its pulley system offered some cover from anyone approaching from the rear.
But that wouldn’t last long. Sooner rather than later, their assailants would spot them. Mason just hoped he and Wolf had time to take out a couple of the bastards before that happened.
Sucking in a slow breath, he exhaled for a count of ten, numbered his heartbeats, and focused on matching the bank and sway of his weapon to the bank and sway of the catamaran.
“I’ll take out the pilot!” Wolf yelled, one eye to his Colt’s scope. “You go for Red Shirt!”
Mason didn’t ask why Wolf didn’t mention the dude from the hotel bar. It was obvious from the way the cheese-dick fired his weapon that he was the least seasoned of the three. Which meant he’d be saved for last.
First rule of combat. Take out the motherfuckers who know what they’re doing.
“You ready?” Wolf yelled.
Mason’s grip on the stock of his M4 tightened. The metal of his trigger was worn smooth by years of action and the thousands of rounds it’d sent downrange. His reply was a curt nod of his head.
“On the count of three! One! Two! Three!” Wolf roared and…Bam!…Mason squeezed off a shot, barely feeling the impact of the Colt’s recoil. He was too busy watching his target through his scope.
There was a sweet spot at the base of the skull called an “apricot.” Snipers aimed for it because it meant instant lights-out.
Mason wasn’t sure he’d hit his target’s apricot, but he’d scored a head shot. Pink blood sprayed from Red Shirt’s cranium a second before the man tumbled backward into the bottom of the speedboat.
Later, Mason would find a quiet spot to consider the weight of having snuffed out another life, but right then he didn’t give it a rat’s ass of a second thought. He immediately turned his weapon on the douche canoe from the hotel.
Unfortunately, before he could line up a shot, a bullet found one of the inboard engines. The catamaran let loose with a mighty groan, and the deck shuddered beneath them. Black, acrid smoke poured from the back of the boat, burning Mason’s throat and stinging his eyes. It effectively ruined any chance he had of getting a clear bead on the speedboat.
Without the aid of both engines, the catamaran veered off course. Waves splashed over the swim deck, dousing everything in fuel-tinged water. Up in the pilothouse, Chrissy quickly adjusted to the new normal, wrestling the boat back on track until the twins bows once again matched the direction of the following seas.
Good girl, Mason thought at the same time Wolf used a hand signal to indicate they should make for the portside. The wind pushed the smoke starboard. So the left side of the catamaran was the last/best option for finding a bettering firing position.
“Mine’s down!” he yelled to Wolf as they crouch-ran across the deck. “Yours?”
“Dunno!” Wolf blinked back tears brought on by the foul smoke. “Engine blew before I could confirm and… Damn it! Starboard! Starboard!”
Mason swung his Colt around in time to see the nose of the speedboat edging past the back end of the catamaran. The blown engine meant they’d lost speed quickly. Their pursuers had overtaken them.
Mason only had time to squeeze off one round before…Bwaaaarrr!…a barrage of bullets blasted across the boat. He and Wolf were forced to hit the deck.
Fuck! was his first thought as he pancaked. His second thought was Fuck, fuck, fuck! Because the door to the pilothouse burst open, and a tiny white hand holding a big black gun appeared in the void.
“Alex, no!” he bellowed, wondering if was possible to shit his own heart. But he was too late. She got off a shot, and immediately the bastards in the speedboat turned their fire her way. Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Mason watched in horror as the pilothouse took on the look of a cheese grater.
“No!” he yelled again, but he couldn’t afford to waste time on having the stroke he so richly deserved. He had to take advantage of the opening Alex had given him.
Wolf didn’t hesitate either. He jumped to his feet, lifted his Colt, and beat Mason in getting off a round. Fire blinked from the end of his rifle, and Mason saw a hole open up in the side of the speedboat pilot’s face a split second before the man went flying overboard.
Two down, he thought grimly, turning to aim at Hotel Guy, the last man standing.
Mason took his shot, but he couldn’t be