In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(17)

She once more grabbed on to his gear belt, taking comfort in the feel of his hard muscles against the backs of her fingers and the more lethal hardness of…

Oh, Frank, you wonderful, lovely man.

Okay, so Sharif now had them at a distinct disadvantage, considering he was the only one with a gun. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one with a weapon, because it wasn’t just Frank’s taut muscles brushing against her fingers. The deadly length of his seven-inch KA-BAR was right there, too.

Who brought a knife to a gunfight?

Frank Knight, that’s who.

***

Frank figured he was going to need a body bag—triple XL—when Becky’s fingers covertly reached into the back of his gear belt, silently withdrawing the deadly length of his KA-BAR. With the three of them crowded up against each other, front to back, Sharif couldn’t see that she was in the process of stealthily removing his knife from its sheath at his back and transferring it into the front pocket of her shorts.

Oh man, Rebecca. That’s a supremely bad idea!

But there was nothing he could do or say as Sharif commanded, “Hands over your head!”

Yeah, yeah. You’re in charge, you f*cking fancy-talking pirate.

He gritted his teeth as he reached for the ceiling. His trick shoulder had been whimpering ever since he’d Spider-Manned it up the side of the ship in order to reach their access point. Now that he was holding it above his head? Man, it was flat out shrieking.

Of course, that was the least of his worries considering ol’ Sharif was equipped with fifteen rounds of lead death while Rebel Reichert had just armed herself with seven inches of carbon steel.

“Now move to the right, over into that corner,” Sharif demanded, and Frank had no choice but to obey. He took six steps to his right, wedging himself into a tight space between the bulkhead and a piece of machinery with about a zillion switches that gouged into his side like sharp, bony fingers.

“Don’t turn around!” Sharif screeched when he started to do just that. “Keep facing the wall.”

Becky yelped at something Sharif did to her and Frank growled, the sound low and menacing as he rhythmically clenched his hands above his head. The muscles in his arms coiled and uncoiled, coiled and uncoiled.

Grinding his jaw hard enough to pulverize his teeth to dust, he listened intently as the two of them shuffled over to where he’d kicked the M4 and his reserve. The automatic made a familiar clacking sound as Sharif swung it over his shoulder and the .45 shushed as the fancy pirate shoved it into the waistband of his shorts.

“Now I’m going to count to ten,” Sharif explained quickly, panting slightly.

The guy was panicking.

Not good. Not f*cking good at all.

Panic could easily make a man forget just how much pressure he was applying with his trigger finger.

And the thought of losing Becky like that—

No. He couldn’t even contemplate it without having to suppress the urge to throw up. And right now he didn’t have that luxury. He needed all his senses and wits about him if he was going to get them both out of this clusterf*ck of a situation alive.

“If you so much as twitch before I finish,” Sharif sneered, “I’ll splatter her brains all over this engine room!”

And there you go. His worst nightmare put into words. He screwed his eyes shut and prayed to God Becky wouldn’t do anything stupid. The woman had more guts than most men twice her size, and he respected the shit out of her for it, but she didn’t have the reflexes or the training needed to get out of this situation unscathed. Sharif had three weapons to her one, which meant the guy had all the advantages. He only hoped she realized this and acted accordingly.

“One, two…” As Sharif started his countdown, Frank’s heart double-timed it, pounding in his ears so loudly it was difficult to hear the man’s voice as he moved Becky toward the exit. “…five, six…” The sound echoed dully, and he slowed his breathing, visualized his next move. “…eight…” His muscles coiled one last time. “…nine…” The Pentagon Elite II blade strapped to his chest was a comforting weight. “…ten.”

In a lightning-fast series of fluid movements, he burst from the cramped corner, reached under his web gear, unfolded the knife from its Kevlar-reinforced handle with a satisfying snick, caught sight of Sharif’s dark head above Becky’s blond one, and sent the stainless steel blade zinging through the air.

A split second before the knife would have embedded itself between Sharif’s villainous eyes, the guy slammed shut the airlock door. The blade bounced off the reinforced glass porthole at the top of the hatchway with a loud clink, but inside the engine room the sound was drowned out by his enraged roar.

Becky…no!

***

“Everybody back to the bridge!”

Eve was milling around the deck with the rest of the Hamilton’s thirty-some-odd crew members, still trying to absorb the astonishing fact that less than ten minutes ago she’d been liberated by a group of three dripping-wet, black-clad men who’d suddenly appeared like phantoms from out of the darkness of the night. They’d managed to disarm or otherwise incapacitate each and every one of the pirates.

And all in about six seconds.

It’d been a sight to see, that was for sure. Catlike reflexes and precisely choreographed movements. The pirates hadn’t known what hit them.