“How is Brock?” I ask, keeping my focus on the upper deck.
“Fine,” comes his gruff voice. “Just a little flesh wound.”
“How many do you think there are?” I ask.
“No idea,” Robert answers. “You,” he says, his voice loud and commanding as he addresses the uniformed man lying on the deck with his hands over his head. “Who is inside that salon?”
I don’t turn to look, keeping my focus on the deck above us. “There are just two crew members,” he says, his accent thickened with emotion. “I don’t know why they are shooting at us!”
“We should move back to the helicopter, sir,” Brock suggests.
“Yes,” Robert agrees. I glance over my shoulder. Brock and Robert move up the stairs, their backs to me and guns focused on the salon’s door.
“Let me go first,” Robert says when he reaches me. Not waiting for an answer, he pushes past me.
I glance at Brock—there is blood streaming down his face from a gash across his forehead. I jerk a little at the sight and he smiles at me. “Head wounds bleed like a bitch but it’s not deep. I promise, Mrs. Maxim.”
I just nod. “I’ll take the rear,” I say.
“No,” Brock answers.
I press my lips together but don’t argue. Robert starts up, I follow, my head swiveling back and forth from the broken salon window to the deck above. Brock’s back is to me as he climbs the steps, trusting that Robert and I will cover him as he covers us. Robert picks up one of the gun cases Brock laid down. I pick up the other. It’s heavy and awkward so I hold it lightly. Ready to release it if need be. Blue presses tight to my side.
The crew member who flattened himself to the deck when the shot came starts to belly crawl toward the stern of the boat—away from us and the salon. Not everyone is involved or this guy deserves an Oscar.
Robert reaches the top deck. Wind plays with his hair as he stays low. A shot fires behind me and glass shatters. I jerk to look. The salon door is gone. Brock swipes at the blood on his face with his forearm—smearing a long streak of red.
Through the broken salon door I can see gold paisley carpeting spattered with blood. “I hit someone,” Brock says.
Listening closely, I hear nothing but the wind and the waves against the hull, lapping gently. “Let’s keep moving,” Robert says. “My friend will need to deal with his crew. I want Sydney off this ship, now.”
My jaw tightens but I don’t argue. This isn’t even my fight, yet I want to finish it. These are the kind of instincts that get me into the shit…every time.
We start to move again. And when we reach the top deck, we stay low, running swiftly toward the helicopter. Robert throws the weapon case he’s carrying into the back and then jogs around to the pilot’s seat. What is he doing?
I put my case next to his and climb in, Blue following, then Brock. The engine roars to life and the blades spin. The helicopter lifts off the deck and we rise above the yacht.
Blue presses against my legs and I reach out with my free hand to pet his head. He saved my life…again.
“That’s a good dog,” Brock yells over the thunderous sound. “Is he going to have more puppies?”
I smile. “I don’t know,” I yell back. “Why? You want to adopt one?”
“Hell yeah!”
Hell yeah is right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As the yacht grows small beneath us, I turn my attention to Brock. His gash is still pumping blood and he swipes at it again. The man is a mess.
“Put your headphones on!” Robert yells. I glance up to see his are in place, as are his sunglasses. I blink a few times, adjusting to seeing him at the controls. The man doesn’t even drive himself around, but he flies helicopters? I roll my eyes and he turns in his seat, his jaw ticking, spearing me with a look even with the sunglasses on.
I find my headphones and put them on. When I look back at him Robert’s focus is once again on his controls…as it should be.
“There must be a first aid kit on this thing,” I say, my gaze tracking over the luxe interior.
“Under the seat,” comes Robert’s voice over the headset—smooth and calm in my ears.
I reach under, feeling around until I touch a metal box. Pulling it free, I find the classic red-and-white first aid kit. Inside is everything one needs to dress a head wound. Brock tries to take it from me, but I push his bloody hands away.
“Mrs. Maxim—” he starts, but I turn to him, meeting his gaze.
“Brock, I can help you. And for the love of God, call me nothing before you call me Mrs. Maxim.”
“He is under strict orders to call you by your legal name,” Robert’s voice says in my ears.
I flash him an angry look. Robert’s focus remains forward so I only see his profile. But he’s smiling, the jerk. I return my attention to Brock and the wound still seeping blood on his forehead.
I pull on latex gloves and then start with towels. Brock closes his eyes as I swipe at his forehead, flinching only slightly as I softly wipe away the blood around the wound. Then I open one of the large alcohol-soaked pads. “This is going to sting,” I warn.
Brock opens his eyes, meeting my gaze. He offers me a small smile, a thank you and almost what looks like an apology. Brock might recognize how messed up my relationship with Robert is…
I smile back at him, raising the wet wipe. The scent of alcohol fills the space between us and Brock’s jaw tightens as I clean his wound. It continues to seep blood, dyeing the pad red.
“Almost done,” I say, my voice probably too low for him to hear. I find butterfly bandages and scoot closer to him. Brock closes his eyes and his hands ball into fists as I place the first one. He takes in slow even breaths that hit my chest on the exhale as I work across his brow.
