Bad Idea (Stonewall Investigations Miami Book 1) Read online

  “We’ve got to get closer,” Fox said.

  I agreed. My hands started to shake then, my nerves ratcheting up, unwelcomed. I took a deep breath of ocean air and managed to keep control.

  We moved closer, the waves gentle, broken up by the wide system of roots.

  Movement. “Shit.” Fox’s camera clicked in rapid succession. “They’re pulling up their anchor.”

  “Any recognizable faces?” I could see the shapes on the deck, but I couldn’t make out faces, and I didn’t want to raise my binoculars in case my hands decided to shake again.

  I kept them steady on the black steering wheel.

  “Just two guys I’d never seen before… Fuck.”

  “We need to find out who’s in charge of that boat,” I said.

  “So, get in close and cause a scene?”

  I smiled, adrenaline swapping out the blood in my veins. “Maybe we should follow them? Get pictures of whoever steps off at the dock?”

  “And then all we’ll have are pictures of Lucien and his weekend boating trip. It won’t be hard proof of anything. No, I think we need to get in there.”

  “Lucien will recognize us. If it is him.”

  “But his goons won’t.” Fox put the big camera down between us and grabbed his phone, opening the video recording app. He set it to record and propped it up underneath the center console, the lens aiming up and the phone itself totally camouflaged against the black center panel. “We get on record that they’re selling drugs, and then Lucien comes out and we get him looking like a fool on camera. Go to the cops with it and shut this case once and for all.”

  It was risky. It was dangerous. But it also felt right.

  Then again, the world always felt right whenever Fox was at my side.

  “Let’s cause a scene, baby.”

  I leaned in and stole a quick kiss, both of us smiling, my nerves mixing with the rush of the moment, all my senses sharpened.

  We picked up speed, cutting through the water and heading straight for the large yacht before it started to drive away. On the deck, we could see the two figure pointing at us, shielding their eyes against the sun and trying to make out who in the hell was driving so fast toward them.

  Fox stood up, waving his hands in the air. “Hey! Don’t leave!”

  The thugs called out something to someone in the captain’s cabin. I could see the men clearer now, both of them wearing black and green and sporting guns on their hips.

  “Fox, they’re armed,” I said.

  Fox nodded, acknowledging me but keeping his eyes on the men. I slowed the boat down, stopping us with enough distance that I could make a getaway if we needed.

  I was hoping we could get out of this peacefully, though. Lucien had only dealt with us a couple of times; maybe he wouldn’t recognize us. Maybe he was high on his own supply, too high to know that the two detectives hired to shut down his budding drug empire were knocking on the side of his yacht.

  “Turn around,” the smaller of the two yelled down at us. “Get the fuck back!”

  “We’re here to pick up Dragon.”

  That stopped both men in their tracks. The one with a birthmark that covered half his face looked to his tinier partner. I could just make out the words “they know it’s—” and then the sounds of the ocean took over.

  The small one turned back to us. “You’re late,” he called down at us, looking over his matte-black sunglasses.

  “Got tied up,” Fox said. “Are you going to throw down a ladder?”

  I looked up at Fox, swallowing my surprise. He wasn’t actually thinking about boarding, was he? That would leave us far too exposed.

  They whispered some more. I kept my hands on the steering wheel and throttle, keeping my eyes pinned to their guns. The sun hung heavy in the sky and appeared to light a spotlight down on the jet-black pistols.

  “Go talk to your boss,” Fox said. “We don’t have time to float around like whale shit in the ocean.”

  The one with the birthmark fingered the pistol at his side. He didn’t take it out of his holster; instead he turned and disappeared into the captain’s cabin. The other man was staring daggers down at us.

  This was it. This was the moment of truth. Lucien would walk out of that cabin and we would have him caught on film, owning up to being the captain of a ship carrying crates of illegal drugs.

  We watched the door. Waited. Tensions rising. What was taking so long?

