16 TALIESIN
I watch as London springs to his feet. “We’re going to need code-names,” he announces. “Can’t exactly shout Burt or Shane into the walkie, then everyone will know your identities.”
“Well, seeing as my name isn’t Burt, I don’t think that’s a problem,” I tell him, resisting an eyeroll.
He looks utterly confused. “It’s not?”
“No, my name is Taliesin, and ‘Shane’ is called Francois.”
“Whoa, that’s so strange. I totally thought those were your nicknames. Are you sure you’ve got it the right way around?”
“Totally.”
It takes a few more minutes of convincing but finally London agrees that his elaborate code-name system isn’t needed. I am no longer ‘Jacked Sparrow’, and London himself is not ‘Sinbaaad (insert goat bleat) the Sailor.
Francois was to be Poopeye. Which I have to admit, was a good one.
Aurora waves as Francois and London take off on the dinghy, and I try to gird myself for what is to come. This plan is going against every inclination I have to keep Aurora safe. But I know my princess—if we don’t try and get Sky back, she’ll just go off on her own to do it.
And probably end in a shit ton of trouble. At least this way, if things go belly-up, I’ll just open the throttle and get her out of the dangerzone.
Currently, we’re still out of the range of automatic weapons, and probably whatever magic spells the twats on board have got, but the safe-zone will disappear in the next ten minutes.
That’s when we crank up the stereo and pretend we’re spring-breaking—complete with costumes.
Basil found a pair of goggles and is wearing them with the life jacket, so looks a thousand miles from the kid we picked up from the island.
Aurora has London’s aviators, and has taken off the yellow raincoat, so her grubby prison bra can look ‘bikini-ish’. I figure I’ll just take off my shirt. Sure, it’s below sixty degrees, but rich kids take enough blow and K to not worry about air temperature, right?
When the timer on the dash finally clicks over, I open up the throttle again. Within a minute The Carnivàle materializes out of the fog. It’s a glossy black beast of a boat, with several armed guards on each deck.
“Basil, hit the stereo,” I grunt, gripping the steering wheel. “Maximum volume.”
The kid smirks, slamming his thumb onto the media console.
Instantly, a ridiculous, deafening, heavy-bass electronic dance track blasts from the marine speakers, shattering the morning silence like a brick through a window.
I spin the steering wheel so the jet boat cuts a wide, obnoxious circle through the swells, kicking up a massive spray of white wake right against the yacht's hull.
“Woo! Hear that bass drop!” Basil screeches at the top of his lungs, waving his arms in the air like a manic. “Show us your tits!”
I glance at Aurora, who is holding onto the windshield frame. She takes a deep breath, almost like she’s trying to channel the high-society entitlement and arrogance she grew up soaked in. “We want to party!” she yells, flicking her blonde bob. “You guys look like fun!”
She shakes her boobs and blows a kiss.
It’s quite the performance.
Up on The Carnivàle’s main aft deck, I see three heavily armed guards rush to the railing, their heads snapping our way. I’m pretty sure I’m sensing irritation rather than aggression.
One of them pulls a plastic bullhorn to his mouth, his voice booming over the water. “Attention small craft! You are violating a private security perimeter! Leave the area immediately, or there will be severe consequences!”
My two passengers cheer, as I wheel around and do a couple of donuts, weaving in and out of the fog, so sometimes we are visible, and then we disappear again.
“Party! Party! Party!” Rory and Basil yell, jumping up and down and high-fiving.
I cut the wheel hard, drifting the jet boat closer, making sure the engine roar and the obnoxious bassline drown out any possible sound from where London and Francois are breaking their way in.
The guards are getting visibly antsy, their hands dropping to the grips of their automatic rifles.
Kzzz-cht.
The walkie in Aurora’s hand crackles to life. She quickly drops into her seat as Francois’s smooth French cuts through the static. “à l'intérieur, en quête.”
Inside and searching.
“Copy that,” Aurora says into the mic, her voice shaking just a fraction before she cuts it. The bond threads between us all quiver as a result of her concern.
Such a weird feeling.
