Chapters (78)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Acknowledgments
- Discover More
- About the Author
- Also by Owen Laukkanen
The guy had a grenade launcher mounted on the bottom of his M4. Harwood didn’t want to know how or where Joy had obtained it, but shit, he sure did look comfortable with it.
They raked the hull of the troller with 5.56 NATO rounds, the sound of their rifles erupting over the noise of the helicopter, the shells pitting the white hull of the boat, painting a crazy pattern, but not, to Harwood’s eyes, doing much damage.
But he guessed that was what the grenade launcher was for.
As Harwood turned his attention to the wheelhouse, shooting out every window in turn, Joy switched to the heavy artillery and dropped a grenade round plumb into the fish-killing cockpit at the stern. With a muffled thud and white water, the round blew a big hole out of the back of the boat, mostly below the waterline, and the painted BETTER DAYS, DECEPTION COVE, WA lettering was straight obliterated. With any luck, the explosion had destroyed the rudder and the propeller, too.
Joy reloaded. He nudged Harwood aside and aimed another round at the wheelhouse, missing the windows but making a big hole in the superstructure. He reloaded again, put a last round through that hole—wreaking some kind of special havoc inside—and then he stepped back from the open door and shouldered the rifle, apparently having decided the troller was pretty well taken care of. Harwood hoped he was right, because it was just about then that Jess Winslow must have gotten fed up. A muzzle flashed in the trees, and the helicopter rocked and jolted forward like a spooked horse. The pilot swore at the controls and veered skyward, nearly sending Harwood tumbling out the open door.
Then Joy was pushing past him, to the door again, with that M4 of his, and Harwood thought the Nigerian meant to engage the crazy bitch down there, maybe put a grenade in her lap. But Joy had switched back to bullets, and he sent a sharp, fast barrage down at the inflatable skiff where it lay at the tree line. Then he reached past Harwood and tapped the pilot on the shoulder, and the helicopter was suddenly gaining altitude very quickly, Jess Winslow’s rifle sending parting shots skyward, none of them, to Harwood’s knowledge, connecting with shit.
Joy slid the door closed. He sat back, laid his rifle across his lap, and looked across the helicopter at nothing.
“There,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling, but damned if he didn’t look pleased with himself. “That should keep them contained until we’re ready to deal with them.”
Harwood looked out across the channel to the mainland, whitecaps and swift current, knew there was no way Jess or her boyfriend could escape Dixie with their lives. Figured that meant she’d be right hopping mad when they came back in the Grady-White, hoped Joy was planning adequately for a pissed-off marine.