The Brit

Higham’s up in my face quickly, steam billowing from his ears. “I’m onto you, Black.”

I push my forehead to his, my eyes blazing. “I’m quaking in my fucking wetsuit, Higham.”

Wisely, he backs up, his frustration obvious. “You’re as arrogant as your father was.”

“Don’t get personal, Higham. You’ll regret it,” I warn, moving forward, prompting a nearby agent to reach for his belt. I throw him a death stare. “Calm down, Tackleberry.”

Brad chuckles as he approaches, lighting a cigarette before offering me one.

“Are you done?” I ask, accepting and slipping it between my lips. “Unless you’re in the market for a jet ski, I don’t think you have any business around here.”

“Get me a hammer,” Higham spits, holding his hand out as he glares at me. I don’t let my eyes waver from his as one of his minions runs to his car, returning a few moments later with an axe rather than what his superior requested.

Taking it by the handle, Higham swings it a few times, all cocky as he wanders over to the nearest jet ski. Which happens to be the one we just hurried back into the container. I sense all of my men tensing as Higham proceeds to smash the machine to pieces while everyone looks on. I glance across to Brad who’s broken out in a sweat. Me? I smile, making my right-hand-man give me a what the hell? look.

“You done?” I ask as Higham heaves and kicks pieces of the jet ski away, looking for something he won’t find. “Or are you going to smash up every jet ski I have?” I ask, motioning to the one beside it. “Feel free. Because with every one you damage, you’re racking up I-owe-yous, Higham.”

His nostrils flare, and he throws the axe down into the dirt, throwing his arm in the air in signal for his men to move out. “This isn’t done.”

I pout, lighting my Marlboro and pulling in deep. “Nice seeing you, Higham,” I say, exhaling thick smoke all over him. It takes everything in him not to cough.

“Yeah,” he mutters, marching away, frustration pouring from him.

As soon as they’ve fucked off, I take one last drag of my cigarette, thoughtful, before flicking it away.

“What the fuck?” Brad says quietly, joining me. “Where the hell are the guns?”

I step toward one of the containers and lightly tap the wall, looking back at him. “Always expect the worst.”

“Jesus,” he breathes, putting his cigarette out and immediately lighting another.

My phone rings, and I pull it out. “What?” I mutter down the line to Ringo.

“Why the hell has Volodya’s boat just chugged past me with no jet skis?”

I head to the shack, pulling down the zip of my wetsuit. “FBI stopped by.”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“Was anyone gonna tell me?” Ringo asks, full of annoyance. “I’ve been bobbing up and down on this broken piece of crap for hours. So far, I’ve caught a dead octopus, a pair of panties, a license plate, and a shark. A fucking shark.”

I stop yanking my wetsuit down my body and dump my arse on a bench in the changing room. And I laugh, a proper belly laugh, my head thrown back.

“Fuck you, Danny,” Ringo mutters, the sound of an engine spitting in the background. “You asshole. And now the fucking boat won’t start. Fuck!” There’s a loud bang, forcing me to pull my mobile from my ear. “The engine just blew up,” Ringo says flatly. “The fucking engine just fucking blew the fuck up.”

I’m off again, laughing, my amusement doing a damn fine job of dousing down the anger burning my gut. “I’ll call the Coast Guard.”

“What’s going on?” Brad asks, eyeing up my amused form.

“Ringo’s had a productive fishing trip,” I howl, pressing my hands into my knees to help me up. “And the engine just blew up.”

Brad snatches the phone from me on a frown that suggests he’s truly worried about me. He should be. I’m feeling a bit unhinged, but if I don’t laugh, I’m likely to go on a killing spree.

Brad tells Ringo that someone is on the way to rescue him while I strip out of my wetsuit. He hangs up and stares at me. “So what the fuck do we do n—” He pivots toward the door when we hear the sound of tires crunching the gravel, followed by a voice.

We look at each other. “Spittle,” Brad and I mutter in unison, heading outside as he hands me my phone. I take the steps down from the cabin, my bare feet crunching into the gravel.

Spittle looks me up and down. “Having a slumber party?” he quips as I shift my bare feet on the cutting stones.

“What the fucking hell just happened?” I ask.

“They got a tipoff,” he mutters, walking past us to the shack. “You got any beers in this place?”