Page 128 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

It was not a good situation.

Cross should be scared shitless.

Really, he was just enraged.

Rhys had sent a whole new group of men to pick up the drop. From the jump, Cross took note of the difference in the men from the last group he worked with for Rhys. They were rude, demanding, and difficult. One had grabbed a bottle of vodka from the yacht’s wet bar, and another had took a piss over the railing.

Behavior that was unsettling.

Still, Cross had directed them to the smuggled guns hidden in the one room and inside the ship’s hull. He had done what he needed to do because the sooner it was over, the sooner he could get Catherine back to safer ground.

Apparently, he should have forced her to stay on the beach.

Fucking assholes.

Cross came up on deck and kept his gun hidden just behind his back. Three men. Across the way, with about ten feet between their anchored boats, one man slipped out of Cross’s view as he headed below deck. He didn’t know where the other guy was that had been on the other boat when he went in search of fucker number four that suddenly went missing without his friends noticing.

The man on the yacht worked to untie the planks they had set up between the two ships. It was made up of boards and tied rope. The makeshift ramp had been set on the stairs to easily walk back and forth while the guns were moved from one ship to the other.

One down, Cross thought.

At least, the guns were on the other boat. That was going to make things … easier. Less clean up, anyway.

He lifted his gun from behind his back just as he noticed the man he couldn’t find on the other boat come back from the bow section. He saw Cross’s gun. It was too late to change plans, now.

“Hey!”

The guy working on the ramp turned to look at Cross.

He just pulled the fucking trigger.

Blood and other matter sprayed as another gunshot rang out. Instantly, Cross hit the fucking deck, and reached for the gun that was tucked into the dead man’s waistband. He kicked the ramp off between the two boats to keep the other fuckers from coming onto his yacht, and rolled over to his back.

“You’re a dead man!”

Whatever.

Cross ignored the threat.

Already he had the guns pointed toward the one man he knew was on deck. The guy fired a shot just as Cross aimed. The bullet plugged into the deck next to Cross’s leg. He didn’t even fucking flinch.

“You’re a shit shot,” Cross said.

He definitely wasn’t, though.

The guy tried to duck around a railing on the deck of the other boat, but Cross saw that coming. He adjusted his aim at the same time and fired.

The bullet ripped into the man’s shoulder, and sent him sprawling forward. Cross took a second shot without hesitation, and already had his arm with the other gun outstretched and pointing in an entirely different direction.

Once he saw the shot hit its target—right in the back of the guy’s head—he looked where he needed to for his next shot. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen a flash of black clothing.

“Drop the fucking gun,” the man ordered.

Cross’s brow furrowed for a second. He stared ten feet across from him to where the guy was aiming at him with an assault rifle.

“Shoot,” Cross urged.

The guy didn’t move, and his finger wrapped the trigger.