Mason was able to skirt the front of the cart with a Heisman Trophy–worthy juke move, which meant he was the first into the alleyway. That also meant he was the first to see Gellman’s fatal mistake.
It was a dead end. The trash-strewn back street was closed off by a ten-foot chain-link fence. And while Gellman was doing his best to climb the sucker, the cast on the arm Mason had broken while they fought in the dinghy was slowing him down. Also, the fence was old and rusty. Every time Gellman got a good foothold, the metal gave way and he fell back to the ground.
“End of the road, Gellman!” Mason yelled as he skidded to a halt six feet from the asshole. He could feel Doc, who had managed to navigate the shopping cart, come to a stop behind him.
Gellman reached into his front waistband, and ice ran through Mason’s veins. Despite the heat of the day, angry goose bumps erupted along the back of his neck.
He took two steps forward. His voice was low and deadly when he said, “Only assholes keep their guns in their front waistbands. You know how I know this? ’Cause the only way you’d be walking around without fear of blowing your cock off is if you keep the safety on or don’t have one in the chamber. Either way, there’s no way you can draw and fire before I punch you so hard you’ll be eating your own fucking teeth.”
Gellman, proving himself a complete idiot, didn’t heed Mason’s warning. He pulled his pistol and Mason balled up his fist, letting it fly with all the hard-packed muscle he had in him.
The sound of Gellman’s front tooth cracking off was wickedly satisfying. So was the blood that poured down Gellman’s chin when he stumbled back, his shoulder slamming into the chain-link fence, which acted as a trampoline and propelled him straight back into Mason’s arms.
Caught unaware, Mason barely had time to catch the fucker before he felt Gellman’s pistol—which the asshat had somehow managed to hang onto—poke into his gut.
“Use it or toss it away,” he growled into the merc’s bloodied face. “I don’t have time for your indecisiveness.”
“Jesus, Mason!” Doc yelled, but Mason ignored him.
He saw the truth in Gellman’s eyes. He’d been right about the mercenary’s gun chamber being empty. And Gellman knew as well as he did that Mason’s first punch was nothing compared to what would come next should Gellman pull the trigger.
“How the hell did you find me?” Gellman panted, the whites of his eyes shot through with blood veins. He looked worse than Mason and Doc. Which wasn’t surprising, considering the only thing more exhausting than chasing down an asshole was being an asshole on the run.
“Easy.” Mason smiled, but it was all teeth and no feeling. “Every slug leaves a trail.”
“Fuck you,” Gellman snarled as Mason twisted the pistol from his grip and tossed it to Doc.
“Speak another word and I’ll hafta hurt you,” Mason growled, spinning Gellman around and shoving him face-first into the fence. Mason pulled a plastic zip-tie from his pocket and quickly cuffed the merc’s one good hand to his cast.
Gellman glanced over his shoulder, his expression confused. “Why hog-tie me if you’re just planning to kill me? Why not get it over with? It’s not like the folks in this neighborhood will stop you.”
“Death is too good for you,” Mason muttered. “You’re a disgrace to your country and to the uniform you once wore. You gotta stand in front of a jury and face that.” Turning to Doc, he said, “Watch him, will you? I gotta call Agent Fazzle.”
Doc traded places with him. But before Mason could pull out the burner cell phone he’d bought back in the Bahamas, he heard Gellman let loose with a banshee cry. He turned back in time to see Gellman headbutt Doc’s chin.
Dumbass, Mason thought because Doc barely stumbled back a half step.
“You little cup of piss,” Doc snarled, driving his fist into the middle of Gellman’s face. The sound was loud and echoed down the alley. A second later, Gellman crumpled to the ground, out cold.
“Damn, that was satisfying.” Doc grinned, flexing the fingers on his hand before using them to test his jaw. “Now, get Fazzle on the horn. Chasing this merc’s sorry ass all over the Caribbean for the last week has me tired, hungry, and ready to go home.”
“Me too,” Mason agreed, dialing Fazzle’s number.
Although, on second thought, he wasn’t so sure about that last thing. Alex was back home. And he still hadn’t decided what the hell he was supposed to do about her…
* * *
Twelve hours later
“You assholes look like shit on a stick, eh?” Romeo said over his shoulder as he went through the preflight check in the seaplane’s cockpit. Then he grinned. “Which means it must’ve been one hell of a good hunt.”
“If we look like shit on a stick it’s ’cause we feel like shit on a stick,” Mason grumbled wearily, stretching his legs toward the bulkhead that separated the passenger cabin from the pilot compartment. He’d aged eight years in the last eight days.
Or at least he felt like he had.
The one boat ride and two flights it’d taken them to get from Haiti to Key West certainly hadn’t helped things.
When he’d called Fazzle, the FBI agent had given him instructions to take Gellman to the Toussaint Louverture International Airport on the edge of Port-au-Prince Bay. Ninety minutes later, the merc had been loaded onto a military transport, headed back to the States where Fazzle promised Gellman would stand trial. Not for his role in what happened with the Iranians—Madam President hadn’t been kidding about keeping that on the DL—but for the part he’d played in what happened that night on Garden Key.
But since Mason and Doc had had no “official” part in Gellman’s capture, they’d been left to find their own way home.
Home.
Where Alex was waiting for him. Where she’d ask if he’d thought about what she said, which of course he had, but—
“What are you going to do, my man?” Doc cut into Mason’s swirling thoughts as Romeo piloted the Otter toward the runway.
“What d’you mean?” Mason had to raise his voice above the little plane’s engines revving in preparation for flight.
“About Alex!” Doc shouted because Romeo had pulled back on the throttle and the floatplane raced down the runway.
Mason always hated this part, when the g-forces pushed him against his chair and he felt powerless over his fate.
Alex did that to him too. Made him feel powerless. Powerless to resist those dancing green eyes. Powerless to resist that laughing smile.
The thought of the eventual crash was too terrible to contemplate.