The bullhorn-voice barks again, ordering us to leave. I glance over my shoulder to see Basil pulling down his ragged pants and mooning the boat. Next thing I know, Rory is pulling up her bra and waving her bare tits at them.
That’s going too far.
“Cut that out, Princess.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Bevan. Also, do you see the top deck?”
I do. All three decks now have guards lining the railings, pointing guns in our direction. My wolf senses pick up a change in the atmosphere. Violence and frustration.
RAT-TAT-TAT.
A sudden explosion of gunfire erupts from the deck, chewing up the water barely three feet from our bow. White geysers of spray blast into the air.
Warning shots.
“Hold on!” I roar, throwing the jet boat into a tight, aggressive zigzag, intentionally drawing their fire as more bullets clip the water behind us.
“Whoa!” Basil ducks, slamming his back against the floorplates, though he’s still wearing a manic grin behind his goggles. “They’re fucking pissed! They won’t dare actually shoot us though.”
I think he’s right. I hope he’s right.
Surely, if they believe we are douche-bag rich kids, the yacht’s security will know actually harming us would cause a bureaucratic nightmare.
“This is your last warning. Leave the area immediately.”
Fuck. The biggest guard, a man with a neck thicker than a bull, is clicking his fingers and pointing.
They’re preparing a zodiac to launch. The small rubber boat looks like it’s got a huge outboard engine.
I doubt we can outrun it in this choppy water.
“How’s your aim, Basil?” I shout back to the kid.
“Ooh, fuck yes! Do I get to shoot at them?" I can hear the glee in his voice.
“I’d rather you tear a hole in the zodiac, rather than the guards themselves.” The next thing I know, Basil is low in the boat, setting up the weapon. I try to keep half an eye on him, while careering across the waves. Looks like he knows what he’s doing. Good. “Wait for my word.”
The yacht’s crane pulley system starts to move, as four armed guards load in the inflatable. Probably a couple of minutes until they hit the water.
Hurry the fuck up, de Vaux.
I desperately want to get on the walkie and see how far they’ve gotten, but that could put them in danger. All I can do is cause a distraction for as long as possible.
The rubber zodiac hits the ocean surface.
Ropes retract and I see churning white water as someone starts the engine.
I guess we’ll play chase for a while. We need to keep them away from the starboard side.
Our wooden sailing dinghy is almost invisible from up on the decks, tucked close up to The Carnivàle, but from the water?
Yeah, we’re fucked.
Zig, zag, circle, reverse circle.
The zodiac gains on us. A round of bullets cuts into the water once more. They’re still not trying to hit us, just scare us away. All well and good but if they get any closer, we won’t pass as Elite kids, that’s for sure.
“On my mark, Basil. And don’t fuck it up.”
“Fuck off, old man.”
Shit. They close the gap, twenty feet, fifteen, then move to our tail. I can’t keep focused on them and the yacht. “If you can see the whites of their eyes, tear that zodiac apart,” I shout.
The next second I hear a crack, a twang and a— “Fuck yeah!”
I broadside and can’t fight the grin when I see the inflatable instantly collapsing in on itself, the men inside panicking and yelling, guns abandoned. With that posse out of commission, I head back closer to The Carnivàle to keep an eye on proceedings.
Up on the deck, the massive lead guard is yelling something. At the same time he strips off his tactical vest, throwing his rifle at a grunt, he climbs onto the railing.
My heart sinks.
Oh fuck.
His chest seems to visibly expand as he glares down at our boat.
No. It definitely expands.
Then, he dives.
Mid-air the man shifts. One moment human, then next some kind of shark-freak. The splash as he hits the water is massive, sending waves that rock the jet boat violently. Through the churning foam, a colossal, scarred gray shark head, its jaws packed with rows of jagged, triangular teeth emerges.
And extending from the sides of its brutal torso are two thick, muscular human arms, tipped with razor-sharp claws that tear through the water with terrifying speed.
“Tally!” Rory screams, pointing at the water.
As the triangular dorsal fin slices through the gray swells leaving a hard, V-shaped wake, I open up the throttle once more.
That beast is heading straight at us like a torpedo.
They’re not playing any more. It’s coming to take us down.
All the way to the bottom of this freezing, dark ocean.