Chapter 16 #2
He was right. I forced myself to breathe, to think tactically instead of emotionally. Port side was where the heaviest concentration of fire originated. If Mia had led Lena that way, they'd be trapped between the yacht's edge and the assault force. Limited options, maximum danger.
"Pilot house," I said suddenly. "If Mia's smart—and she is—she'd try for the pilot house. Elevation, solid walls, radio access."
Tank nodded immediately. "Through the galley or around the deck?"
Gunfire answered the question for us, a sustained burst that shredded the windows above our heads. Around the deck would be suicide. "Galley. Move."
The galley was a disaster—industrial refrigerators punctured by bullets, leaking coolant that made the floor treacherous. Expensive pots and pans scattered like fallen soldiers. We picked our way through, every sense straining for threats.
That's when I heard it. Faint, almost lost in the combat noise, but unmistakable.
Lena's voice, raised in anger rather than fear: "Try it again and I'll feed you your own balls!"
She was alive. Alive and fighting and threatening someone with bodily harm. My chest loosened for the first time since I'd found that empty space behind the stairs.
"That's your girl?" Tank asked, a hint of amusement breaking through his combat focus.
"That's my girl," I confirmed, already moving toward the sound. Whatever Serpent had cornered her was about to learn exactly why you didn't touch what belonged to Tyson Monroe.
The pilot house access was just ahead, up a narrow stairway that would be a fatal funnel if defended. But Lena was up there, and that made the tactical assessment simple.
We'd go through whoever stood in our way.
Movement in my peripheral vision made me freeze, hand stopping Tank with a gesture older than words. Through the galley's service window, I could see the main bar area—or what was left of it. That's when I spotted Johnnie.
The kid still had that shine new prospects got, that eagerness to prove themselves worthy of the patch.
He'd been serving drinks two hours ago, grinning like Christmas had come early when Thor complimented his pour.
Now he was sprinting across open deck toward a group of women trapped behind the demolished bar.
"GET DOWN!" Johnnie's roar carried over the combat noise, his body already launching into a dive that would have made any linebacker proud. He hit the women like a protective avalanche, driving them below the bar's remains just as automatic fire erupted from two different angles.
The bottles above exploded in a cascade of glass and hundred-dollar liquor. Vodka mixed with blood on the deck, creating abstract patterns that would haunt someone's dreams. But Johnnie had made it—covered the women with his own body, prospect cut spread wide like armor.
"He’s a good kid," Tank murmured beside me. We should have kept moving, should have prioritized finding Lena. But something made us both pause, bearing witness to what came next.
I saw the exact moment Johnnie realized he'd been hit.
His face shifted from fierce concentration to surprise, like he'd been tapped on the shoulder at a party. His hand came away from his stomach red and wet. The kind of red that meant something vital had been punctured. The kind that meant time was now measured in heartbeats, not minutes.
But the kid didn't move.
"Stay behind me," Johnnie told the terrified women, his voice steady despite what had to be agony. Blood ran between his fingers where he pressed against the wound, but his other hand still gripped his weapon, still tracked for threats. "My job . . . protect . . ."
The women pressed against him, sobbing, covered in glass and other people's blood. One of them—someone's sister or daughter or wife—tried to press her hands over his, to help stop the bleeding. Johnnie gently pushed her back, maintaining the shield of his body.
"Stay down," he repeated, weaker now but still firm. "Almost over."
That's when the Serpent rounded the bar.
The attacker came in confident, weapon up, expecting easy targets. He processed the scene—wounded prospect, helpless women, easy kills to pad the body count. What he didn't expect was for that wounded prospect to still have fight in him.
Johnnie moved with the last reserves of his strength, lunging up despite the blood pouring from his gut.
His shoulder caught the Serpent in the midsection, driving him back.
They went down together in a tangle of limbs and fury.
The Serpent's weapon discharged, the round catching Johnnie high in the chest, but the kid's hands had already found the man's throat.
They rolled once, locked together in that final embrace. Johnnie's face was pale, eyes already distant, but his hands never loosened. The Serpent thrashed, clawed, tried to break free. But twenty-two years old and dying, Johnnie held on with the kind of strength that came from knowing your duty.
