James nods, and there’s no countdown. No bracing. He releases the door and runs at me full pelt as gunfire rings out and sparks light up the dusky sky. “Hit the throttle!” he yells, diving off the nearest rock and sailing through the air. Fuck me, a little too much, he’s missing. Too little, he’s overshooting the ski.

  Jesus!

  I mentally calculate the distance and speed his big body’s traveling at and hit the throttle a little harder.”

  “Fuck!”

  I pulled forward too much. He smacks the water, his hands catching the tail of my jet ski. “Go!”

  I flinch when a bullet hits the handlebar.

  “Fuck, go, Danny!” Brad yells.

  I look across to him, seeing him standing, guns poised, firing, his face as psychotic as I know he is beneath his dry wit. I regain my focus and hit the throttle, praying James can hold on, and zoom across the water, looking back constantly to check I can still see his tanned hands holding on amid the foam and Brad’s ski following.

  The roar of the engines is loud, but I still hear the bullets firing. My heart pounds, as I will the approaching curve in the bay to come sooner. “Come on, come on,” I breathe, releasing the throttle the moment I round it. I turn and wait for the churned-up water to settle, and when it does . . .

  No James.

  “Fuck!” I bellow, looking back through the stream of white water, searching for him. Brad rounds the corner and slows, and as soon as he sees my face, his turns grave. “We go back,” I order, taking my seat again and turning my ski . . . just as a head pops up and a string of explicit language rings out.

  “Motherfucker!” James yells on an exhale, coughing, choking, shaking his head. I swear, every muscle in me turns to mush, and I flop forward over the handlebars, suddenly out of breath. “Were you worried about me?” he pants.

  I don’t look up, too exhausted. “Fuck you.”

  And then laughter.

  Brad breaks out, James too, and I look up, seeing them in pieces. Relief. It has to be, because I’m suddenly laughing like a twat with them. “Get the fuck on,” I say, labored, chugging over to him to save him the swim.

  He takes my offered hand and climbs on the back, wrapping an arm around my waist, looking to Brad. “How many are left?” he asks.

  “I saw three drop.”

  “So two?” I ask. “Assuming the hits were fatal.” Brad nods, and I swear I see him wince. “You okay?”

  “Dandy,” he grunts, taking the handlebars. “But I really need a fucking drink.”

  “Me too,” I mutter. And a Marlboro or twenty.

  “Me three,” James adds. “Take me home, mate.” He smacks my shoulder and then massages into it a little. “And thanks.”

  Has anyone ever saved The Enigma’s life? Apart from Otto and Goldie, of course.

  I smile to myself. Beau saves his life every day.

  * * *

  It’s like the homecoming of Christ when we make it back to shore. The relief on all their faces is palpable. I feel it. One look at Ringo in question and he jerks his head toward the cabin, telling me the women are all inside being fed and watered. “Len’s bringing another car and Doc.”

  I nod as James gets off the jet ski and pulls his wetsuit down his chest as he wades out of the water. Beau is waiting for him on the shore, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning every square inch of his body as he approaches her. “Are you okay?” she asks as he lifts an arm, silently ordering her into his side.

  He kisses the top of her head when she settles there, seeming to breathe her into him. “I’m okay,” he assures her.

  “Fuck.”

  I turn and see Brad easing himself off the ski, his face pained. “What’s up?” I ask, watching as he yanks down the zip of his wetsuit and wriggles out of the sleeves on plenty of hisses. “Shit,” I whisper. Blood. Lots of it. My curse pulls James to a stop, makes Ringo throw a few fucks too, and has Otto dashing toward Brad with me, seeing his eyes rolling. “He’s going,” I yell, as he hits the water face first, passing clean out. I splash my way back into the water and turn him over, dragging him to the shore.

  “Blood loss,” Otto grunts, assessing the bullet wound in Brad’s shoulder. He lifts him, turning him slightly to see his back. “Straight through.”

  I look up when I hear tires, seeing Higham’s car skidding across the gravel. He gets out and paces over, looking as stressed as he should be. But not as stressed as I am. “I said no fucking kills! What the fuck happened back there?”

