Dark Tide, page 1
Dark Tide
The Inland Seas Series - Book 5
Gwyn McNamee
Dark Tide
by Gwyn McNamee © 2020
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Michelle Johnson at Blue Sky Designs
Cover Models: Michael Giovanni Rivera
& Jaclyn Elaine Swedberg
Editing: Wallflower Edits
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. Rion
2. Gabriella
3. Rion
4. Gabriella
5. Rion
6. Gabriella
7. Rion
8. Gabriella
9. Rion
10. Gabriella
11. Rion
12. Gabriella
13. Rion
14. Gabriella
15. Rion
16. Gabriella
17. Rion
18. Gabriella
19. Rion
20. Gabriella
21. Rion
22. Gabriella
23. Rion
24. Gabriella
25. Rion
26. Gabriella
27. Rion
28. Gabriella
Epilogue
About the Author
OTHER WORKS BY GWYN MCNAMEE
The heart of man is very much like the sea. It has storms. It has its tides and in its depths,
it has pearls too.
* * *
Vincent Van Gogh
Acknowledgments
It’s always hard to finish a series, and Dark Tide was no exception. Thank you to my girls for helping me say goodbye (for now) to the Inland Seas pirate crew. Christy, Renee, Katie, and Caoimhe, you guys are my rocks!
I also owe a huge thank you to my husband for supporting me and my work and being such a great dad.
1
Rion
The razor-sharp blade of the knife easily slices through the skin of my left forearm. Searing pain immediately shoots up my arm, and I grit my teeth.
Fuck. That’s going to need stitches.
But the asshole made a critical error. Getting close enough to actually cut me puts him close enough for me to grab him and fucking end this.
For good.
I grip his extended arm and twist it up behind his back until the bones snap, and the sound reverberates in the small, enclosed space. He cries out something unintelligible and drops the knife. It clatters to the metal floor of the wheelhouse just to my left, and I kick it away toward the door and out of this fucker’s reach.
No way in hell I’m going to let him grab that. He won’t get the fucking drop on me. Not a second time. The fucker sure knew what he was doing when he lunged from where he was hiding in the closet of the wheelhouse and knocked my gun loose the moment I stepped inside. It won’t happen again.
Not in this fucking lifetime.
My head wasn’t fully in the game. That’s my own fault. I should know better by now. Being distracted is what gets you killed on the battlefield. And while this might not be the sands of Iraq, this swaying ship in the middle of Lake Michigan might as well be.
The men are just as intent on taking us out. They’re just as well-armed. And they possess the same lack of conscience as those scumbags in the sandbox that lets them aim for the heart with no second thoughts.
This fucker would have driven that knife straight into my chest if I’d been a half-second slower.
Thank you, United States Army, for the thorough training.
I leverage him down onto his knees then use my booted foot to push him onto his stomach. Any resistance on his part is futile. He’s half my size, maybe even smaller, and without the knife, he has nothing more to fight with. He’s a goner, and he knows it.
Say your prayers.
He squirms under the sole of my Timberlands. “Ouch, fuck, man. You broke my fucking arm.”
I lean down until I can smell the fear coming off him. “Damn fucking right I did, you motherfucker.” Warm blood trickles toward my wrist, and I briefly examine the wound he gave me. “You fucking cut me. You’re lucky I haven’t done worse.”
Yet.
There isn’t any other option but to terminate him. It’s the entire reason we’re here.
Heavy footsteps pound outside the wheelhouse, and Warwick appears in the doorway and surveys the scene. “What the fuck happened?”
I shove my weight onto the asshole’s back and press my right hand over the wound on my arm to stem the flow of blood. “This fucker was sneaky. Pushed open the door of the closet and managed to knock my gun out of my hand. Then he came at me with that.” I tip my head toward the knife where it lies near the door.
Warwick bends and picks it up, then walks over and retrieves my 1911 from where it skidded to a rest. He holds it out to me, and I have to release the compression from my arm to take it.
His focus narrows in on the cut. “That looks pretty nasty.”
I snort, point the gun at the back of the man's head, and fire. The shot echoes through the wheelhouse and rings in my ears. Blood and brain-matter splatter across the floor. “I'll live. A dozen stitches should take care of it.”
Though Preacher and Cutter are both shit at stitching anything up; it looks more like a child did it than two men with medical training. It’ll leave a scar if either of them attempts it. It may be better to have Everly, Valentina, Eva, or Grace try. At least it would be a woman’s gentle touch instead of those brutes. These assholes are all lucky I’m around to do this shit.
