Page 74 of Kai
He slapped his hand on the water three times. Another head emerged from the water, this one even larger than the first. The second diver also held his hands up in the air.
“Identify,” I ordered, even though by now I knew who I was dealing with.
The man released the DSV from his mouth. “Ten, five, six, niner.” Micah Bozeman’s grave voice echoed over the water. “Golf, Romeo, Alpha. Friendly in the water.”
I punched an icon on my Tak, deactivating the underwater explosive charges I’d deployed aroundSerenity. Buried in the sand, these charges wouldn’t damage the boat beyond a few moments of rough waters, and yet they would unleash a powerful underwater blast that would repel and kill intruders on contact.
“You’re clear to proceed.” I stepped out from behind the surfboard and lowered my weapon.
“I told you he’d be pissed,” Guzman muttered to the man swimming next to him as they breast-stroked towardSerenity, keeping their faces above water. “But did you listen to dear old Goof? Nope. It’ll be your damn fault if we end up as fish confetti.”
A grunt was Bozeman’s only reply.
Micah Bozeman was Dagger’s second in command at Tracker Team. Technically speaking, Bozeman, also known as Granite, outranked me, but this wasmymission. So, also technically speaking, I was in charge.
I was never gonna shoot at my teammates, but even a guy like me could get trigger-happy when he was on protective duty. Even more so after the shield had gone down and my fate was in play. This usually chill dude was officially peeved.
“Do you guys enjoy playing Russian roulette?” I asked as Guzman reached the stern. “You realize I could’ve shot first and asked questions later? Not to mention, there are enough explosives planted around here to blast you both to hell.”
“No shit, dude.” Guzman took off his fins and tossed them on the swimming platform, where they landed with a hollowthud. “We got a firsthand look at your handiwork. It took us a while to get around them. Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted.” I hugged my weapon to my chest.
Guzman planted his hands, and using the sheer strength of his flexed biceps, hoisted himself up, along with all the gear strapped to his muscular form. He twisted sideways at the last minute and landed his ass on the platform with anotherthumpthat made the boat bob on the tranquil surf.
“Keep it down, will you?” I scolded him. “And fold out the ladder. It’s there for a reason, showoff.”
“Just testing the old guns.” Guzman smirked up at me and then took a moment to drop the ladder in the water for his diving buddy. He clutched his fins by the straps and stood to his full height.
Water cascaded down his next-gen combat dive suit. It encased a tall, muscular warrior in his prime, geared for full mission mode. Water also dribbled from his forward-facing, top-of-the-line rebreather, and dripped from the side tubes of his DSV, now hanging loose over his chest.
For stealth missions, the closed-circuit oxygen rebreather was a favorite of special operators. BB’s latest version had a compact, ergonomic design that increased maneuverability and didn’t produce sound or bubbles. Good thing I’d had my surveillance systems up and running.
Guzman climbedSerenity’s stairs with his carbine hooked to his vest, his sidearm strapped to his right thigh, and his combat knife fastened to his calf. He looked like the definition of a high-tech special forces operator, capable of terrifying anyone in sight.
When he reached the deck, he pulled down his hood and slid off his mask, revealing his brown hair, shaped in a military-style high and tight. His broad face, brown eyes, and teasing eyebrows combined with his cocky smirk to broadcast his badassreputation.
The aforementioned badass reputation had once extended to the ladies. The strapping hunk made an art of impressing the Bravo Whiskeys—the females that hung around military bases looking for a good time. However, Guzman’s gallivanting years were now behind him. The dude was out of circulation.
These days, he limited his once ample range to one woman only. It was as if every other female in the world had disappeared from the planet. His attention—and his heart—belonged to Missy Astor.
“Permission to come aboard,” Bozeman’s grave voice announced as he reached the ladder and shed his fins.
“Granted.”
The deck bobbed beneath my feet as Bozeman’s giant form mounted the boat, all six-foot-seven inches of massive. At an inch taller than me, Guzman cut an impressive figure, but Bozeman was next-level huge. A cross between a basketball center and an offensive lineman, Granite towered over all of us at Tracker Team.
While Guzman undid his fastenings and took off his rebreather, Granite shed his mask. Hooking it and his fins to his gear, he tackled the stairs. With a Marine’s practiced stare, he scouted the catamaran, assessing for danger. His face’s ebony skin glimmered under the starlight. For a big man, Bozeman’s steps were silent, trained to bring about unannounced death.
A glance at my Tak showed me Bozeman had no other surprises in store for me. With a tap, I reengaged my defenses. Once Bozeman joined Guzman and removed his tank, I shouldered my carbine, climbed over the gunwales, and jumped down to meet my wet colleagues on the aft deck, feeling a lot better about my prospects of not shooting anyone tonight.
“Good to see you, stranger.” Guzman clasped my fist andgave me a shoulder bump, water dripping all over him and now me as well. “For a guy who’s usually chill, you’re very by the book tonight.”
“I concur,” Bozeman said in his uniquely formal style, offering me a curt nod, his usual no-contact form of greeting. “I assume you’re tracking the situation?”
“Of course I’m tracking,” I said. “It’s my job, and I’m on it. Let’s keep the volume down, shall we?”
I didn’t want to wake Cece up. The danger was over, and she needed her sleep. If she’d heard the men approaching or boarding the vessel, she’d be standing right here, right now, inspecting the new arrivals and asking a million questions to satisfy her endless curiosity.