The Serpent's movements slowed, stopped. Johnnie held on for another ten seconds, making sure, before his own strength finally failed. They lay together on the bloodstained deck, predator and protector locked in death's democracy.
"Goddamn hero," Tank muttered, putting two rounds in the Serpent to make absolutely sure before moving to check Johnnie. The kid's eyes were still open, staring at something none of us could see. Tank closed them gently.
The women Johnnie had died protecting huddled together, alive because a prospect had decided their lives mattered more than his own. That was the difference between us and them. We died for something. They just died.
"Movement, pilot house exterior," Tank reported, back to business because that's how we honored the fallen—by finishing the job.
That's when I finally saw her.
Lena stood backed against the pilot house wall, still in that silver dress that had tormented me earlier, now torn and splattered with blood I prayed wasn't hers. Three Serpents had her cornered, moving in with the casual confidence of predators who thought they'd already won.
My vision tunneled, the world narrowing to those three threats and the woman they'd dared to corner. But before I could move, before I could close the distance and introduce them to their ancestors, movement on the nearest speedboat caught my eye.
Cruz.
The bastard sat in the boat like some fucking prince, watching his men corner Lena with the detached interest of someone watching a nature documentary.
He wore body armor over expensive clothes, surrounded by what had to be cartel soldiers rather than Serpent trash.
Professional security for a coward who sent others to do his killing.
Our eyes met across the water and weapons fire. His lips curved in that same predator smile I'd wanted to remove since the first time I'd heard Lena's story. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised his hand in a mock salute.
The message was clear: This is because of you. Because she chose you. Because you took what I considered mine.
Rage flooded through me, hot and pure and clarifying. Not the wild anger that got soldiers killed, but the cold fury that made them legendary. Cruz thought this was about possession, about teaching Lena a lesson through violence and fear.
He was about to learn differently.
"Three tangos, pilot house wall," I told Tank, voice steady despite the inferno in my chest. "The one on the boat is mine."
"Copy that." Tank checked his magazine, all business. "On your count."
I studied the approach angles, calculated distances and exposure times. The Serpents were focused on Lena, confident in their numbers and position. They'd forgotten the first rule of combat—the most dangerous enemy is the one you don't see coming.
One of them reached for Lena's arm, saying something into his radio. The words carried faintly over the combat noise: "Package acquired. Returning to—"
The sentence would never be finished. Not while I still drew breath.
"Moving," I told Tank, already in motion. Time to remind everyone why touching what was mine came with a death sentence.
The first Serpent never saw me coming.
My hands found his head before he registered the threat, one palm against his jaw, the other behind his skull.
The twist was sharp, economical. His neck snapped with a sound like breaking kindling, body dropping before his brain processed its own ending.
His weapon clattered against the deck, alerting his partner.
The second Serpent started to turn, mouth opening to shout warning.
My boot caught him in the solar plexus with every pound of force I could generate, lifting him off his feet.
He hit the railing back-first, the impact point precisely calculated.
The crack of his spine was audible even over the gunfire, his scream cutting off as paralysis took immediate hold.
The third Serpent had his hand on Lena's arm, fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise.
That's when my girl proved why she owned my whole heart.
Lena drove her heel through his instep with enough force to crack bone, the ridiculous strappy shoes she'd insisted on wearing becoming weapons.
As he howled and loosened his grip, she snapped her head back into his nose.
The crunch was satisfying, blood exploding across his face as cartilage gave way.
"That's my girl," I growled, closing the distance in two strides.
The Serpent staggered back, hand going to his ruined nose instead of his weapon—a fatal mistake.
My fist connected with his throat, crushing his larynx.
He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his neck as he tried to breathe through a windpipe that would never work again.
I helped him along with a knee to the temple that ensured he wouldn't suffer long.
"Tyson!" Lena crashed into me like a guided missile, her body slamming against mine with desperate force. I caught her automatically, hands already checking for injuries even as I held her close.
