Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sloane sat in the back of Dalton’s truck, her bag tossed on the seat beside her, gaze focused on Nick.
Skin pale, jaw tight, he looked as if he was about to either puke or pass out.
She glanced at his leg. Dots of fresh blood surfaced through the pristine bandage.
Nothing life-threatening, and understandable with the amount of pressure he’d put on it hauling ass through the office.
But after nearly succumbing to hypovolemic shock, he couldn’t afford to lose another drop, despite the couple of pints they’d pumped into him at the hospital.
A punch of bright, white light cut through the interior, twin beams pulling in behind them, a couple more following suit. Tight. Aggressive. Moving with tactical spacing. Eating up the distance as if Dalton was standing still.
Dalton glanced in the rearview, face reflected in the glow before he muttered, hit his comms unit. “We’ve got company. Two, damn, make that three SUVs. They were waiting on the shoulder of that cross street. Ready to strike. Definitely a pre-staged intercept.”
A pause, then Buck’s voice. “Change of plans. Hit the harbor. We’ll take my boat — make ‘em get wet if they want to follow.”
Sloane inhaled as Dalton grunted, took the next right. “Buck has a boat?”
Dalton met her gaze in the rearview. “An old retrofitted, offshore interceptor with triple outboards. The thing isn’t the prettiest to look at, but she’s got it where it counts.
He used to spend way more time on it before Greer and Bodie helped him get his shit together — gave him a reason to tame some of his inner demons.
” Dalton grinned. “He calls her the Roswell Runner.”
“I guess Nick wasn’t joking about the whole alien thing with Buck.”
Dalton chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it. But you won’t find anyone more loyal.” He glanced in the mirror, again, as the vehicles closed the distance. “Hold on. We’re going in hot.”
Sloane grabbed the edge of Dalton’s seat with one hand, braced the other across Nick’s shoulder — kept him from twisting — as Dalton skidded around a tight turn, bounced down a winding road to an isolated dock.
Spray rooster tailed out from the tires, the wipers slapping hard against the windshield.
The others pulled in ahead, Bodie and Rowan taking up a defensive position as Buck charged toward the white boat bobbing against the dock. Wind whipped across the ocean, swells and white caps lining the horizon.
Dalton shoved his truck into park, then jumped out, catching Nick when he stumbled out his side. Dalton shook his head, looked as if he’d shouldered most of Nick’s weight, then started across the lot, rain blowing at a forty-five, angry clouds rolling in off the ocean.
Sloane slung her bag across her back, had the rifle at a low ready, as she swept the area, then followed behind them. Water splashed up her pants, a string of lights reflected off the growing puddles. A buoy sounded out on the water, the constant clang timed with every incoming breaker.
Creaks and squeals from the fenders rose above the crash of the waves as the hull rubbed against the barrier, tilting back and forth with the waves.
Sloane stared at the boat, chest tight, lungs not quite working.
Despite what Dalton had said, she couldn’t help but wonder if they would have been better off making a run for it on land.
At least there, she had some control. Riding shotgun in this…
Lights tunneled down the access road, three SUVs swerving around the far corner, fanning out as they slewed sideways, creating a protective wall across the parking lot. Doors yawned open, men taking up positions on the opposite side, rifles positioned across the hoods.
Rowan laid down cover rounds, popping tires and busting glass as Bodie raced up the dock, released the stern line.
Return fire peppered the pier, a couple chewing at the fiberglass hull as Bodie tossed in the bow line, kicked the side to get the boat angled away.
Sirens sounded in the background, blue lights flashing in the distance.
Sheriff Greer Hudson, Sloane assumed. Part of that backup Bodie had mentioned.
A massive crack split the night, a shot from Dalton’s rifle punching through one of the vehicle’s engine blocks. It coughed out smoke and steam, everything chugging, then dying. The men folded back behind the frames, Bodie taking up point beside Rowan as both waved Sloane, Nick, and Buck to move.
Buck increased the throttles, the engines growling as the boat surged forward, cutting through the incoming waves. White water curled along the gunwales, spray cutting across the bow like angry needles.
Sloane helped Nick onto a chair, checked his thigh. More blood had seeped through the bandage with more than half of it stained a foreboding crimson. She tsked, grabbed the limited first aid kit she’d stuffed in her bag and tossed on an additional pressure dressing.
