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The one with the birthmark fingered the pistol at his side. He didn’t take it out of his holster; instead he turned and disappeared into the captain’s cabin. The other man was staring daggers down at us.
This was it. This was the moment of truth. Lucien would walk out of that cabin and we would have him caught on film, owning up to being the captain of a ship carrying crates of illegal drugs.
We watched the door. Waited. Tensions rising. What was taking so long?
The door opened, the man with the birthmark stepping out first. Behind him stepped out another man, a tall one with sunglasses that shielded most of his face, a gait that said he was in charge, a jaw that was set like stone.
A jaw I had seen before. A face I recognized. Except it wasn’t Lucien who leaned on the yacht’s railing, looking down at us with a curious expression on his tight-lipped face.
It was Pierre Rose, and he was looking at us like he didn’t recognize us.
We had an opening. I had to take it because every second that passed shut the window of opportunity. I pushed aside my surprise and focused. “We’re here to get the Dragon,” I spoke up, standing, altering my voice enough to add an extra layer of camouflage.
“Where’s Norman? This is usually his pickup point…”
Norman. Dank69. So Pierre doesn’t know that Norman was arrested.
“Dank69 sent us,” I continued, thinking I’d pass the subtle test Pierre threw our way.
He considered us a moment longer, both our boats lifting and falling gently in the ocean’s slow dance. “Do you have all the money?”
“We’ll let you know once you show us all the Dragon,” Fox said. He too spoke in a deeper tone, but something in Pierre’s face told me recognition was beginning to spark.
We had to back out.
We had to back out now.
I slowly sat back down, my hand back on the throttle.
“You know, you two remind me of a pair that my husband hired. Foolishly. I should have brought him in on this venture, but I thought he’d be better in the dark. I didn’t think he’d hire two private detectives.” Pierre took a small, almost imperceptible step back from the railing. “Two private detectives who look exactly like you two.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Fox called up. “We’re here for the drugs.”
“That’s too bad, then.” Pierre’s smile slanted in a wicked way. “All you two are getting are bullets in the head.”
I started to reverse the boat, launching us backward, throwing Fox forward.
“Shoot them!” Pierre yelled.
Fox fell down from the momentum, just as gunshots started to ring out from above, raining a hellish round of death on us.
“Fuck!” Fox’s shout was almost as loud as the sound of bullets tearing through the barrel of a gun. Water splashed inches away from the boat. The both of us dropped, instincts kicking in over fear.
Another bang. Another splash. “We need to go,” Fox shouted. “I’m going to cover us—you’ve gotta drive.”
“Fox—”
Multiple, ear-popping bangs now. Multiples splashes. A couple of bullets managed to hit the boat, loud shattering erupting around us as the hull was punctured.
Now wasn’t the time to freeze. Fox was readying himself to start shooting. He pulled a gun from the holster he had concealed under his shirt.
He wanted me to grab the wheel and pilot this boat. But my hands—they were shaking in a real bad way. The sounds of the bullets whizzing through the air reminded me of the cold fire that came shortly after impact, the fire that spread into burning agony. I could almost feel the blood trickling down my neck again, feel myself giving out, my knees buckling.
“Jonah, you’ve got this, all right?”
Fox, with as much right as he had to look panicked, appeared as calm as the ocean water had been moments before it started being riddled with bullets.
His calmness gave me strength, his hazel eyes an anchor.
“Cover me,” I said, crawling back onto the captain’s seat, keeping as low a profile as I could. Behind me, Fox started to let off his shots, the sounds of his gun ringing even louder through my skull, vibrating inside of my bone marrow.
We’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.
I got my hands up on the steering wheel. I reached over and yanked the throttle down, and the boat shot backward, water spraying everywhere, bullets flying all around us. Fox fell down to the floor, the wind seeming to be knocked from his lungs. He got back up onto his knees, holding on to a couch as he tried crouching again, aiming his gun at the yacht’s deck.
Our boat was fast—thankfully Fox had decided to rent the more expensive version, and I had never been happier to not be dating a penny-pincher anymore. I miraculously managed to avoid hitting any of the mangroves as we reversed away from the yacht. I looked up, realizing the bullets had stopped, but the yacht was picking up speed and crossing the distance.
