“With Wildlife and Fisheries, sure, but this is Saberton.”
“What the hell does that have to do with—”
“Just because you don’t recognize them doesn’t mean they won’t recognize you,” I snapped.
Finally, a flicker of realization in his eyes. It had to be tough pretending 24/7 to be Pierce Gentry, ex-Saberton security honcho, all while not giving himself away to colleagues—like Rosario and Rachel—who weren’t allowed to know he used to be Pietro.
“Angel’s right, Pierce,” Marcus said. “I should go, and you should stay.”
Pierce dug a faded Saints ball cap from under the seat and jammed it on his head. “You were a good cop, but I have ops training and experience.” He shoved on sunglasses and drawled, “They ain’t gonna see city slicker Gentry in this here boat.”
I regarded him then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess they won’t be expecting a New Yorker to go full redneck.”
Marcus lifted his rifle. “That works. I’ll cover from here.”
“Still a crack shot, I take it?” Pierce asked with a hint of Uncle Pietro pride in his voice.
Marcus quietly chambered a round then brought the rifle to his shoulder and sighted through the grass. “I can get my point across.”
In less than a minute, Pierce, Rachel, and Brian had readied weapons, agreed on a basic plan, and downed a packet of brains each. In the bow of the flatboat, Brian lounged as if half-asleep. Rachel pretended to read a book, pistol hidden beneath the jacket draped over her lap. Pierce set his shotgun close at hand, pulled a beer from the cooler, and cracked it open.
“Why do you have beer in the brains cooler?” I asked, perplexed.
He chuckled and took a sip. “It’s good cover. Besides, I happen to like beer.” He took a longer swig then started the motor and headed down toward the bayou.
Marcus climbed partway up the bank, put his eye to the rifle’s scope and waited.
“You want a spotter?” I asked, half-expecting him to tell me to stay behind cover.
“Wouldn’t mind at all,” he murmured.
Pleased, I snatched the binoculars from Rosario then scrambled up the bank to where I could watch events unfold.
Pierce rounded the twin pines and turned downstream on the bayou—into plain sight of the “deputies.” The diver had climbed into the boat and was facing away as he shed gear, but the other two tensed, hands twitching to weapons.
“G’mornin’!” Pierce hollered, lifting his beer in salute as he steered toward them. “How y’all doin’?”
Rachel lowered her book and shot Pierce a withering look. “Oh my god, Cooter. They’re cops. You’re gonna get busted for drinking while boating!”
The Saberton men exchanged a glance, then Baldy leveled a stern look at Pierce. “Sir, you need to stay back. We’re conducting an investigation.”
“Woowee!” Pierce grinned widely. “Listen to our boys in blue, darlin’. They soundin’ all official. Least I can do is offer ’em a beer!” He guided the flatboat closer.
“They can’t have beer on duty,” Rachel scoffed.
“But they can save it for when they’re off!”
Carrot-top glowered as the flatboat came within a couple of feet of the patrol boat’s hull. “Get the fuck away from our boat, asshole.”
Pierce donned a hangdog expression. “Well, gawddamn. I guess when you put it that way—” He snapped the shotgun up. A split second later, Rachel and Brian had their guns trained on the Saberton trio.
Carrot-top and Baldy froze, hands on their weapons and very obviously assessing how best to handle the turn of events. Behind them, the diver stood motionless, gripping his mask.
“Hands off your guns and up where we can see them,” Pierce said with no trace of the redneck accent. “The diver, too. I need to see his hands. There’s a rifle trained on you.”
Baldy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re full of sh—”
I jerked as Marcus fired the rifle. Water poofed up a few feet behind the patrol boat.