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“Enough.”
Francis was adamant he never lied, which was almost a shame because he was fucking good at it.
Vitari forced his expression to stay blank and continued to rub at the ties around his wrists.
“The two of you are a problem,” Cisco began, glancing between them. “Angel has made it clear any bidding war is likely to be a stalling tactic. With that in mind, you’re already here, Padre, and we all want the same thing—both of you a long way from me and my Colombia.”
“Who wants him?” Francis asked.
“Russians, Mafia, a great many bounty hunters.” Cisco laughed. “I’m beginning to wonder why I don’t just shoot the both of you and be done with it.”
“No.” Francis stepped forward. “If Angel is killed, his father’s vengeance will destroy everything you have here.” He paused, took a breath, and said clearly, “As will mine.”
Cisco met and held Francis’s dead-eyed glare. “You threatening me, Padre?”
“Just stating facts. The way I see it, there’s only one way out of this that doesn’t see you suffer. Let us go. Kill us, harm us, or try and ransom us, and you will find Giancarlo and the Battaglia relentless in their pursuit to bring you down.”
Fuck, since when had Francis gotten so good at this? Vitari had always known he’d had it in him, seen glimpses of it, but this was another level.
Cisco glanced over at Vitari. “Giancarlo is old blood, on his way out. Someone is going to take his crown and soon,” he told Vitari. “What’s your plan, kid? Outlive his reign? See if the next boss will take you in? Lions kill the male cubs.”
“That’s my problem, not yours.” The ties holding his wrists behind his back snapped and fell away. Nobody saw; they were all too busy trying to get a read on Francis. The gun was on the table, no more than a lunge away. He’d get one, maybe two shots off before the guards reacted, but when they did, they’d spray the whole deck with automatic fire. Now was not the right time. He had to wait for an opportunity.
“Where’s the money?” Cisco asked Francis.
“In town. I’ll take you to it. But Angel comes too. We trade, and you let us leave?”
Vitari expected Cisco to argue, talk numbers, maybe even play a few games with Francis, try to figure out who he really was behind the myth. But Cisco gave it little thought and nodded. “You got yourself a deal.”
Vitari didn’t trust any of the men here, and he trusted Cisco least of all. Like Aikin, Cisco would take the money and try to gun them down. He’d have preferred to kill them on the yacht—no witnesses. But Francis had thought of that and left the money in San Blas. Good move.
The guards bundled Vitari into the speedboat—not noticing his freed hands, since he kept his wrists together. and Francis climbed in too—keeping his gaze off the water. Cisco and Sneakers rode in the middle, facing ahead. Vitari glanced at Francis—a quick flick—and caught Francis’s secret smile. Vitari couldn’t reach out, not when he was pretending to still be restrained, but the smile was enough.
Vitari had to look away to keep from grinning. Every fucking day, Francis surprised him. This Father Francis Scott in a drug runner’s boat was a long way from the Father Francis Scott from a quaint rural English church. Vitari couldn’t even claim to be the one who had corrupted him. Francis had always had it in him. The sinning saint…
“What’s that?” Francis asked, raising his voice over the outboard engine.
Another speedboat carved down the bay toward them, parallel to the beach. It wasn’t police, the boat was too small, but it was coming right for them.
Cisco had seen it too and pulled a 9mm gun from under his shirt. Rival cartels, or worse?
The other boat grew louder, engine roaring. A man stood at its bow and raised an automatic rifle.
“Down!” Cisco barked.
Vitari grabbed Francis, shoved him down, and ducked alongside him. Gunfire popped. Cisco fired back. The man working the outboard motor pulled on the steering bar, lurching their boat sideways. Water washed over the side. More gunfire barked. Vitari covered Francis and heard his muttered prayer—probably begging for his God to keep the boat afloat.
At a break in the chaos, Vitari lifted his head.
The other speedboat slowed, no more men pointing guns—the kill switch had been triggered.
“What the fuck was that?” Sneakers barked.
This was it, the opportunity to escape. Vitari lunged, plowed into Cisco, who stumbled, dropping his gun. Vitari grabbed it, pointed at Sneakers, and pulled the trigger. That’s for the plastic bag, asshole. Hit, Sneakers toppled over the side. Vitari swung and aimed between Cisco’s eyes but held off as Cisco flung his hands up. “Can snakes swim?”
Vitari didn’t wait for the answer, swung the fist not holding the gun, knocking Cisco back, then kicked his unbalanced wobble over the side.
The guy at the motor remained, but while Vitari had been scrabbling for the gun, Francis had thought ahead and snatched the guy’s rifle and had it pointed at him like the fucking badass he was.