  I’m up in his face like a rabid dog, snarling, probably foaming at the mouth too. “Ten drugged-up, battered, and raped young women, that’s what fucking happened.”

  His eyes widen and he wisely backs up, clocking Brad on the ground behind me. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, fuck. Now are you done, ’cause I’m kinda busy?”

  “Fuck!” he bellows, kicking the gravel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  I leave Higham having a fit over the unexpected turn of events and go back to Brad, kneeling beside him with Otto. “Will he be okay?” I ask, assessing his pasty face.

  “I’m no Doc.” Otto remains, applying pressure to Brad’s shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  I hear a car speeding across gravel and see a Mercedes joining the fleet of vehicles already here. Len jumps out, and I’m relieved to see Doc struggling out of the passenger seat with his brown leather bag. “Here,” I yell, waving him our way. I very nearly go to the old boy, pick him up, and carry him the rest of the way.

  Doc creaks down to his knees and starts doing all the things, humming, mumbling, poking, prodding, assessing. “The bullet?” he asks.

  “Exited,” Otto says.

  “Good. Very good.” Doc slips a line into Brad’s arm and hold up a bag of fluids. “Where was he shot?”

  I look at him like he’s stupid. Where the fuck does he think he was shot? His arse? “His shoulder.”

  “No,” Doc mutters. “I can see very well he’s been shot in his shoulder, Danny. I’m asking where? Here? Can I work on him, or are we in danger?”

  “We’re safe.”

  “And how long ago? So I may ascertain what I’m dealing with. Fast blood loss, slow?”

  “Oh.” I frown, trying to get my brain working.

  “About twenty minutes ago, at a guess,” James says, joining me on the ground. I see Beau lower by Brad’s head and stroke his wet hair out of his eyes, true concern splattered across her face. “It was a hairy escape.”

  “Adrenaline,” Doc concludes. “It’s quite a fuel when the body needs it.” He stands with effort, holding the bag of fluids, and wags a finger at all of us. “Let’s move him into the car so I may take him back to the house and get some blood in him.”

  “You have blood?” I ask, taking Brad’s feet as James gets him under his arms.

  “I have everything, Danny,” Doc says, walking alongside us to the car, never taking his eyes off Brad. “Conditioning myself to expect the unexpected has been quite a godsend since I became the private doctor for the world’s most wanted.”

  “That’s not official,” James grunts. “We’re not even on the list.”

  “And I pray you never are, because I can save you from bullets, burns, and broken bones, but not when you’re behind bars.”

  James catches my eye, and he raises his brows, as do I, silently amused.

  And quite sobered by Doc’s statement.

  We place Brad into the back of one of the Mercs, and Beau tries her hardest to get him comfortable, huffing and puffing, not happy with his position. “I’m going with him,” she declares, slipping into the seat and lifting Brad’s head onto her lap. It’s an endearing sight. Seeing her worry. Seeing her care. Sadness and appreciation in equal measure wash over me. Appreciation for our women. And sadness that Brad hasn’t got his own to fret over him. He has ours, though. Always.

  Beau looks at James and me in turn. “And someone needs to give Rose the heads-up on the guests we’re expecting.”

  Fuck it.

  I need to be the one to do that. I’m terrified this whole messy situation will trigger something in her. Like the ring did. “Be vague,” I say, looking as awkward as I feel when Beau shows her incredulity.

  “Ten women are about to arrive and check into Casa Black, Danny. What do you want me to say? That you and James became the Pied Pipers for women in Miami?”

  “Ha . . . ha,” I drone.

  She sighs. Beau knows what this could mean. “I’ll do what I can.” Doc passes her the bag of liquid, she pulls the door closed, and Len pulls off once Doc is in the car.

  “What a fucking day,” I breathe.

  “And it’s not over yet,” James says, holding his hand out. Leon places my Marlboros in them and he’s quick to light one, handing it to me before lighting one for himself.

  We both turn in unison on deep inhales and long exhales, creating a sizable cloud of nicotine that conceals us from Higham, and when it clears, his face is a picture I’ll never forget as Ringo, Goldie, Otto, and Jerry lead out ten women from the cabin and put them in the cars.

