“I don’t like this.” I peered at the water, then turned and checked the road. Nothing. “Where are our comrades?”
My men opened the back of the trailer and lined up on the dock, waiting for the trawler crew to drop the gangway. We’d use sheer manpower to make the transfer of drugs from the boat to the trailer. It took longer, but dicking with a crane would just draw unwanted attention.
“Something’s wrong.” David moved in front of me. “I can feel it.”
“Call it off?” Peter asked. He scanned the waterline where the small waves lapped against the concrete and wood.
“Fuck no.” I pulled my Glock from the holster under my arm. “Just keep your eyes open.”
“What the fuck are they doing on the boat?” David walked farther out onto the dock.
Then I saw it. The captain wasn’t moving. Hadn’t moved at all since the trawler pulled up. Dead.
The Russians were already here.
I rushed forward and gripped David’s shoulder, yanking him back. “They’re on the—”
Gunfire ripped through the night, and three of my men along the docks fell. The Russians emerged from the trawler, swarming like ants with submachine guns. The rest of my men scattered as the shootout began.
David and Peter shoved me down behind a stack of railroad ties, the thick smell of tar the perfect accent to the thick, bloody violence going on around us. Shouts and gunfire peppered the night as I peeked around the wood to get a view of the battlefield.
At least two-dozen men had taken over the trawler, a planned ambush that went off flawlessly. We had no fucking clue. After their initial volley, they hid behind the thick metal rail and around the other side of the ship, only popping up to take well considered shots. Fuck that.
“Should I pull the guys from the highway to come help?” Peter popped up and fired off a shot. One of the Russians stumbled and fell over the railing, his body crunching on the gravelly shore.
“No, I get a feeling they’ll be coming from that way soon. Tell them to be ready with the spikes.”
“Got it.” He spoke my instructions into the radio as I darted out and took out an asshole through the cockpit glass.
David’s beefy hand grabbed my coat and pulled me back behind the ties. “Don’t risk it.”
“This is war.” I sighted around the ties and took another shot, nailing one of the Russians in the arm. “Everyone fights. Even the general.”
My men had taken defensive positions but continued firing back. It was like Whack-A-Mole. What seemed to be a well thought out ambush turned into shooting fish in a barrel. The Russians had nowhere to go. After half a dozen more of them went down, one of them got the bright idea to take off with the ship. But the morons had let us tie them off to the dock as part of the ruse.
The trawlers engine revved and strained to pull away from the dock. It held fast, but the wood creaked and groaned, some of it splintering as the pilot increased the power to escape.
“We can’t let them get away.” I peeked from cover. “There’s only about ten of them left.”
“Don’t.” David shook his head, his eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Lay down covering fire for me.”
Peter loaded a fresh clip. “Fuck that.” He pulled out the radio. “We’re going to rush the ship. If you’ve got balls of steel, join. If you don’t, cover us.” He tossed the radio down and clapped his brother on the back. “Let’s do this.”
“Fuck.” David pulled his backup handgun from his second holster. “This is crazy shit.”
I grinned. “I used to be known for some crazy shit, man. Don’t go all pansy ass on me now.”
The splintering sounds increased, and the trawler began to get a few feet of separation from the dock.
“Pansy ass?” David smiled—the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. “You did crazy shit, huh? Hold my beer.” He rose and darted out from behind cover, both barrels firing as he rushed the ship.
“Holy shit.” A surge of adrenaline powered through me as Peter and I rose and followed, a hail of gunfire sounding all around us as we bet it all on black.
Chapter Eight
Sabrina
Nate had been gone for hours, and I’d busied myself with shopping online for new room décor. Every time I heard the slightest noise from downstairs, I tiptoed out to the bannister to see if he’d come home. He hadn’t. Was everything okay at the docks? I wanted to go downstairs and ask George if he knew anything, but I couldn’t bring myself to approach him.
By midnight, my eyes were drifting closed as I searched through the Pottery Barn website. By one in the morning, I was fast asleep when a loud clatter from downstairs shot me awake. I rescued my laptop from the precarious edge of my bed, then rushed to the bannister.