I take a fresh pistol from the loaded ski, the only one left, and check the magazine. “You go,” I say to no one but everyone.
“What?” Brad grunts, standing tall, rolling his shoulder. “No.”
I turn sober eyes onto him. “Go,” I demand, and everyone looks between each other, waiting for another protest. “Take James’s ski.”
Ringo, reluctant, gets on and starts the engine, looking to Goldie in instruction to get moving, then to Otto, who releases the rock he’s clinging to, allowing the tide to carry the boat out. He starts the engine and gives me a look that tells me I’m dead if I don’t bring James back.
I believe it.
“I’ll see you in a minute,” Brad says, and for a moment I think he’s talking to me, but then he appears by my side, checking the chamber of a rifle. “Say one word,” he pants. “I’ll fucking shoot you.”
Again, I believe it.
And I haven’t got time to waste trying to reason with him.
I nod and get on my jet ski, Brad jumping on his, and as soon as the current has turned me, I slam down on the throttle and head around the cove toward James. It takes only a few seconds to make it to him, and I find him still with his back to the door. “I’m out,” he yells, tossing his guns aside and forcing farther back into the metal door. I turn my ski and keep just enough pressure on the throttle to counteract the current and remain stationary. I look back at James, nodding.
“So we’re stuntmen now, are we?” Brad asks, locking and loading.
“Hey, Rambo Junior,” James bellows, easing off the door a little, revealing endless bumps from endless bullets. “Don’t miss.”
Brad laughs. It’s sardonic. “Ready when you are.”
James nods, and there’s no countdown. No bracing. He releases the door and runs at me full pelt as gunfire rings out and sparks light up the dusky sky. “Hit the throttle!” he yells, diving off the nearest rock and sailing through the air. Fuck me, a little too much, he’s missing. Too little, he’s overshooting the ski.
Jesus!
I mentally calculate the distance and speed his big body’s traveling at and hit the throttle a little harder.”
“Fuck!”
I pulled forward too much. He smacks the water, his hands catching the tail of my jet ski. “Go!”
I flinch when a bullet hits the handlebar.
“Fuck, go, Danny!” Brad yells.
I look across to him, seeing him standing, guns poised, firing, his face as psychotic as I know he is beneath his dry wit. I regain my focus and hit the throttle, praying James can hold on, and zoom across the water, looking back constantly to check I can still see his tanned hands holding on amid the foam and Brad’s ski following.
The roar of the engines is loud, but I still hear the bullets firing. My heart pounds, as I will the approaching curve in the bay to come sooner. “Come on, come on,” I breathe, releasing the throttle the moment I round it. I turn and wait for the churned-up water to settle, and when it does . . .
No James.
“Fuck!” I bellow, looking back through the stream of white water, searching for him. Brad rounds the corner and slows, and as soon as he sees my face, his turns grave. “We go back,” I order, taking my seat again and turning my ski . . . just as a head pops up and a string of explicit language rings out.
“Motherfucker!” James yells on an exhale, coughing, choking, shaking his head. I swear, every muscle in me turns to mush, and I flop forward over the handlebars, suddenly out of breath. “Were you worried about me?” he pants.
I don’t look up, too exhausted. “Fuck you.”
And then laughter.
Brad breaks out, James too, and I look up, seeing them in pieces. Relief. It has to be, because I’m suddenly laughing like a twat with them. “Get the fuck on,” I say, labored, chugging over to him to save him the swim.
He takes my offered hand and climbs on the back, wrapping an arm around my waist, looking to Brad. “How many are left?” he asks.
“I saw three drop.”
“So two?” I ask. “Assuming the hits were fatal.” Brad nods, and I swear I see him wince. “You okay?”
“Dandy,” he grunts, taking the handlebars. “But I really need a fucking drink.”
“Me too,” I mutter. And a Marlboro or twenty.
“Me three,” James adds. “Take me home, mate.” He smacks my shoulder and then massages into it a little. “And thanks.”
Has anyone ever saved The Enigma’s life? Apart from Otto and Goldie, of course.
I smile to myself. Beau saves his life every day.
It’s like the homecoming of Christ when we make it back to shore. The relief on all their faces is palpable. I feel it. One look at Ringo in question and he jerks his head toward the cabin, telling me the women are all inside being fed and watered. “Len’s bringing another car and Doc.”
I nod as James gets off the jet ski and pulls his wetsuit down his chest as he wades out of the water. Beau is waiting for him on the shore, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning every square inch of his body as he approaches her. “Are you okay?” she asks as he lifts an arm, silently ordering her into his side.
He kisses the top of her head when she settles there, seeming to breathe her into him. “I’m okay,” he assures her.
“Fuck.”
I turn and see Brad easing himself off the ski, his face pained. “What’s up?” I ask, watching as he yanks down the zip of his wetsuit and wriggles out of the sleeves on plenty of hisses. “Shit,” I whisper. Blood. Lots of it. My curse pulls James to a stop, makes Ringo throw a few fucks too, and has Otto dashing toward Brad with me, seeing his eyes rolling. “He’s going,” I yell, as he hits the water face first, passing clean out. I splash my way back into the water and turn him over, dragging him to the shore.
“Blood loss,” Otto grunts, assessing the bullet wound in Brad’s shoulder. He lifts him, turning him slightly to see his back. “Straight through.”
I look up when I hear tires, seeing Higham’s car skidding across the gravel. He gets out and paces over, looking as stressed as he should be. But not as stressed as I am. “I said no fucking kills! What the fuck happened back there?”
I’m up in his face like a rabid dog, snarling, probably foaming at the mouth too. “Ten drugged-up, battered, and raped young women, that’s what fucking happened.”
His eyes widen and he wisely backs up, clocking Brad on the ground behind me. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck. Now are you done, ’cause I’m kinda busy?”
“Fuck!” he bellows, kicking the gravel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I leave Higham having a fit over the unexpected turn of events and go back to Brad, kneeling beside him with Otto. “Will he be okay?” I ask, assessing his pasty face.
“I’m no Doc.” Otto remains, applying pressure to Brad’s shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
I hear a car speeding across gravel and see a Mercedes joining the fleet of vehicles already here. Len jumps out, and I’m relieved to see Doc struggling out of the passenger seat with his brown leather bag. “Here,” I yell, waving him our way. I very nearly go to the old boy, pick him up, and carry him the rest of the way.