  “My God,” he says, shaking his head, waving a limp hand at the cars as they drive off. “All sedated?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what carnage is there to mop up?”

  “About fifteen dead Polish fuckers.” I smile. “You. Are. Welcome.”

  He breathes in, looks to the sky, and breathes out. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m busy for a few days,” I call, thinking the last thing we need is FBI, whether friendly or not, hanging around while we’re taking a delivery. Or burying Beau’s dad. “So only call me if you have news on my father.”

  He throws a hand up, dismissing me, and gets in his car, wheel-spinning away. I look at James, who nods, catching my drift. We both head into the cabin, help ourselves to a beer, and drop into a chair, slurping and smoking in silence, staring into space. Just taking a moment. He’ll be okay, I think, over and over.

  “He’ll be okay,” James says out loud, as if hearing my silent worry.

  “I kn—” I’m interrupted by my mobile ringing, and I frown, searching it out. Leon holds it up. “Who is it?” I ask, making him look at the screen.

  “Private number.”

  James and I glance at each other, and I hold my hand out. As soon as Leon places my mobile in my hand, I answer and take it slowly to my ear. Silence. And then a voice. But a voice I definitely wasn’t expecting.

  “Danny?”

  My eyes must widen because James leans in, frowning. “Amber?” I say, telling him what he wants to know. Surprise is rare on James Kelly. Only Beau can usually ever spike it, so his perplexed expression right now is quite a picture.

  “I need to see you,” she says, naturally having me wonder why the fuck my ex-in-house whore from over three years ago, and most recently Beau’s father’s bit of arse, could possibly want with me.

  “And I quite like my balls, so I’m afraid it’s a no.” I hang up and fall into thought again, staring at nothing, as does James as we take another needed few minutes to reflect, try to wind down, and wonder . . . what the fuck just happened?

  “Not curious?” he eventually asks.

  “Not enough to risk my wife turning psycho bitch on me. Amber’s probably in up to her neck again. Needs protection, money, who the fuck knows. She’s a waste of fucking space and she pulled a gun on my wife and mother.” So it’s definitely not wise for me to see Amber. And suddenly, I’m angry. So fucking angry. It’s one thing after another, problem after fucking problem. I get up, slip my cigarette between my teeth, and go to the changing room, pulling out a gun from my locker.

  I march down the steps to one of the containers, take a long-arse time unbolting the thing, swing it open, and fire one shot before throwing it closed again. I pass Leon my gun as I head for the car, and James follows my path with his eyes, casually leaning on the wooden handrail, smoking.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “Much. He was the most useless of all your catches.” I get in the passenger side of his Range Rover and wait for James to get in. And wait. And wait. It’s probably only a few seconds but it feels like hours. Exasperated, I press the ignition button and let the window down. “Are you taking me home or not?” I yell, and he smiles, trudging down the steps and scooping up a bag.

  “Yes, princess,” he coos, as Leon scurries along beside him, opening the driver’s door for him.

  “Ooh, smells yum in there,” Leon says. “Jasmine?”

  “Who the fuck knows, but it’s better than stale piss.”

  James slips in, grimacing, lifting his arse out of the leather seat when it squelches. He tosses the bag on my lap, and I grunt.

  “What is this?” I ask, looking inside, seeing stacks and stacks of soaking wet cash. “The fuck?” I blurt, looking at James. “In the midst of all that, you managed to get this out?”

  He shrugs. “We’ve got ten new mouths to feed, dear.”

  “Hey D-boss,” Leon says, leaning in through my window. “I was thinking we need a few more water sports on the cove. Paddleboarding, scuba diving, that kind of thing.”

  James and I both let out a bark of laughter. Scuba diving? Jesus, it must be like a mass graveyard on the seabed of this cove. “No,” I say shortly, dipping my hand into the bag and pulling out a handful of bundles, maybe a hundred grand. “Share this between you and Jerry,” I say, stuffing it into his chest. “And lose this in the accounts.” I toss the rest of the cash at his feet and cluck his cheek. “Good work today.” I face the windscreen as my mobile rings. “Nolan.” I answer and get straight to the point. “Brad’s been shot.”

  “What?”