  The door opened, the man with the birthmark stepping out first. Behind him stepped out another man, a tall one with sunglasses that shielded most of his face, a gait that said he was in charge, a jaw that was set like stone.

  A jaw I had seen before. A face I recognized. Except it wasn’t Lucien who leaned on the yacht’s railing, looking down at us with a curious expression on his tight-lipped face.

  It was Pierre Rose, and he was looking at us like he didn’t recognize us.

  We had an opening. I had to take it because every second that passed shut the window of opportunity. I pushed aside my surprise and focused. “We’re here to get the Dragon,” I spoke up, standing, altering my voice enough to add an extra layer of camouflage.

  “Where’s Norman? This is usually his pickup point…”

  Norman. Dank69. So Pierre doesn’t know that Norman was arrested.

  “Dank69 sent us,” I continued, thinking I’d pass the subtle test Pierre threw our way.

  He considered us a moment longer, both our boats lifting and falling gently in the ocean’s slow dance. “Do you have all the money?”

  “We’ll let you know once you show us all the Dragon,” Fox said. He too spoke in a deeper tone, but something in Pierre’s face told me recognition was beginning to spark.

  We had to back out.

  We had to back out now.

  I slowly sat back down, my hand back on the throttle.

  “You know, you two remind me of a pair that my husband hired. Foolishly. I should have brought him in on this venture, but I thought he’d be better in the dark. I didn’t think he’d hire two private detectives.” Pierre took a small, almost imperceptible step back from the railing. “Two private detectives who look exactly like you two.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Fox called up. “We’re here for the drugs.”

  “That’s too bad, then.” Pierre’s smile slanted in a wicked way. “All you two are getting are bullets in the head.”

  I started to reverse the boat, launching us backward, throwing Fox forward.

  “Shoot them!” Pierre yelled.

  Fox fell down from the momentum, just as gunshots started to ring out from above, raining a hellish round of death on us.

  “Fuck!” Fox’s shout was almost as loud as the sound of bullets tearing through the barrel of a gun. Water splashed inches away from the boat. The both of us dropped, instincts kicking in over fear.

  Another bang. Another splash. “We need to go,” Fox shouted. “I’m going to cover us—you’ve gotta drive.”

  “Fox—”

  Multiple, ear-popping bangs now. Multiples splashes. A couple of bullets managed to hit the boat, loud shattering erupting around us as the hull was punctured.

  Now wasn’t the time to freeze. Fox was readying himself to start shooting. He pulled a gun from the holster he had concealed under his shirt.

  He wanted me to grab the wheel and pilot this boat. But my hands—they were shaking in a real bad way. The sounds of the bullets whizzing through the air reminded me of the cold fire that came shortly after impact, the fire that spread into burning agony. I could almost feel the blood trickling down my neck again, feel myself giving out, my knees buckling.

  “Jonah, you’ve got this, all right?”

  Fox, with as much right as he had to look panicked, appeared as calm as the ocean water had been moments before it started being riddled with bullets.

  His calmness gave me strength, his hazel eyes an anchor.

  “Cover me,” I said, crawling back onto the captain’s
seat, keeping as low a profile as I could. Behind me, Fox started to let off his shots, the sounds of his gun ringing even louder through my skull, vibrating inside of my bone marrow.

  We’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.

  I got my hands up on the steering wheel. I reached over and yanked the throttle down, and the boat shot backward, water spraying everywhere, bullets flying all around us. Fox fell down to the floor, the wind seeming to be knocked from his lungs. He got back up onto his knees, holding on to a couch as he tried crouching again, aiming his gun at the yacht’s deck.

  Our boat was fast—thankfully Fox had decided to rent the more expensive version, and I had never been happier to not be dating a penny-pincher anymore. I miraculously managed to avoid hitting any of the mangroves as we reversed away from the yacht. I looked up, realizing the bullets had stopped, but the yacht was picking up speed and crossing the distance.