I step off the dead man, re-holster my gun, and rip off the bottom couple inches of my T-shirt to make a bandage to stem the flow of blood. It’ll do until we’re on the boats and safely away from here. I wrap it around my forearm and use my teeth to cinch it down tight, biting back a curse at the sharp pain it sends up my arm.
Pain I don’t need to be feeling right now.
It isn’t as bad as a bullet or getting thrown from the goddamn Humvee during that IED attack in Iraq, but it sure isn’t fucking fun, either. This is exactly the kind of shit I’d hoped to avoid, yet in the last year, we’ve had more members of the crew shot and stabbed than I ever could have anticipated.
Warwick wanders over to the safe in the corner and squats in front of it. “What do you think the chances are of getting into this thing?”
I eye it and shake my head. “Preacher might be able to do it if he had enough time, but how are we gonna get that fucker off the ship?”
He pushes to his feet and scans the wheelhouse. “I'm gonna see if I can find a hand truck or dolly somewhere. If we can get it on deck, we can use the crane to put it on the Destiny.”
“At least we would get something out of this fucking shitshow.”
Aside from a new scar cutting through the image of the angel of death on my arm.
Things have wandered so far away from how we started that I barely even recognize this anymore. We went from a group of guys trying to help a friend get out of debt to a fucking assassination squad. Although that isn't too far from what Cutter and I did when we were enlisted, at least then we were doing it for Uncle Sam. For freedom. For a purpose. Now, we’re just working for fucking mobsters.
Anger heats my skin, and I turn back to War. “Remind me again, why the fuck we’re out here on this ship?”
It's not our usual mission. Not by a long shot. We don't take out these types of ships just to execute the crew. It’s always been about the cargo. Something we need or something that can’t get to its destination. This was a concentrated, direct attack with one purpose—kill.
Warwick sighs and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to have this argument again. “You know why. Because Preacher needs Rose’s hacker to get into those FBI files, and Rose needed a fucking favor in return.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sick of it. Everybody always needs a fucking favor, it seems.”
Oh, just run out to this boat and kill fifteen people. That's cool.
It would be one thing if I knew who they were. If I knew what they were doing that Rose wanted to stop. It would be almost…poetic to be taking out some assholes from this world and thinning out the herd, but these guys—I turn and look at the man without a face on the ground—they could be anybody. Rose could want them gone for any number of reasons. When we’re at the mercy of someone else’s orders, we don’t get the luxury of asking questions about motives.
Warwick runs a hand over his facial scruff. “This isn’t the time or place to have this conversation, Rion. Let's go look for the hand truck and get the fuck out here.”
Sounds like a great fucking plan to me.
We're going to spend another almost twenty hours on the Destiny before we make it back to the warehouse. Twenty hours with nothing but the rolling of the waves on the lak
That's always when things get dangerous. When there’s nothing to dull the memories or silence the screams.
Maybe War will agree to drive the whole way so I can pop open what’s in that fucking cooler I stashed onboard. But knowing him, if I start drinking, there will be questions I don't want to answer. I’ll just have to wait to drown myself until we reach land and I can park my ass on a barstool somewhere.
It’s been too long since I had a night off just to unwind. Months. Ever since our discovery on the Wanderer, we’ve been laying low, waiting for the fallout from the rescue of the trafficked women. But nothing has happened on that end. And I’m not going to spend another night drinking at the warehouse. I’d much rather find another form of entertainment.
I fly down the stairs out of the wheelhouse behind War. Cool water sprays my face from the waves battering the ship. It’s a welcome relief from the stifling air in that tiny space. Though that probably has more to do with the body lying on the floor than anything else.
E and Cutter wait on the deck surrounded by half a dozen bodies of crewmembers. The rest must be below in the cargo hold.
Cutter’s focus dips to the makeshift bandage around my arm. “You run into some trouble?”
I force my trademark grin and lift my arm. “Nothing a bullet to the head didn't fix.”
He snorts and smirks, the move twisting the scarred side of his face into a sinister joker-like smile.
A cool breeze whips around me, bringing the scent of crisp lake water mixed with gunpowder and death.
“Are we done here?” I look around at the bodies and the blood pooling on the deck. It quickly morphs into different bodies…a different time.
The scalding heat of the sun practically melting me replaces the chilly air of spring in the Midwest. The slap of the waves against the side of the ship and the creak of the crane on the deck become the flashes and bangs of the explosion. My feet are no longer firmly planted. Instead, I’m twisting and freefalling, slamming into earth so hard and dry that it's like hitting concrete.
The scorch and sting of the baked, sandy ground under my cheek…
The smell of burning gasoline and human flesh…
The screams…
Shit.
