Very funny, Reilly thought, killing his headlamp and flipping down his night vision. The scene before him blazed to light in mottled shades of green—dead bodies shifting with the boat’s movement, and the man at the rear still maintaining his hold.
Reilly quickly took aim, firing two suppressed shots at the engine man as soon as his team’s boat was out of his line of fire. He was certain he’d hit him, but the vessel continued speeding forward, cresting a wave and crashing down to knock Reilly on his side. This bastard must have had a postmortem death grip on the throttle, thought Reilly as he started to rise, then thought better of it and aimed his infrared laser at the outboard motor instead.
He fired five shots, the 7.62mm rounds causing the engine to cough, sputter, and finally fall silent. The boat finally—finally—came to a stop, and the night fell nearly silent aside from the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.
Catching his breath in disbelief, he transmitted to his teammates.
“Good news: I’m all secure. Bad news: outboard motor is now scrap metal, so I’m kind of stranded out here.”
David responded, “No sweat, we’re coming to you. Flex cuff the bodies to the boat, then prep a demo charge against the hull so we can scuttle it. Then finish your fucking search.”
I stood beside Worthy at the bow, scanning ahead as we neared the pirate vessel now adrift with Reilly on board. The big medic was visible on the deck, completing his duties with a light step to prevent the boat from rocking too far in either direction.
Keying my radio, I asked, “They all dead this time?”
It took him a moment to respond, “I put a 7.62 round into everyone’s head and the boat is starting to take on water, so yeah, they’re all dead. Just hurry up and get me, this is embarrassing.”
“Or amusing,” I offered. “All depends on your point of view.”
Reilly let that particular observation go unanswered.
Worthy spoke beside me. “How do you want to play this, boss?”
“Only one way to play it. There’s room to profit off this.”
“I hear you. I’ll follow your lead.”
As our boat slowed to a halt beside the pirate vessel, I called out to Reilly.
“What’d you find?”
His response came by way of tossing me a rectangular parcel. I caught the shrink-wrapped parcel, then examined it to find the contents were a hard-packed brick of white powder. Turning it over, I found a sticker bearing a ram skull logo.
He said, “There’s two more bricks where that came from, both with the same branding. One of them is open, which explains how the guy on the motor managed to survive getting shot so many times. I could probably rub a drop of his blood on my gums and stay awake for three days.”
“Cocaine’s a hell of a drug,” I acknowledged, peeling off the sticker and stuffing it in my pocket before tossing the brick back to Reilly.
He caught it and continued, “Nothing on board to indicate they were coming after our team. Looks like they were just small-time pirates trying to shake down the wrong boat.”
“You secure the bodies and rig the demo?”
“Yep.”
“All right,” I said, “let’s get this over with.”
Worthy and I straddled the side rail, extending our arms toward Reilly. He pulled the ring on his fuse igniter, then dropped it and took hold of the rail as we helped hoist him up and over. Reilly grunted from the effort, and I caught a whiff of oil residue as he swung his soaked left leg aboard.
As soon as the three of us were on deck once more, I called out to the captain, “Let’s go.”
The churning buzz of the boat engine increased in volume as we pulled forward, and my teammates followed me back to the stern. There we lined up against the rail, watching the pirate vessel bobbing in the waves.
“That was a pretty bad engagement,” I said to Reilly. “For you, I mean.”
The medic scoffed. “What? We all shot him.”
“We all shot him, but he was your target. Take out the man on the engine, remember?”
“David’s right,” Worthy agreed. “That little mess was on you. Hell, I believe that’s the kind of story that would travel forever and a day in the team—unless, of course, no one else was to find out. And for the small price of a case of beer, I can definitely forget to mention this to Ian or Cancer.”
“Two cases,” I corrected him, reaching up to pat Reilly on his thick, muscled shoulder. “One for each of us. Silence costs, brother. Next time kill the engine before you start searching.”
The detonation sent a dull boom across the water, its flash of orange light receding along with the echo as the pirate boat tilted on its long axis before slipping downward. I watched its hull slip beneath the surface and vanish from sight as we continued our journey upstream.
2
Cancer bobbed his head in rhythm with the rap song playing over the vehicle speakers, the action mirrored by the Nigerian man in the driver’s seat. They’d been parked for over half an hour, all of it filled with rap, most of it quality.
“I like it,” Cancer said. “This a local guy?”
Tolu nodded enthusiastically. “From Lagos, like me. Nigeria has the best rappers in all of Africa.”
“You listen to Western stuff?”
“All of it,” the driver responded.
“Lemme ask you something, Tolu. What’s going on with rap today?”
Tolu shook his head. “It is sad, very sad. The mumble raps...”
“Autotune.”
“Face tattoos.”
Cancer snickered. “Some shameful shit. Thank God we’ve still got some good lyrical rappers, and the classics.”
“Yes,” Tolu agreed, “the classics.”
Then silence lapsed between the two men, and Cancer could feel the tension rising. He eyed the Nigerian, considering how to proceed without sabotaging the otherwise outstanding rapport between them.
Toluwanimi Layeni was 29 years old, and despite numerous wildly entertaining conversations over the past few days, Cancer still couldn’t figure him out. Take this moment, for instance. Here they were, two grown men sitting in a van at four in the morning, and Tolu was dressed like he was about to stroll into a West Hollywood nightclub: garish shirt unbuttoned to the mid-sternum, skinny pants, quasi-dress shoes, and enough gold between his chains, bracelets, and watch to make a pawn shop owner blush.
Speaking with measured candor, Cancer said, “Tolu, I think we both know where this conversation is headed.”
The driver nodded solemnly. “We do.”
“So as not to make this awkward, we both go on the count of three.”
“This is the only way,” Tolu agreed.
“One. Two. Three.”
Both men spoke their next word in unison, and with equal amounts of conviction. But Tolu said “Tupac” as Cancer said “Biggie,” and a look of shock flashed over each man’s face before they eyed one another warily.
After a few moments of silence, Cancer said, “I may have to find a new driver for my team. I’m not sure this is going to work out.”
Tolu answered, “And I may need me a new team to drive. Tupac is the OG. Platinum status before Biggie’s first single.”
“Oxcarts were invented before Cadillacs, but that don’t make them better. Biggie has the superior flow—”