  I sat on the captain’s chair and took full control of the boat, spinning the wheel around and maneuvering us back on track, away from the speeding yacht. We bounced on the waves. Fox let off shots as the yacht pulled closer, the mangroves blurring by as we rocketed past them.

  I reached for the communication system and dialed the coast guard, my hand still shaking, one hand holding the steering wheel tight. I brought the phone up to my ear, only to have a disconnected signal greet me. I dropped it, the phone bouncing against the stand.

  “No connection!”

  “It’s alright, just keep us ahead of that yacht. Take us toward the beach.”

  Behind me, Fox was trying to take out whoever was driving that thing. He was aiming and shooting, but missing the captain’s cabin with every single shot. I pushed the boat harder, the boat beginning to push back against me.

  An idea hit me then, from all those times I’d work with my grandpa and he’d warned me about working around the volatile oil containers.

  “Aim for the oil tanks!” Our boat was bouncing across the waters with how fast we were going. The engine was beginning to make an odd noise, but we couldn’t slow down or we’d be food for the sharks.

  “Where the hell are those?”

  “Should be a big tank toward the bottom left of the hull, at the bow of the ship.”

  I could see the water beginning to get choppier and choppier ahead of us, the clouds darkening and foreshadowing a storm, our boat bouncing wildly as a result. Water sprayed all over the deck, drenching me.

  There was a loud gunshot then, or was that a thunderclap?

  “Shit!” Fox shouted over the sound of waves and bullets.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah, I just can’t get a clear shot.”

  “Come over here.” I was white-knuckling the steering wheel as I pushed the boat as hard as I could. “Pilot this thing, let me try.”

  “I don’t kno—”

  “Just come over here, grab the steering wheel, hold it steady, and push down on this throttle. You’ve got this, babe!” I echoed his sentiment from earlier. I believed in him as much as he believed in me—that’s what made us work so damn well together, even under the threat of imminent death.

  “Okay, on three.” I looked over my shoulder.

  “One.” He started turning to me.

  “Two!”

  And on three, the two of us swapped, Fox spinning and handing me the gun, running behind me to take control of the boat.

  That was when I saw something that almost made me pass out.

  Blood, pooled on the boat floor where Fox had been standing, mixing with ocean water.

  “You’re shot!”

  “Don’t worry about me right now, worry about the boat of murderous thugs that’s catching up to us.”

  He was right—our boat was no match for the beast that was cutting through the waves toward us, and if they caught us, there would be a lot more blood on the boat than there already was.

  That’s when I realized something else.

  There was only one bullet left in the chamber.

  I’ve gotta make this count.

  I lifted the gun, steadying myself against the rocking of the ocean by leaning hard against a railing and planting my feet firmly on the floor.

  Fox is counting on me.

  I saw red. The red of my boyfriend’s blood. The red paint of the boat chasing behind us.

  I saw my grandfather, during the days we would spend fixing up boats, making them seaworthy, then taking them out for rides down the bay, where he’d tell me stories all day from the fantasy books he’d write.

  My hands held steady. The gun aimed straight and true.

  One shot.

  Fox’s life depended on it. My life depended on it.

  Our boat’s engine sputtered and cried out, warning it was on its last leg if we didn’t slow down soon.

  One shot.

  I took in a deep breath. Shut one eye.

  Down the sights I set, all my time spent in the gun range during my time as a cop coming back to me.

  “Jonah, the engine’s smoking!”

  Out of all the bull’s-eyes I had hit, this one was the one I needed the most.

  I pulled the trigger, my finger applying pressure, triggering the mechanism inside to release the bullet, the gunpowder adding its explosive effect.

  Through the air my bullet flew, true and straight, puncturing the hull of the ship, exactly where I had envisioned it, and ripping right through the thin metal that held what I assumed to be at least four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gasoline.

  A plume of bright orange and dark red flames rose and expanded and exploded out from the tank, blowing the yacht up in a massive light show, the light blue waters of the ocean serving as a bright contrast to the angry orange and reds that roared from the dying yacht.