"I'm here, baby. I've got you." My voice came out rougher than intended, fear and relief fighting for dominance. "Are you hurt? Did they—"
"I'm okay." But she was shaking, adrenaline and terror finally catching up now that immediate danger had passed. "They came for me specifically. Kept saying Cruz wanted his property back. This is all my fault, all this death is because of me—"
"Not now." I cut her off, hands running over her arms, ribs, checking for wounds my eyes might have missed. The blood on her dress wasn't hers—small mercies in a night full of horror. Some bruising on her arm where the Serpent grabbed her, but nothing broken, nothing that wouldn't heal.
"Can you move?" I asked, tilting her chin up to check her pupils. No concussion signs, just shock and guilt that we'd deal with later.
"Yes, but Tyson—" Her eyes went wide, looking past me to where Cruz still watched from his speedboat. "He's just sitting there. Watching. Like this is all some show for his entertainment."
I turned slightly, keeping Lena behind me but letting myself look at the bastard who'd orchestrated this massacre.
Cruz hadn't moved, still lounging in his boat like a Roman emperor at the colosseum.
The distance was too far for small arms fire to be accurate, and he knew it.
Safe in his ringside seat while others bled for his obsession.
"He'll get his," I promised, the words carrying weight beyond simple threat. "But not tonight. Tonight we survive."
Duke's roar cut across the deck before Lena could respond: "INCOMING!"
Two more speedboats knifed through the water, but these weren't attacking. They moved in perfect formation, laying down suppressing fire while the surviving Serpents began their retreat. Smoke grenades popped across the yacht's deck, creating concealment for the withdrawal. Professional. Organized.
"They're leaving?" Lena sounded stunned. "After all this, they're just leaving?"
"They got what they came for," I said grimly. "Made their point, tested our defenses, showed they could hit us anywhere." And tried to take you, I didn't add. That failure would eat at Cruz and the Serpents, maybe make him sloppy next time.
Serpents dragged wounded brothers toward the railings where boats waited.
The cartel soldiers maintained their covering fire with disciplined precision, keeping our people's heads down while their employers escaped.
No panic, no breakdown in command structure.
These weren't the usual Serpent thugs hopped up on meth and misplaced machismo.
"Thor, let them go!" Duke commanded as Thor started toward the rail, ready to pursue even into the water. "Prospects, sound off! Who's mobile?"
The roll call that followed hit like physical blows. Voices that should have answered stayed silent. Rico, who'd shielded those bridesmaids with his life. Johnnie, who'd died protecting women he'd never met. Others wounded, bleeding, but alive.
Two prospects who'd never see their patches. Two brothers who'd proven their worth in blood.
"Stay close,” I said to Lena. “Don't leave my sight for any reason." I kept one arm around her while drawing my weapon with the other. "We need to help secure the civilians, get accountability, prepare for Coast Guard arrival."
"The police—"
"Will get a story about pirates," I said firmly. "Random attack, robbery gone wrong. Duke will handle the details. Right now we focus on the living."
We moved across the deck together, stepping carefully around bodies and debris.
The fairytale lights still swung overhead, some still functioning, casting crazy shadows that made everything surreal.
Blood mixed with champagne on the deck, expensive dresses torn and stained, the perfect wedding party transformed into a war zone.
Tank appeared from the pilot house, escorting Mia who looked shaken but intact. "All clear up top. Pilot took a round but he'll make it."
"Good." I did another visual check of Lena, unable to stop myself. She was here, alive, whole. Everything else could be dealt with. "Let's get below, help with triage."
As we moved toward the stairs, Cruz's boats disappeared into the darkness, running lights extinguished. But I knew he was still watching, probably through night vision, savoring his partial victory. He'd shown he could reach us, hurt us, kill our brothers.
The war had just shifted into a new, deadlier phase.
"I'm sorry," Lena whispered again, pressed against my side.
"Don't." I tightened my arm around her. "Only person responsible is Cruz. And he's going to pay for every drop of blood spilled tonight."
The promise tasted like copper and cordite, sealed with the weight of two prospect cuts that would never become full patches. Tomorrow we'd count the full cost, plan our retaliation. Tonight, we had wounded to tend and dead to honor.
But Cruz had made one crucial mistake in his grand performance. He'd tried to take Lena.
For that, I'd paint the state red with Serpent blood.