Chapter 25
Cowboy crouched behind a cluster of boulders at the edge of the harbor, the frigid air stinging his lungs.
The snow had finally stopped, but the world was still blanketed in white, and the icy wind howled across the bay.
The storm’s departure left a surreal silence in its wake, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the muffled voices of Sarkisyan’s men.
The ocean, though calmer than before, still churned with lingering fury.
Cowboy’s sharp eyes scanned the water, catching the faint outline of a boat bobbing in the distance, clearly anchored against the sway of the sea.
Sarkisyan’s escape plan. Figures moved aboard, silhouetted against the pale dawn light.
Others patrolled the shore, rifles slung casually over their shoulders.
“Eyes on the prize,” he muttered, gripping his weapon. His body ached from the beating he’d taken, but he shoved the pain aside. He didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.
Next to him, Charlotte shifted her position, her weapon steady as she kept watch on the shoreline.
She looked calm, but he knew her well enough to see the tightness in her jaw, the flicker of nerves in her eyes.
She wasn’t a soldier, but damned if she wasn’t holding her own.
That thought filled him with equal parts pride and pure terror.
They’d already discussed the role she would not be playing in this gunfight—and when he said discussed, he meant a full-out, hardcore, throw down argument.
Charlotte was an excellent shot, but she was a far cry from a trained Navy SEAL, and he wasn’t about to pretend otherwise just to make her feel better.
So they had agreed—and when he said agreed, he meant he had insisted, she had cursed him out, and he was mostly, pretty sure he’d won—that she would stay where she was behind a bounder two feet taller than her head, and only shoot if it became absolutely necessary to save her own life.
Otherwise, she should think of herself as a kid at the zoo, with rules that were meant to protect her from the cute polar bears and giant kitty cat enclosures, and a firm reminder to stay back behind the yellow line.
Truth be told, he wasn’t just worried about Charlotte.
He liked nothing about this setup one bit.
They needed to be here, that was for certain, but they stood out like targets against the pure white snow, their dark clothing all but screaming their individual locations clear across the bay.
The massive boulders helped, for sure, but a little Snowdrift camo would go a long way toward increasing his comfort level, and there wasn’t a damn thing Cowboy could do about that.
“Movement near the dock,” Deke’s voice crackled softly over the earpiece.
“Copy that,” Cowboy replied, watching as a pair of men got into a small dinghy and motored to the larger anchored vessel.
Their tiny boat had far less contact with the water, making it much more susceptible to the movement of the waves.
He wouldn’t want to be on that boat right now, no two ways about that one.
His men had already discussed the plan at length. Sink the big boat by all means necessary. It had been a short discussion. He hoped it would be an even shorter mission. If they got the big man himself and Sarkisyan was out of the equation, maybe this could even be a one-and-done scenario.
He doubted it, but there was nothing wrong with optimism.
“Adding a phase two to our detailed battle plan,” he said. “Sink the little boat, too. We don’t need this guy getting away.”
Booger’s voice came over the comm set. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to remember all this.”
Cowboy glanced at Tom, who was positioned behind a different boulder, his face set in grim determination.
For a man who’d spent years smuggling people to safety, Tom handled a weapon like someone who’d seen combat before.
Probably had, Cowboy figured. You didn’t get tangled up with someone like Sarkisyan without walking through fire.
Austin’s voice cut in next. “Looks like they’re prepping to load something onto the boat. Crates, maybe supplies. Whatever it is, they’re moving fast.”
Cowboy nodded, even though no one could see him. “They’re spooked. They’ve got to know we’re onto them since their hostages disappeared.”
“Should we make a move?” Charlotte asked, her voice steady despite the tension in it.
“Not yet.” Cowboy resisted the urge to tell her that was nothing for her to worry about, but decided against it.
He scanned the scene, calculating their odds.
Sarkisyan’s men were spread out, but there were enough of them to make an open assault risky.
The element of surprise was their only advantage, and they needed to use it wisely.
“Wait for my signal,” he said. “Deke, Booger, you take the left flank. Tom, Austin, you’re with me. Aim to disrupt their loading operation and get me some holes in that boat. We need to pin them down.”
“Got it,” Deke replied.
“Roger that,” Booger added, his usual humor absent for once.
Cowboy shifted his weight, ignoring the ache in his ribs. He adjusted his grip on his rifle and turned to Charlotte, holding down the button to mute his mic. “Stick close. Don’t do anything stupid.”
She gave him a look that could’ve frozen hell. “That’s my line.”
Cowboy smirked despite himself. “Fair enough.”
“Ready?” he whispered, his breath fogging in the cold air.
“Ready,” came the chorus of replies.
Cowboy raised his hand, then dropped it in a sharp motion. “Go.”
Gunfire erupted as their group moved into action.
Deke and Booger’s shots rang out from the left, drawing immediate return fire from Sarkisyan’s men—though it took them a moment to figure out where the team was hunkered down.
Cowboy stayed low behind a boulder as he fired toward the dock and clipped the dinghy.