  I turned, running to Fox’s side. I brought the boat to a stop and went right to helping my boyfriend, who was currently actively bleeding from the nasty gunshot wound on his thigh.

  “Jesus, Fox, baby, are you okay?” I tore off my shirt and tied it around Fox’s wound, staunching the blood flow.

  “I’m good, I’m good.” Fox spoke through gritted teeth as he tried to stand but grunted in clear pain. “Look.” I helped him sit back down but followed where he was pointing to.

  “Someone’s in the water.”

  It was Pierre, and the bastard was struggling to keep afloat, gargling for help in between gasps for air.

  34 Gabriel “Fox” Morrison

  I’d never been shot before. I was blessed in saying that, considering I’d spent a good chunk of my life in an active military zone, where gunfire, mines, and grenades were an unfortunate and dark way of life.

  So I had nothing to really compare this to, except the time I had broken a kneecap. That shit had really fucking sucked.

  But getting shot?

  Yeah, that sucked a whole lot more.

  I hadn’t even realized at first until I looked down and realized I was standing in a puddle of my own blood. I’ll admit, I saw those black speckles at the edge of your vision that come right before passing out. I was close. But when Jonah told me he needed me, when he asked me to get in the captain’s chair, I knew I had to snap the fuck out of it, blood loss be damned.

  And so I did, and we managed to make it out of that mess alive. Shaken, bleeding, but fucking breathing.

  To top it off, we were about to go fishing, our catch already at the end of our hook.

  Jonah pulled the boat up to Pierre’s side, who looked like he was about to give up. A deep, dark part of me wanted to leave him here, let him meet his maker after trying to force us to meet ours. He almost took Jonah from me. One of those bullets could have hit their target, and they could have taken him out. Hell, he gave me a sure-to-be scar on my leg, which was throbbing with a red-hot pain that I forced myself to grit through.

  Jonah pulled Pierre onto our deck. He was bleeding from a variety of cuts and scrapes. His hair was burnt and his shoes must have been blown off, but he had managed to
keep his feet.

  “Why?” Jonah asked him while I reached for my phone. The boat’s communication systems were down, but thankfully I was getting one bar of service. I called the police, told them we needed a rescue along with a set of handcuffs.

  Jonah was struggling to keep Pierre awake. He slapped him, some blood flecks flying through the air. “Why, Pierre?”

  “I was perfecting it,” he said, between coughs. “I was making the perfect party drug, and I wanted to be its sole supplier.” More coughs. He could barely hold his head up. “So much money. Could have made so much money. That yacht? I have three more.”

  This was for money, of course. When was it not? The pure gold bangles that hung on Pierre’s burnt wrist made more sense now. He had been siphoning money through his drug business, away from Dylan and Lucien.

  “You’re fucking delusional.” I was unable to hold back. Maybe the blood loss was affecting my head. “Did you really think you were going to monopolize Dragon? What were you going to do? Franchise?”

  His head lolled, his eyes shut, as if thinking alone was sapping his energy. “No… I mean… I hadn’t thought that far.”

  “You could have just stayed in a relationship with two other guys who clearly loved you. One even pulled out a BB gun on us to protect you. Did Lucien know about the operation?”

  “Neither of them knew. It was just me.”

  “And how were you even making this shit?” Jonah asked, his tone playing no games. He had put on a hard front, but the quick and concern-filled glance he gave to my thigh told me his thoughts were on me, too.

  “Labs. I started in Trinity’s basement at first. While Dylan and Lucien get drunk off their asses upstairs, I’d be in the basement, mixing things.” Pierre fell into a coughing fit. “I was working to be better than them both. When thing got up off the ground, I’d leave them both. But I wanted Dragon to take hold first.” He wiped blood from his mouth. My bullet wound pulsed underneath the binding Jonah had made me with his shirt. I grit my teeth, trying to make sure my eyes didn’t cross with the pain.

  “What was in there? What the fuck were you using that even our labs couldn’t replicate?”