Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Progressing to the other side of the ship is suddenly stopped by the vehicle that was previously flanking us deciding to shift tactics instead. They begin a zig zag pattern that’s tied to aimless firing, a technique I understand yet personally don’t use because I loathe wasting ammo. Instead of playing the game of tag, you fire, I smoothly barricade myself behind the outdoor bar and patiently wait for a pause that will have to come.
See, that’s the other issue with that method.
You’re gonna have to stop and reload much sooner than I am, and when you do that will be my window to terminate you as a threat. The concept that the best way to destroy an enemy is to do everything first so they don’t get the drop on you is outdated and idiotic and one that tends to cause more causalities than victories.
Broken glass continuously rains down in front of me, creating a shimmery waterfall that collects into a pool of sharp remnants I know are going to be a bitch to step through barefoot. Shots discharged too wide on each end of the area indicate that they’re unsure of exactly where I slipped off to and the rev of an engine approaching informs me that the combatant not driving is most likely going to try to board the ship for a more direct attack.
The sudden pause in gunfire is my irrefutable cue to carefully lean around the edge of the bar, ignore the small discomfort from the sharp pieces piercing my suit, and aim at the intruder about to transfer himself from his boat to ours. Waiting until he’s midmotion between watercrafts to squeeze the trigger not only disposes of him in the deep blue but his weapon too, leaving the wheelman hastily scrambling to drive and find something to defend himself with. His indecisiveness ultimately makes him and the boat easy targets, targets that only require one shot each to takeout.
My attention remains laser focused on the area I just secured during my announcement into my earpiece. “Clear.”
There’s a pause barely worth noting before my partner echoes the statement, “Clear.”
The word allows me to lower the firearm, yet my gaze sweeps the seemingly vacant area once more. “Open blue?”
“Roger.”
“How open we talkin’?” Light chuckles are sprinkled between questions. “You on two shots of Wilcox, which is just enough for you to fess up about the weird shit your woman is into-”
“It’s not that weird to wear a bumble bee costume as lingerie.”
“Or you on night two of the Beers & Babes Beach Bash bawlin’ in the shower about the beagle puppy you never got for your sixth birthday?”
“See, that’s why I don’t like listening to country music. Makes a man get in touch with his inner Oprah side and no one fucking needs that.”
More chortles are attached to my counter, “Pretty sure you definitely need that.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m the only one on this fucking boat with some scripted for Bravo bullshit.”
I helplessly laugh even louder.
He’s not wrong.
I have definitely been through some made-for or adapted-for television type of shit. Like have already contacted me and my ma and my dad as well as stepmom for rights to my story level of fucked up trauma to triumph. Truth is, I don’t use what I’ve been through for profit the way most could or would or do. I let it lead me to a life of helping. It just so happens that nowadays helping is accompanied by a much higher price tag than it used to be when Uncle Sam was signing the check.
There’s still levity in my tone when I repeat the question, “How open, Blu?”
“Enough.”
Approval of the answer is met by a nod and a crafty contorting of my frame in hopes of minimizing the amount of glass I make contact with. Returning below deck to where our target is stationed is accomplished next. I get him secured in the bathroom – away from the corpses – rest my weapon within reach beside the door and distract him with the Play-Doh I keep on hand for every mission.
That shit is as much a necessity as ammo.
Ammo can keep us alive.
Play-Doh can keep them calm.
And a calm kid is a much more compliant one.
While it takes a little longer than we originally estimated for us to arrive at the HE marina, we’re still within the approximate window we presented to the client and more importantly, our own allotted time constraints.
Each assignment we accept has quite the impressive dollar amount attached to it but having to radio in additional support on the fly cuts deep into those funds.
Blu and I have a spoken agreement about that being a Hail Mary, on our death beds, type of thing.
Wouldn’t call us greedy but who the fuck likes to do all the legwork, risk their limbs or life, and then have to split the reward with someone who literally swooped in on a helo at the last minute because you can’t uber a plane yet? You know factoring them into the assignment is one thing. Getting fucked over by unexpectedly needing them is a whole other.