah?”
And even though he knew Boss was worried sick about Becky, that didn’t mean the man didn’t just live for this shit.
“Hoo-ah!” he gave Boss a thumbs up, trying not to grimace when his ulcer started in on a second helping. He pushed all 165 pounds of DPV out the door, watching it splash down into the dark ocean. A second later he jumped after it, falling six feet into the warm embrace of the salty water.
Scrubbing his mask with sea water to keep it from fogging up, he powered his DPV. With the help of the vehicle, he jetted a few yards from the hull of the slowly rocking destroyer before turning back to watch Angel jump from the huge ship.
The guy was the picture of grace as he pointed his toes and sliced through the ocean without creating the tiniest splash.
And the German judge gives him a perfect ten!
When Angel surfaced, he was quick to adjust his mask, fire up his DPV, and motor over to Bill.
“You really do know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asked the mysterious new Knight after plucking out his mouthpiece.
“I do.” Angel nodded, then made a face when Boss plunged into the ocean, creating a plume of water so huge it looked like a whale just breached. “The question is, does he?”
If the German judge would’ve given Angel a perfect ten, then Boss certainly deserved a perfect negative ten for that little exercise.
“Don’t let that dive fool you. I’ve seen him tightrope walk across phone lines over the roofs of Bagdad, watched him HELO jump out of a cargo plane in pitch-black darkness and manage to hit the DZ right on the X while the rest of us were barely able to come within a kilometer of the thing. One time he threaded himself and a string of det cord through a crawl space so small a raccoon would hesitate to enter. He’s just no good at illicit water entry if the jump point is more than a few feet from the surface. Goes in like a damn cannonball every single time.”
Angel’s painted face couldn’t camouflage his skepticism as Boss bobbed to the surface beside them.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Boss said, glancing at his waterproof titanium wristwatch, “we’ve got a fifteen minute swim to the Hamilton. Everyone clear on their mission?”
“Affirmative.” Bill nodded as Angel echoed his response.
“Then let’s harden our balls and our resolve and get this f*cker done.”
Bill chuckled at the look of incredulity that shot across Angel’s face. “I surely love your inspirational speeches, Boss.”
***
Sharif Garane watched the narrow back of the American woman as she wrestled with a large bolt on some huge machine in the British tanker’s sweltering engine room.
Rebecca Reichert was her name, but everyone called her Becky. He liked the sound of that. It suited her all-American looks.
He did not like her, however.
And had he known, when the directive came down for him to ensure she repaired the damaged engines on the tanker, that her tongue would be so abrasive, he might have passed on the opportunity.
Then again, probably not. This assignment was his ticket to economic freedom. If he could keep from killing her long enough for her to finish her repairs, that is…
“Sonofabitch!” she said as the bolt suddenly broke free and she banged her elbow on an adjacent piece of machinery.
He chuckled at her discomfort until she turned to glare at him, her dark eyes—so disconcerting against her fair coloring—shooting fire in his direction.