There's been a tornado watch for like an hour now as of me writing this, so I had to be productive somehow while I waited for shit to blow through. Tornadoes are awesome in theory, but not so much in person, and I refuse to sleep until I know I'm not going to wake up to sirens - or my roof blowing away lol

Side note: is this gangster shit? I feel like it's gangster shit, but maybe I've watched John Wick too many times.

Mind the errors.


A hot breeze rustled the trees to my left, their fronds briefly waving and distorting the view through my scope. I took the opportunity to shift, still in my prone position, but the adjustment so minute it was hardly a movement at all. Sweat pooled on my forehead, the beads crawling down my skin and clinging to my lashes before they fell. It wasn't hard to resist the temptation to wipe the moisture away – even without traditional sniper school, practiced rigidity and heeling my impulses was second nature by virtue of being in the service at all.

Somewhere below my makeshift hide, a good 50 feet if the steps up had been any indication, I heard Sawyer and Raphael smack their wooden crate of a table and cackle. Shit was always fun and games for the rookies, who looked at these expeditions more like a vacation; new ass to hit and an excuse to have some free nose beers on the beach. Something clattered, then hissed, a drink can being upended. Then the shuffle of sand and a string of Spanish curses. I smirked, my eye still trained on the idle boat floating a good 1,000 yards in the distance. Leave it to Jazz to ruin a good time.

By the time Bella and I had finished playing our condensed version of catch-up and spoken to Carlisle, Jazz had finally come back and had indeed disposed of the dead bodies I'd left at the hotel. I never asked how the dead got to the pig farm Carlisle had in the northern part of the state; that shit was way below my paygrade. For a while we had dumped them in the ocean, hundreds of miles off shore, but the ocean had a mind of its own. Granted, so did the pigs, but those fuckers' minds only told them to eat everything, bones included. Hard to get murder charges to stick without a corpse to back them up.

We had reconvened in Carlisle's office, the four of us, and went over what Bella had told me. I tried to keep my fisted hands clenched behind my back when Bella let slip the little detail that she had also been collateral in the event the talks went south; she would be sold to the cartel, destined to be the bride to the son of their el Jefe. Now, without her to guarantee Marcus's obedience, the cartel was refusing to assist him, making him all the more desperate to locate her.

With Andrés, Blake and Sam all on conference call, it was universally decided that we needed to act on this information quickly, before Marcus knew what the fuck was up. Which is precisely how I'd ended up on Crawfish Key, sweating my dick off playing babysitter.

Bella had told us Marcus typically ran exchanges from a base he had on Man Key, which was far easier to set up distribution channels to the Keys than coming all the way from Cuba. The goal, for now, was to fuck as much shit up as possible and deliver the message – keep to your own fucking territory. We had two boats waiting, loaded to damn near capacity with guns and ammo. All we were waiting on was the other boat, which should have been a canary yellow Nor-Tech.

After another 30-some minutes, based on the progression of the sun, I finally spotted a glint in the distance. My foot twitched, wanting to alert the crew below, but I had to be sure it was the right boat. When it was about 2,000 yards out I caught the smallest glimpse of the yellow color I was waiting for. Finally I nudged my foot, sending the rock I'd perched on the edge of the platform tumbling to the ground. One beat, then two, followed by the distinct sound of skin-on-skin contact – probably Jazz smacking them. His hissing voice drifted up to me, incensed.

"That's the signal. Quit fucking around. Get the rest of the guys and get to the fucking boat."

The sounds of rapid movement below made for an interesting mental picture, but I didn't allow myself to look. Anything over 1,000 yards was already a fucking shot, and even the smallest change in windage would fuck me. All of that was without consideration to the fact that I was aiming at a miniature-looking human on a gently rocking fucking boat. If I didn't have my eye glued to these motherfuckers, it was going to be a bad day for our crew.

The yellow Nor-Tech pulled alongside them, bodies moving in the scope like ants. Waiting for it to quit listing seemed to take an age but finally the crews managed to lash the boats together. I tried to ignore the black metal objects slung across their backs as I took aim.

When I heard the sound of our boats roar to life I took in a steadying breath, exhaling as I squeezed the trigger. My bullet sailed, and I sat counting as I waited for impact. After a few seconds I heard the echo of impact, missing slightly where I was aiming but still drilling through three of the four outboard engine blocks enough to render the boat unusable. Another breath, another exhale, and I squeezed for a second time. Again the shot was slightly less than true, but it still tore through enough of the engines, the Nor-Tech this time, to fuck it up.

I jumped up, leaving the rifle, and scurried my ass down the rickety ladder. As soon as my feet hit the sand I sprinted to the waiting boats, sea water soaking my boots as I vaulted over the side of the hull. I didn't even have time to sit as Sawyer threw it into reverse in earnest, making me brace my legs and grab the metal frame of the console's canopy. When he immediately shifted into drive once we faced open water my body jerked, then he opened the throttle and we were on plane, allowing me to straighten up.

Finally steady, I turned to find a rifle in my face. I snagged it from the guy, not knowing or caring what his name was, and flipped the dust cover down. It already had a full mag inserted, but no bullet seated. I slid the charging handle back, flipping the rifle to check under the dust cover again and confirm it was loaded this time. Making sure the safety was on, I slung the rifle sling over my right shoulder.

Sea spray sliced my cheeks, spattering on my shades as we sped toward Marcus's men. A cursory glance showed most of the newer guys, almost all of them save a few of us only associates, looking tense and nervous. Sawyer and Raphael, two guys that were on the verge of being considered soldiers, were the most senior guys outside myself, Jazz, and Emilio, who was another enforcer like myself. In total, ourselves included, there were still only 16 of us, but we still outnumbered the four I counted on the stationary boat along with the five on the Nor-Tech.