  “Shot, Nolan. He’s been shot.”

  “Oh my God, I’m on my way. Where? Where am I going?”

  “Nowhere. He’s fine. Doc’s seeing to him back at the house. We need you to keep things ticking over there. I’ll keep you updated.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He sounds completely bewildered.

  “He’ll be okay, kid.” I say, softening, before hanging up and letting my body go heavy in the seat. “Now get me the fuck home.”

  James smiles at the wheel and pulls off, and I relax back, bracing myself for the next shitstorm.

  20

  ROSE

  I follow Fury toward the kitchen, mentally estimating how much weight he has hanging from his arms in the form of groceries. A whole cartful. “Are we feeding five thousand?” he asks as he heaves them upward and places them on the island.

  “Every time I come home it feels like someone new has moved in.” I drop my purse on a stool and start sorting through the bags. “I miss Esther.”

  He drops to a stool and flexes his hands. “I’ve missed the boy.”

  My working hands falter, my heart squeezing. Soon. He’ll be here soon. “Me too.” I smile and pull out a bottle of orange juice, holding it up. Fury nods, so I fetch a glass and pour him some. “And you must miss Tank.” I push the glass toward him, and he drinks it all before answering.

  “Not as much as you,” Fury says with a hint of a smile. “You have me until you get him back.” He looks at his watch, as I roll my eyes. “What time do they land?”

  I glance at the clock on the stove as I pull out a huge bag of pasta. “About now.” Excitement flutters in my tummy. “You want to slice some zucchini?” I take one of Esther’s aprons and slip it on.

  “Suits you.”

  I raise a brow and he opens his arms, welcoming my offer to join me in my domestic . . . bliss.

  “You got an axe?”

  I laugh and fetch a knife and chopping board, placing a bag of vegetables in front of one of our resident Vikings. “Here you go. Nice and thin, please.”

  Fury gets to work while I unpack the rest of the shopping and start preparing a feast. I try not to look at the wine longingly as I set it on the middle of the island. I catch Fury with a half-smile behind his wild beard, eyeing me in between slicing. “Stop grinning,” I mutter, collecting a pan and filling it with water, setting it on the stove. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.” I sound casual, as intended, though he still peeks up at me cautiously. “What are your names?”

  “Tank and Fury.”

  I turn, armed with my bag of pasta. “Your real names.”

  “Tank and Fury.”

  “Come on.”

  “It’s Tank and Fury.” He doesn’t look up from his slicing.

  “Right.” I sigh and give up, getting back to cooking, and the next hour passes by in a comfortable quiet, Fury chopping, me cooking. Or trying to. Damn, I really do miss Esther. I push the dish into the oven to bake for a half hour and turn back toward the kitchen.

  And cringe.

  “You cook like a man,” Fury says, laughing, casting his eye over the mess with me. I hear a car in the driveway.

  “Shit.” Suddenly, the mess looks . . . messier. “You get the dishwasher, I’ll start clearing.” I push everything cluttering the island toward the dishwasher so Fury can load, and dash around like a madwoman, wiping down the countertops. In only a couple of minutes, we’re in far better shape. I dust off my hands.

  “Want a clean one?” Fury asks, motioning down my front. There’s not a thread of material on the apron not splattered with oil, tomato, or grease. The state of me defies the now semi-gleaming kitchen. I quickly untie it and run to the laundry room, shoving it in the washer, and as I’m returning to the kitchen, I hear . . . Doc?

  My heart naturally picks up pace and Fury is up out of his seat in a second, stalking to the entrance hall.

  “Some help, please,” the old man yells, spotting Fury and gesturing him urgently to join him outside.

  “What’s happened?” I ask, following them. I see Len opening the back door, and I see Beau on the back seat with Brad’s head on her lap. My hands cover my mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “He’s taken a bullet to the shoulder,” Beau calls, inching her way out, holding Brad’s head as Fury stomps over, his face grave, and helps Len ease Brad out of the car. I catch sight of his shoulder. Blood.

  Beau comes to me and instantly starts trying to reassure me, which only worries me more. “The men found where the Polish hold the women they ship in,” she says, looking so fucking sympathetic.