I squeeze my eyes together and shake my head to force the memory away.
If I go down that fucking rabbit hole right now, I'm not climbing out of it. Especially if I have to be on the boat for so long before we get back to dry land and an endless supply of alcohol.
Someone slaps me on the back, and I jerk my head up and twist toward whoever dragged me from that shithole of a memory.
E's blue eyes assess me, and he narrows them on me. “You all right?”
Warwick motions for Cutter to follow him, probably to go look for the damn hand truck we need to make any attempt to get that damn safe out of here.
I turn back to E. “Fucking fine, man.” It comes out more aggressively than I intend.
He holds up his hands and recoils a little. “Shit, just asking.”
I shouldn't have snapped at him. Despite how we butted heads over the whole Evangeline issue, when he finally came around and accepted his feelings for her, things returned to normal between us. At least, as normal as anything ever is between anyone on this crew. He's just making sure I'm okay. The same thing I would've done to any of them if I'd seen them do what I just did—disappear somewhere else for a moment.
It's been so fucking long since it has happened while we are on a mission, I just wasn't prepared for it.
These memories need to get the fuck back there and stay buried.
That was a different lifetime, and I was a different person then. I took the lives of enemy combatants and saved the lives of our heroes. Now, I'm nothing but a fucking mercenary on a mission for the head of a fucking cartel.
Christ, things have changed so damn much.
Cutter and War reappear from the hold with a hand truck.
War points toward it with a satisfied grin. “We’re in business, boys.”
E raises an eyebrow. “What's that for?”
I motion toward the wheelhouse. “Safe.”
“Good call.” E cracks a smile. “Maybe we can add to our retirement account.”
Cutter snort-laughs and scans the deck. “I’m going to double-check we’ve policed all our brass.”
War points at me. “Let's go, Rion, we're gonna need you to get that fucker off the ground.”
I groan and run my hand over my face. One thing they can always count on me for is brute strength. And even with the help of that hand truck, War won’t have the leverage to get that thing up off the floor. Safes aren’t meant to be easy to move for a reason.
My steps boom across the deck. “Let's get this fucking done and get home so I can shower, change, and go to the fucking bar.”
And lose myself at the bottom of the bottle and inside some hot, wet pussy.
The faster, the better.
I follow Warwick back up the stairs to the wheelhouse. He slides the hand truck under the safe and steps back to let me do the heavy lifting.
Gee, thanks, fucker.
The fact that I don’t move immediately to lift it doesn’t get past War. He raises an eyebrow at me.
I scowl at him. “What the fuck is that look for?”
“Just wondering why you have so much attitude today? It's even more than normal, and that's saying something.”
This isn't the time or place to be having this conversation, but he wants to do it? Let's fucking do it.
I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the twinge of pain from the knife wound. “Are you really okay with this?” I wave my hand over the body on the floor. “With what we're doing and for whom? It was one thing when we were working on getting you out of debt—to help a friend. Even when we started to work for Valentina, it wasn’t bad because we know her. We know the type of person she is, the type of business she runs. We also know the type of person Rose is. That fucker kidnapped Everly to get to us. He would've killed her and all of us if Preacher hadn’t come up with that plan.”
Warwick sighs and scrubs his hands over his beard. “Yeah, I know. And I don't like doing this, either. It's a long way from where we started.”
Understatement of the fucking year.
“No fucking shit, man. I thought I was done with this.”
I don't have to tell him what this is.
His dark eyes soften, and he glances down at the body. “If you're not up to it anymore, then leave.”
The hurt and accusation in his tone pull at my heart.
“Fuck, Warwick, that's not what I'm saying.” I shove my hands through my hair and then wince at the pain slicing through my arm at the motion. “I don't have a problem killing if it's for the right fucking reasons. This,” I point down to the guy on the ground, “doesn't benefit us in any way, does it?”
“That's where you’re fucking wrong, Rion. We need this. Preacher needs this. How the fuck else are we supposed to find out what's in those FBI files?”
I growl. “Preacher’s a fucking genius. He would figure it the fuck out.”
Warwick shakes his head. “He says he can't. He says that for some reason, these files are so well protected that he can’t access them.”
“And he really thinks Rose’s tech genius can?”
“If I didn't believe that, I wouldn’t be out here. We wouldn’t be out here. I wouldn’t be asking you to do this.”
It's the truth.
I can't be mad at him for doing something Preacher told us is essential. Preacher never does anything that he thinks would endanger us unless he's one hundred percent certain he needs it, or it would benefit all of us.