The chaos intensified as Sarkisyan’s men scrambled to defend their position. Cowboy ducked behind a crate, bullets thudding into the wood as he leaned out to return fire. The sharp tang of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the salt of the sea.
Like taking candy from a baby.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” snapped Deke. “They’re firing behind us. Repeat, they’ve got eyes behind the beach.”
Fear unlike anything Cowboy had ever known roared to life within him.
Charlotte was on the beach. He’d brought an untrained civilian to a gunfight, assuming she’d be safe, and his own stupidity astounded him.
He turned sideways and saw her on the edge of his field of vision, her gun up in firing position as she aimed behind him.
“Get down, Charlotte!” he yelled, oblivious to Sariskyan in that moment, unaware of his mission and desperate to protect her. “Get down!”
The saw the flash from the end of her gun as she fired, and he turned just in time to see a man drop from his perch in a tree a hundred yards behind him. Stunned beyond belief, he realized that she’d just saved his life, even as he wanted to throw himself on top of her as a human shield.
He didn’t know if there were more shooters behind him, didn’t know of any way to keep her safe.
All he could do was aim at Sariskyan’s boat and pray for the best, aware that the one person he loved more than any other on god’s green earth was standing in the middle of harm’s way, and he was the stupid son of a bitch who’d put her there.
Time became a series of snapshots, instants captured in his memory like the view of an oncoming train headed straight for him.
He was aware of sounds, shots, and yells of pain or frustration, the barked report from a member of the team in his ear.
But he was most aware of one voice he hadn’t heard in far longer than he cared to contemplate.
Charlotte.
Charlotte.
Charlotte.
Sariskyan’s boat was listing to one side.
The dinghy was upended in the harbor and drifting away, its two-man crew lost in the water back when time still moved in a familiar comforting pattern.
Cowboy fired and fired again, desperate for the one shot that would make it all stop, that would allow him to go in search of the woman he loved.
“They’re falling back!” Deke’s voice came through the earpiece. “They’re regrouping near the boat.”
Cowboy peeked out from cover, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the boat again.
Several men were loading the last of the crates onto it, their movements frantic.
The boat tipped at a more extreme angle, one pile of crates tipping into the ocean.
Sarkisyan stood near the stern, barking orders, his face a mask of fury.
“He’s on the boat,” Cowboy growled. “Don’t let him get away.”
“Not if we can help it,” Tom said grimly.
The frequency of gunshots increased, their combined firepower or the urgency of their sinking ship forcing Sarkisyan’s men out of sight. Cowboy’s focus was razor-sharp as he fired, his shots precise and deliberate. The pain in his body made it more surreal, more artificial, more terrifying.
A sudden explosion rocked the harbor, a plume of fire and smoke erupting from one of the crates near the dock where the dinghy had departed. Cowboy swore, shielding his eyes from the light. “What the hell was that?”
“Diversion,” Austin called out. “They’re trying to cover their escape.”
The blast had created a temporary smokescreen, and Cowboy’s gut told him Sarkisyan had planned it that way. Through the haze, he could see the crippled boat beginning to move, its engines churning water.
“No way in hell,” Cowboy muttered, his rifle trained on the boat. He fired as fast as his weapon could manage, aiming for the engine, but the boat’s hull must have been reinforced. It had gotten to a thirty-degree angle, but it wasn’t getting worse—it was merely getting farther away.
“We’re running out of time!” Charlotte shouted, crouching beside him.
He wanted to weep with joy at hearing her voice. She hadn’t been hit. She wasn’t dead. Cowboy’s mind raced. They couldn’t let Sarkisyan escape—not with whatever plans he had in motion. But as he tried to figure out their next move, a deep horn blared, cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap.
The sound froze everyone in their tracks. Cowboy turned the other way, his heart sinking as he saw the massive cruise ship emerging from the haze. Its lights were dazzling against the gray sky, its towering form a stark contrast to the desolation around it.
“Oh, shit,” Charlotte whispered.
The moment he saw it, he knew exactly what cruise it was.
The special voyage to honor America’s veterans that ran up and down the east coast. This was Sarkisyan’s actual target.
The lighthouse, the bombs, the photos—it all made sense now.
The man wasn’t just planning destruction; he was making a spectacle for the veterans—or of them.
“They’re going to hit the ship,” Tom said, his voice grim. “For the love of god, they’re going to blow up the veterans.”
Cowboy’s jaw tightened. “Not if we have anything to say about it.” The cruise ship was going what, ten, maybe fifteen knots?
That would be pretty standard for being so close to the shore.
It was maybe three or four miles down the coast, which gave them…
he did the math in his head. Twelve to twenty-four minutes.
Sariskyan’s men had stopped returning fire. “Let’s get back to the lighthouse. We don’t have a lot of time to stop these motherfuckers from blowing up the world. On my mark. Go.”
Turning to head back toward the lighthouse, Cowboy saw that same eerie glow coming from the lamp room. “I hope that’s a good sign,” he said under his breath. “Because we do not need anymore shit right now.”