Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,108

pistol harder against Wolf’s temple. An involuntary grunt of pain sounded at the back of Wolf’s throat, and Mason clenched his fists.

“By my count, there should be two women and one old man,” Masked Man said. “Now, tell them to come out with their hands up.”

It went against everything in Mason to ask the ladies to move away from the safety of the trees. But Wolf’s jaw was beginning to sag. Time was of the essence.

“Alex!” he hollered over his shoulder. “Chrissy! Come out and join Doc and Romeo on the beach, please!”

“And the old man too.”

“Uncle John didn’t come with us to this side of the island,” Mason told the masked man. “My guess would be he’s on the satellite phone or marine radio calling in a Mayday as we speak. The Coasties will be swarming this whole place soon. Which means if you’re hoping to make a clean getaway, you better get the fuck on it.”

He could see the asshole’s jaw clench even through the fabric of the balaclava. But the guy took Mason’s advice and yelled over Wolf’s lolling head, “Everyone move twenty yards up the beach! Hands where I can see them the entire way!”

Glancing over his shoulder, Mason saw his friends trudging through the sand. Alex caught his gaze, her eyes wide and pleading with him to be careful.

There’d been a dull ache in his chest ever since she confessed to loving him. But seeing her now, maybe for the last time, made it grow sharp.

Someone had cut his heart in half. He feared that someone might be himself.

She wanted to know what his one do-over would be? It would be to go back in time to the moment she said the three most beautiful words in the English language. And instead of getting all bent out of shape and telling her she was too young and inexperienced to know what she was talking about, he would thank her for honoring him with such a sweet and wonderful gift. Then he would gently explain once again why she shouldn’t.

“Push the boat out and get in. Then, start the engine,” Balaclava Buttmunch commanded. “Do everything nice and slow, or your friend here gets what’s left of his head blown off.”

Mason did as instructed, pushing the dinghy into the warm, frothing surf and clambering aboard. The pull-motor took two tries, but eventually the diesel engine sputtered to life.

As soon as it was humming, the masked motherfucker unceremoniously let go of Wolf. He immediately turned to point the malevolent mouth of his pistol at Mason’s chest, and with a clenched jaw, Mason watched his friend crumple to the sand unconscious, his blood loss finally getting the better of him.

The hollow end of the Beretta never wavered as the ass clown climbed aboard the dinghy. Mason felt its sinister intent as surely as he felt the moisture in the night air.

Hitching his chin toward the horizon to the west, Masked Man said, “Head that way. Nice and easy.”

Mason engaged the engine and pointed the dinghy toward the speedboat he could see bobbing some distance out. For what seemed like a very long time, but in actuality could only have been a couple of minutes, he concentrated on piloting the little craft over the waves. Once they were past the surf, he turned back to see his friends on their knees, huddled around Wolf’s form. Doc whipped off his shirt and wound it around Wolf’s head.

Come on, Doc, Mason silently implored. Here’s where all that schooling comes in handy.

“How the hell do you sonsofbitches do it?” Masked Man broke into his thoughts.

“Do what?” Mason frowned as the dinghy plowed over a wave. When he braced himself, his foot brushed up against a towel that’d been left in the bottom of the boat.

“Come out on top every damn time,” his captor growled.

Mason lifted one shoulder. “Overabundance of training, I guess.”

“I was overabundantly trained, too, but you and yours have still bested me and mine twice now.”

Mason stared hard into the man’s icy green eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

An oily smile stretched thin lips. With his free hand, the man peeled back his balaclava, and the face that was revealed wasn’t one Mason had ever met in person. But neither was it one he was likely to forget.

It was the face of one Rory Gellman. An Army Ranger turned high-priced mercenary. The man the FBI had discovered was partially responsible for the assault on Garden Key and the subsequent events that