Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,2

our only chance to make it off this godforsaken island?”

Exactly why Bartolome had not kept the little boat for future use. His men were loyal and true, but desperation could make even the best of them lose sight of their ultimate purpose. No doubt, at some point, the boat would have proved too great a temptation.

“The men will not know of this.” Bartolome’s tone brooked no argument. When he lowered his chin to stare meaningfully at his midshipman, he saw the light dawn in Rosario’s eyes.

Yes, Bartolome Vargas would do anything to ensure the Santa Cristina’s treasure remained hidden from their enemies. Even if it meant his death.

Even if it meant all their deaths…

Chapter 1

Present day

7:05 a.m.

Mason McCarthy had a problem.

His problem was five feet tall. Had curly red hair that was only 50 percent tamed under the best of conditions, and 100 percent out of control this early in the morning. And she was sitting at a table by the window watching the multicolored ships of the shrimp fleet as they rocked precariously with the wave action out near the horizon while her fingers absently fiddled with the corner of a book.

Oh, and she was also studiously ignoring him.

She was wicked good at that last part. Was making a frickin’ hobby of it, as a matter of fact. Not that he could blame her, considering what she’d offered him.

And what he’d turned down.

Her name was Alexandra Merriweather. Alex for short, which was a ridiculously masculine moniker for such a tiny wisp of a woman. One with skin like porcelain, eyes the color of Colombian emeralds, and a laugh as sweet and tinkling as a music box.

She was his problem because…well…he liked her. Like, liked her liked her. And if his cheating ho of a wife—scratch that, rewind: that would be his cheating ho of an ex-wife—had taught him anything, it was that he wasn’t fit to like a woman like Alex.

Not anymore.

All the years schlepping his ass through countless missions, maiming and killing in the name of the flag, had turned him into something…not normal.

That was the phrase Sarah had used when he came home early to surprise her for her birthday, but instead found her screwing his ex-best friend in their marriage bed. Surprise!

“What d’you expect, Mason?” Sarah’s expression had been so sincere. “You’re gone all the time, and when you’re here, you’re not normal.”

Copy that. When it came to a life of violence, the effects were biological, physiological, and psychological. It was the price of being a warrior.

So even though he’d been heartbroken by her betrayal, he’d never worked up much anger over it. Then and now, there was no way to deny the truth. Mason McCarthy was no longer capable of living an ordinary life with the house, the wife, and the two-point-three kids.

The only reason he was sitting in this hotel bar now, a bona fide civilian, was because of a deathbed promise he and the rest of his teammates had made to Rusty Lawrence, the eighth man in their SEAL unit. Barring that, Mason figured he would’ve kept on running and gunning until he found the bullet with his name on it.

With a fingertip, he traced the scrolling black letters inked on the inside of his left forearm. For RL they read. Picturing Rusty’s craggy face, he tried to determine whether to curse the sorry sonofabitch or thank him for forcing them all to make that vow and wave their fond farewells to the navy.

A call of “G’morning, asshole!” cut into his thoughts. Turning, he found Ray “Wolf” Roanhorse standing behind him.

Since he’d yet to determine how good the morning was or wasn’t, Mason grunted his reply. Wolf, used to Mason’s wordless responses, bent to scratch Meat’s exposed belly.

The fat English bulldog slept on his back beside Mason’s barstool, dick and balls on display for the entire breakfast crowd, and his snores nearly drowning out the cries of the seagulls coming in through the hotel’s open windows.

Meat was the only thing Mason had taken from the divorce. He’d let Sarah have their restored three-decker in Southie, along with the furniture and all the minutia that went with a “normal” life. But Meat? Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but he’d have crossed hell with nothing but a bucket of ice water before he’d have let her keep his dog.

“A wise woman once said, ‘If you risk nothin’, you risk everythin’.’” With the unaffected ease that came with being supremely fit,