Nick shoved her hands away, fingers shaking, not even a hint of color in his face. “I’m fine. Focus on helping Buck navigate this rust heap across the bar.”
Buck huffed. “She’s not a rust heap, and I’ve been navigating on my own for years.”
“That’s because you didn’t have a team before. You do now, so zip it, and let Sloane help. She’s a whiz at anything with a monitor.”
Buck glanced back at Nick. “Now, I see why she says you’re a pain in the ass.” He motioned toward a couple instruments. “There’s radar and some forward looking infrared. Knock yourself out.”
Sloane focused on Nick, judged if he’d simply slide off the seat and crumple on the floor if she moved, before shifting in beside Buck. The dash lit up with a familiar green glow, blips flashing on the screen as the radar swept the water.
Sloane tapped the display, glanced toward the stern. “Buck, I’ve got two signatures coming in at our four o’clock, three hundred yards. And something tells me they aren’t friendly.”
Buck looked out the starboard window, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. He hit a button, set off a spotlight that painted the surface with a bright yellow beam. “Damn, they’re Zodiac Hurricanes.” He glanced back at Nick. “Someone really wants you dead, brother, because those babies are not cheap.”
“Yeah, our boss.”
Buck coughed. “Come again?”
“We’ll explain later.” Nick shrugged. “Not everyone appreciates my charm. And for the record, they’re after Sloane, too.”
Buck rolled his shoulders. “Not on my watch. Sloane… shout if anything pops up. I know this area pretty well, but…”
But it was pitch black, with waves cresting over the bow, troughs deep enough the boat disappeared, not to mention wind and rain — the odd finger of fog stretching over the surface.
The boat picked up speed, plowed through the incoming breakers as Buck rode up one side, then down the other, working the throttles to keep from getting caught in the crushing wash as the waves curled over, rolling across the surface.
Sloane stared at the radar. “They’re closing in — fifty yards.”
Buck nodded, still bobbing across the ocean on a line only he saw. He backed off a bit, staring straight ahead, head tilted. “We’re nearing the bar. Let’s see how well those boys read the water.”
Sloane looked back at Nick, mouthed, the bar, before turning back, grabbing the edge of the console. Buck didn’t seem worried, just watched the ocean seethe, stared at how the waves broke in front, his lips moving a bit as if counting the seconds between crests.
Those Hurricanes closed in, the first rounds thumping off the stern when Buck slammed the throttles forward, surging the boat ahead.
The bow tipped up, sliding Sloane against the back of her seat before planing out, slicing through the incoming swell like a missile.
The boat rode the wave, that crest looming closer, the top already starting to froth.
White water churned against the hull, pushing them back as the top rose above them before Buck gave the motors one last boost — shot the vessel out the other side.
They skipped along, dropped into a massive swell before surging up again, beating the next breaker with mere seconds to spare. Water sheeted across the windshield, the view nothing but a wash of white before the hull slammed into the next trough with a bone-jarring thud.
Nick grunted as he slipped out of the chair, hit the floor. Sloane reached for him, but he waved her off, dragging himself back into the seat. He pushed out a breath, grimaced, then shoved it all down. Just like she’d witnessed him do a thousand times in the field.
It struck her, then — how thin the line was between teammates and suicidal tendencies. How maybe she’d misjudged his previous actions — saw them in a gray-colored light because deep down, she was the reason he’d taken chances.
Like dragging his ass across hostile territory because he’d been worried she was in danger. And she knew, without a doubt, he would have shown up at that crossroads, bloody and half-dead, with or without Tierney.
The lingering feel of his mouth on hers tingled across her lips as something warm and heavy settled in her chest — the kind of feeling she’d examine later, after they’d escaped without sinking.
Buck kept the Roswell plowing through the swells as he scanned the stern, shaking his head when he flicked on another spotlight — lit up the pursuing boat. “We lost one, but our friend back there’s determined. We might need to persuade him to turn around.”
Sloane shouldered her rifle. “I can do that.”
“Sloane…” Buck sighed. “Just be careful and don’t fall overboard.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
She slipped through the side door, a blast of rain and sea spray pelting her face as she shuffled onto the deck, wind howling, waves beating at the hull. The storm roared all around her, the constant pounding of the hull nearly dropping her to her knees.