As we approached, slowing slightly, I brought the rifle up, flicking the safety as it pressed against my shoulder. There wasn't a scope to get in the way, only irons, giving me a clearer picture as I peered down the barrel as Sawyer steered us toward the other two boats.

The second Jazz shouted for us to unleash hell, I pulled the trigger. Rapidly I let off a short burst, dispatching the driver of one boat, and then another at a man who was trying to wrestle a pistol from his waistband. I felt something sharp pierce my stomach in the lower right quadrant, but it was too far from any vitals for me to fuck with it at the moment. I shot off another burst at a head that was emerging from behind the console of the Nor-Tech.

As quickly as the sounds of gunfire had sprung up, it died just as immediately. Sawyer brought us in a sweeping arc away from the boats, then back up so we would board and do an inventory. Emilio was walking through us, confirming no one was hit, as I pulled up my shirt. Sure as fuck, a hole near my hipbone was leaking deep scarlet blood. Jazz frowned as he saw me, his hand moving to pull out his cell as I waved him off.

"Just give me the QuikClot. I'll have Alice look at me when we get back." I told him, voice flat. I'd been shot more times than I could count, and every time pissed me off more than the last. There was just something about being wounded that made me feel inept; not good enough, not fast enough, not accurate enough. We had a job to do, and it'd be a lot easier to focus on without dwelling on my PTSD that was spawned from failure.

Jazz handed me the packet, still closed, so I ripped it open with my teeth and poured the gritty substance over the entry point. I sucked in a breath as it hit, my body flinching against the shock and sting of the powder. I handed the package back to Jazz and turned so he could see if it went through or not.

"Definitely have Allie look. I don't see an exit point." His voice was inflectionless, not betraying what I knew was blistering fury that I'd been shot.

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed some gauze and half-heartedly wiped up the blood running down my abdomen. "It's a fucking flesh wound, Jasper. Unwind your panties, we got shit to do. If it makes my sweetie feel better, though, I'll hop the first chopper back and-"

I stopped talking since he'd turned his back to me and was walking away across the desk to where we were moored against the other boats. It didn't bother me; Jazz felt everything on the inside big time, so the fact he couldn't even look at me was a testament to how bad he felt.

By the time we'd gathered everything up we had about 30 kilos of coke, and 14 or 15 kilos of heroin. One of the newbies kept trying to stuff one of the black bricks of H in his pants, making counting unnecessarily difficult. Eventually Jasper got pissed, and was about to put a bullet in the man's head when I stepped in, letting my fist connect with the guy's jaw. Disoriented and bleeding from his mouth, I tangled my hands in his shirt and dragged him to the side of the boat, leaning his torso over the side so he was staring into the sun.

"I don't know who you think we are, but that shit don't fly in our crew." The engines turned over then, fumes of gasoline billowing out. "Have a nice fucking swim." I half-pushed, half-threw his body, sending him careening over the side of the boat as we took off. I looked back as we sped away, the man flailing for a moment before he bobbed, face blanched. We'd scuttled Marcus's boats, so hopefully the fucker could swim decent. It was a long way back to anywhere even remotely populated.

We stopped back at Crawfish Key for our bags and the .338 I'd left sitting on the plywood platform, but since I'd been hit Jazz didn't allow us to linger much longer. He refused to talk in detail about his time as a Ranger, and he reacted like this any time I'd been shot. It made me wonder if seeing me, his brother in every way but blood, brought up shitty memories the same way failure did to me. While most of them had been non-lethal, only one close call that got a little too close to my femoral artery. I'd been laid up for weeks after that one, Alice staunchly refusing to let me leave Esme's massive sofa in the den or my bed.

When we got back to Key West my heart rate jacked up, eyes scanning compulsively. We were deep in Voltaire territory, and Jazz, Emilio and I were branded as Cullen with the brilliant red old English C on our right forearms. As we were cruising into dock, Raphael came up, a black hoodie and a black bandana in his hands. I stared at Jazz, my face apathetic, and he just pursed his lips as he tied the bandana around his arm. We hadn't had to be as careful on the way out a week earlier, since Marcus's crew had no reason to be on alert. It was a given now, though, that the crews on the water had managed to get a message out they were being hit and who had done it. Shaking my head, I tied the ridiculous bandana around my arm, obscuring my most damning ink.

We moved through the streets trying to be casual, most of the crowds locals and tourists, but every so often I caught sight of someone who looked just enough out of place to refresh my sense of alertness. Even after we'd finally hailed a couple of cabs and were scooting toward the airport I didn't relax, my eyes still raking around me, searching. Carlisle's private jet was waiting for us on the tarmac, engines already spinning up.

I thought that once we'd taxied down the runway I would feel better, safe enough and away from danger, more or less, but all I felt was anxiety balled up in my chest. It wasn't until I pulled out my phone and turned it on, connecting to the in-plane WiFi, that the knot of nerves relaxed when a message from an unknown number popped up on the screen.

"How's it going, Tyler Gage?"

I smirked, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the seat. Alice or Esme must have given her my number; it could only be Bella with the lame Step Up reference. It was dated as being from four days ago – had she worried when I never responded? I started to type out a reply, but the adrenaline was finally being sucked out of my body, leaving me exhausted. It had been almost 46 hours since I'd last closed my eyes. A yawn escaped involuntarily, but between the sleep deprivation and gunshot wound, I had to admit I was fucking wrecked.

Jasper's annoyed voice came from somewhere nearby, commanding me to stay awake, but I couldn't be fucked to listen. All I wanted was to see Bella's face, even if it was only in my dreams for now.