Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“Where is he?” he growls, looking past me as Brad helps the redhead into the boat before we both lay the women on our shoulders down. I see many of the others are coming around, looking absolutely terrified. “Where the fuck is he, Danny?”
I take a fresh pistol from the loaded ski, the only one left, and check the magazine. “You go,” I say to no one but everyone.
“What?” Brad grunts, standing tall, rolling his shoulder. “No.”
I turn sober eyes onto him. “Go,” I demand, and everyone looks between each other, waiting for another protest. “Take James’s ski.”
Ringo, reluctant, gets on and starts the engine, looking to Goldie in instruction to get moving, then to Otto, who releases the rock he’s clinging to, allowing the tide to carry the boat out. He starts the engine and gives me a look that tells me I’m dead if I don’t bring James back.
I believe it.
“I’ll see you in a minute,” Brad says, and for a moment I think he’s talking to me, but then he appears by my side, checking the chamber of a rifle. “Say one word,” he pants. “I’ll fucking shoot you.”
Again, I believe it.
And I haven’t got time to waste trying to reason with him.
I nod and get on my jet ski, Brad jumping on his, and as soon as the current has turned me, I slam down on the throttle and head around the cove toward James. It takes only a few seconds to make it to him, and I find him still with his back to the door. “I’m out,” he yells, tossing his guns aside and forcing farther back into the metal door. I turn my ski and keep just enough pressure on the throttle to counteract the current and remain stationary. I look back at James, nodding.
“So we’re stuntmen now, are we?” Brad asks, locking and loading.
“Hey, Rambo Junior,” James bellows, easing off the door a little, revealing endless bumps from endless bullets. “Don’t miss.”
Brad laughs. It’s sardonic. “Ready when you are.”
James nods, and there’s no countdown. No bracing. He releases the door and runs at me full pelt as gunfire rings out and sparks light up the dusky sky. “Hit the throttle!” he yells, diving off the nearest rock and sailing through the air. Fuck me, a little too much, he’s missing. Too little, he’s overshooting the ski.
Jesus!
I mentally calculate the distance and speed his big body’s traveling at and hit the throttle a little harder.”
“Fuck!”
I pulled forward too much. He smacks the water, his hands catching the tail of my jet ski. “Go!”
I flinch when a bullet hits the handlebar.
“Fuck, go, Danny!” Brad yells.
I look across to him, seeing him standing, guns poised, firing, his face as psychotic as I know he is beneath his dry wit. I regain my focus and hit the throttle, praying James can hold on, and zoom across the water, looking back constantly to check I can still see his tanned hands holding on amid the foam and Brad’s ski following.
The roar of the engines is loud, but I still hear the bullets firing. My heart pounds, as I will the approaching curve in the bay to come sooner. “Come on, come on,” I breathe, releasing the throttle the moment I round it. I turn and wait for the churned-up water to settle, and when it does . . .
No James.
“Fuck!” I bellow, looking back through the stream of white water, searching for him. Brad rounds the corner and slows, and as soon as he sees my face, his turns grave. “We go back,” I order, taking my seat again and turning my ski . . . just as a head pops up and a string of explicit language rings out.
“Motherfucker!” James yells on an exhale, coughing, choking, shaking his head. I swear, every muscle in me turns to mush, and I flop forward over the handlebars, suddenly out of breath. “Were you worried about me?” he pants.
I don’t look up, too exhausted. “Fuck you.”
And then laughter.
Brad breaks out, James too, and I look up, seeing them in pieces. Relief. It has to be, because I’m suddenly laughing like a twat with them. “Get the fuck on,” I say, labored, chugging over to him to save him the swim.
He takes my offered hand and climbs on the back, wrapping an arm around my waist, looking to Brad. “How many are left?” he asks.
“I saw three drop.”
“So two?” I ask. “Assuming the hits were fatal.” Brad nods, and I swear I see him wince. “You okay?”
“Dandy,” he grunts, taking the handlebars. “But I really need a fucking drink.”
“Me too,” I mutter. And a Marlboro or twenty.
“Me three,” James adds. “Take me home, mate.” He smacks my shoulder and then massages into it a little. “And thanks.”
Has anyone ever saved The Enigma’s life? Apart from Otto and Goldie, of course.