If The Seas Catch Fire(67)

Dom crouched beside the wounded man and pulled out his pistol. “I’m sorry about this.” He tucked the gun up under the man’s chin.

The man groaned feebly and grabbed Dom’s arm. For a moment, Dom thought he was going to push his hand away, but he guided it upward. To his temple. Their eyes met, and the desperation hit Dom in the gut.

“It’ll be over soon,” Dom said quietly.

The man released his arm, and his eyes slid closed.

Dom pressed his finger into his own ear, the one closest to the bleeding man, and fired.

The body jerked, and then the man was still, but inside the boat, fresh chaos erupted. Two of Felice’s security guards appeared, guns drawn, but Dom put up his hand.

“Relax.” He gestured at the body. “Just putting him out of his misery.”

The men exchanged glances. They lowered their guns, but didn’t holster them.

Felice stormed back out, shoving the men apart so he could get by. “What the f*ck?” He threw up his hands. “Dom, what the hell are—”

“We’re not animals, Felice.” Dom rubbed his ringing ear. “You made your point. There was no need to let him suffer like that.”

Felice sighed sharply. To one of his men, he said, “Have the captain take us back out to sea. I don’t want a body floating in the harbor.” To the other, “Tell them”—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder—“to toss their buddy when we stop.”

The men left the deck, and Felice glared at Dom. Gesturing at the body, he growled, “You almost put a f*cking bullet through my boat, you know!”

“Put it on my tab,” Dom muttered.

Felice’s nostrils flared. Under his breath, he muttered, “Piece of shit,” and went back inside.

Alone, Dom exhaled. He glanced at Privitera. Then at the dead Korean.

Corrado was going to hit the roof. He loathed Felice’s disregard for their immigrant labor. And one of their own being offed right under their noses? On a boat?

Dom’s gaze slid toward the interior of the boat. The back of his neck prickled. Someone had done this, and whoever it was, they were still on board. Any other time, he might’ve suspected Felice, but he and Felice had been all but joined at the hip since they’d pulled away from the cargo ship.

Which meant it could’ve been anyone else. Literally anyone.

On his way back in, Dom kept his pistol handy. Safety off. Round in the chamber.

Couldn’t be too careful…





Chapter 19


Sergei was running out of time. He hadn’t anticipated being on the boat this long. It was supposed to be a simple job—kill the mark, jump ship, swim to the rendezvous point to meet Baltazar.

And now they were heading back out to sea. This was going to be a long swim, but he didn’t have a choice. Not while Felice’s men were tearing the boat apart in search of him. He needed to get to one of the aft sundecks, but there was a security guard between him and his escape route. And the boat was moving now.

He swallowed. If they stopped, and that f*ck was still between him and the water, then there’d be two dead Italians on board. No way was Sergei getting caught.

As the boat approached the harbor, the boat slowed, and Felice ordered the shaking Koreans to do their jobs. Sergei winced as they dragged a crab pot outside, but he didn’t have time to worry about them now. He had to get off this boat.

Sergei hurried out to the sundeck, past the two bodies, slipped off the rocking boat’s stern, and eased himself soundlessly into the water. He swam up between the hulls and grabbed onto the rope securing his equipment.

Teeth clenched to keep them from chattering—he was sure someone would hear him if he made a sound—he clipped the karabiners to his wetsuit. If the boat moved, he’d be dragged along with it, but at least he wouldn’t be left behind or caught in the props. As he cut away his tank, a heavy splash startled him. That wasn’t a crab pot dropping. Much too big and heavy.

Like a body.

Fuck! Now there was blood in the water. Which meant sharks.

Heart pounding, Sergei worked even faster, cutting away the ties that had secured his tank. Putting it on was a challenge when he was also clipped to the network of ropes, but it was a necessary evil. No way in hell was he getting left out here with no fins, no tanks, and a bleeding corpse nearby.

The tank was the most cumbersome part, especially since he couldn’t let it touch the hulls, or else the sound might echo and give him away. Finally, though, he had it secured to his shoulders. Once he had the regulator in his mouth and the air was flowing, he unclipped himself and the rest of his gear and dove beneath the surface.

He was right about the splash—the dead man floated on the surface, a rusty plume swelling beside his torso.

Definitely time to get the f*ck out of here.

Safely away from the propellers and hopefully out of sight, Sergei pulled on his fins, cleared his mask, and then started toward the shore. Considering some of the Italians thought it was fun to attract sharks and then shoot them, he dived deep to make sure they didn’t see him.

He looked at his watch. Shit. He was running out of time. Getting off the boat had taken a lot longer than planned, and Baltazar wasn’t going to wait for him.

“I don’t see you by 10:30,” he’d reminded Sergei last night, “I’m assuming you’re shark chum and I’m outta there.”