Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,100

brain tried to reason out what the object could be and who could be out there wielding it. Then, her misfiring synapses sparked.

Gun!

She screamed at the same time Mason said something under his breath that wasn’t fit for inexperienced ears.

Chapter 26

12:32 a.m.

Alex loving him got filed directly under Least of My Worries when an AR-15 nosed through Mason’s bedroom door.

It wasn’t conscious thought. It was more instinct that had him grabbing the barrel of the weapon and yanking the man attached to it into the room. With his free hand, he slapped his palm against the butt of the rifle, effectively twisting it out of his assailant’s grip and breaking the ass clown’s finger against the trigger guard in the process.

The snap of the bone was obscenely loud as it reverberated above the sound of Meat’s growls and snarls downstairs. But it wasn’t as obscene as the high-pitched squeal the man made when he cradled his mangled hand to his chest. His face was covered by a black balaclava, but the whites of his eyes were stark with pain.

That’s gonna feel like a hand job from an angel compared to this!

Mason spun the rifle, fit the stock against his shoulder, and took aim. But before he could squeeze off a shot, his bedroom door flew open so fast and hard the doorknob buried itself in the drywall.

“Drop it!” a heavily accented voice screamed from the darkness.

Mason squinted. He could barely make out the silhouette of another man dressed head to toe in black. But he had no problem seeing the hole that stared at him from the end of another assault rifle. It was a deeper shadow among the shadows. A thing he’d learned to recognize early in his career because it ate all light.

How the fuck did these motherfuckers make it ashore?

There was only one way. One or more of Mason’s friends, his brothers in every way but blood, had to be dead. And if they’d managed to call in a Mayday, he’d missed it because his fucking walkie-talkie had gone tits up.

The rank taste of remorse mixed with the sour flavor of rage on his tongue. Every cell in his body wanted to rant and rave and leave nothing but carnage in its wake. But good sense prevailed.

Good sense and the need to figure out what he was dealing with so he could save Alex and the others.

Speaking of… What the hell happened to Uncle John? His room was across the hall. Surely, if he’d been in there, he would’ve come out to see what the commotion was about. And what about Chrissy? She’d been on the trundle bed last Mason knew.

Too many unknowns.

Instead of doing as he was told and dropping the AR-15 to the floor, Mason allowed his mouth to curve into a mockery of a smile. “Dunno who you motherfuckers are. But let me tell you who I’m not. That’s some run-of-the-mill chickenshit whose eyes go all pie plate at the sight of a loaded weapon pointed my way.” Venom dripped from his tongue. It matched the poison pumping out of his heart.

He wasn’t one for words, but he found he couldn’t stop talking. “You can sure as fuck put one in me,” he told the man in the hall. “But not before I decorate the wall with fifty shades of your friend’s gray matter. So, if I were you, I’d put that rifle on the floor, nice and slow, and then kick it my way. I’ll give you to the count of ten before I pull the trigger. Fair warning, though, I’m starting at six.”

A hoot of laughter echoed around the hall. It was caustic, hitting Mason’s ears like acid. Before he could blink, the evil black eye of the assault rifle slid from his chest to aim into the room behind him.

He heard Alex gasp like she’d been slapped. All the blood drained from his head, leaving him dizzy, because…

Game over.

He’d never had an Achilles’ heel before.

He had one now.

Her name was Alexandra Merriweather. And despite all the reasons why she shouldn’t, she loved him. He’d never be able to live with himself if something happened to her on his watch.

With a harshly whispered “Fuck!” he lowered the AR-15 to the wood-plank floor.

The prick whose finger he broke snatched it up. Using his good hand, the man awkwardly aimed it at Mason’s head, the barrel weaving and swaying.

“Careful,” Mason warned the guy. “Wouldn’t want that to go off.” He glanced from one masked