When raising a puppy, it is important to look for signs of aggression—it almost always comes from fear.
Afraid food will be stolen, toys taken, territory encroached. An aggressive puppy is a scared puppy. And it is the owner’s job to train them, calm their minds, show them that they are the boss and that the puppy has nothing to fear because they can trust in the strength of their human’s leadership.
When I first adopted Blue, he feared children. Who knows what happened in the months before he became mine? Did kids tie cans to his tail, throw rocks at him? I’ll never know. But after he was shot, and I was almost killed. After I changed so dramatically from a normal woman to one hell-bent on revenge. After my heart broke and grief flooded my veins. After all that, Blue believed in me enough not to fear children or anything else.
He became aggressive in a new way—once Merl worked with us, he became attuned to what dangers lurked around us. What we should fear.
Not children. Not loss of territory. Just our own bloodshed.
So when Blue growls right behind me, as Robert’s hands spread across my back to pull me tight, I turn to look at my dog. He’s still a few steps up so our faces are almost even. Robert nips at my jaw, bending himself to kiss my neck.
Blue looks past me and raises his lip, exposing long sharp canines. Following his gaze, I see a crew member disappearing inside. We stand in the middle of the staircase on the outside of the ship, the top deck above us and what I’m guessing is a living room below. Tinted glass hides the interior, but large French doors lead into it and the entry is off a major passage—so I’m guessing living space rather than bedroom.
“Robert,” I say. He hums against my throat. “How well do you trust the owner of this yacht?”
His lips stop moving and he leans back so he can look into my face. “Enough to count on it as an escape with my pregnant wife. Why?”
“Because Blue just growled at a crew member…who was watching us.”
Robert’s eyes narrow with thought. The fact that he is considering Blue’s opinion widens the opening he’s cracked in my heart. “We should go,” he says.
“To the hotel?” I ask.
Footsteps above draw my attention. Brock appears at the top of the stairs and halts when he sees us—Robert still has his arms around me and our faces are close. We look…busy.
“Sir,” Brock says and then turns as if to leave us.
“Brock, wait,” Robert calls to him.
He releases my body but takes my hand, and I don’t hate it. I don’t hate that he wants to keep touching me…because I want to keep touching him. Shit. This is not good.
We head back up the steps to the top deck where Brock waits. His dark shades are back on and he has a gun case in each hand. My bag is strung across his body. The Hawaiian shirt flutters in the breeze. “We have suspicions about a crew member,” Robert says.
Brock’s brows twitch up in a moment of surprise that he quickly recovers from, returning to his stoic mask. “Which one?”
Robert turns to me for the answer.
“A man; I didn’t see much of him, but Blue growled at him.”
Brock looks at Blue, who stands by my side, then back up to my face. “I see,” he says, apparently taking Blue’s suspicions as seriously as Robert. “But would you recognize this crew member again?”
“No. I saw dark hair and wide shoulders, but that’s it. He disappeared inside.”
“Could Blue have just been warning you?” Robert asks me. “That someone was there. You were not…” he smiles at me and raises one brow, “totally aware of your surroundings.”
“That’s what I have Blue for,” I say. “But he wouldn’t warn me of anyone who I didn’t need warning about. He got a vibe from the guy.”
“Perhaps we should evacuate, sir, leave the area entirely.” Brock says. Robert’s fingers tighten on mine and he shakes his head. The man is not leaving. “We could go to the Palms, then, sir,” Brock suggests. “It’s a new location, they have excellent security. And we have no reservation, so no link. However, I believe the safest course of action is to return home.” Brock stops speaking and the two men stare at each other.
“I just want to get to the part of the party where you tell me about your crypto purchases,” I say, tilting my chin up. “That’s what I came here for.”
Robert squeezes my hand—which he is still holding, and has been since I kissed him on the steps back there. He turns to meet my gaze, his expression turning playful and almost giddy. As if he’s won a tennis match and is hoping to carry on until he wins the trophy.
When I narrow my gaze and stare daggers at him, he laughs. Laughs. And then tugs me forward. I fall against him and he wraps me in a hug, laying a kiss on my hair. “Come, Mrs. Maxim, we will head to the Palms, and I will give you everything you desire.”
I pull back, untangling myself from him and huffing. Somehow he still has my hand though, and Robert starts down the steps again, pulling me behind him. Blue follows and then Brock.
We are halfway down the steps when Blue resumes growling. I stop, my body chilling. Robert turns to look up at me. “Hold on,” I say. Blue growls again. Robert drops my hand and pulls his pistol from his pocket.
I do the same. Brock lays his cases down and unholsters a pistol from his low back.
He pushes past us to take the lead, his jaw tight, and movements practiced. A crew member steps out onto the deck and, spotting us, freezes. He quickly raises his hands, eyes wide, face pale with fear.
Brock doesn’t lower his weapon.
“Can I help?” the crew member asks in accented English.
“Were you alone in there?” Brock asks.
The man looks back at the doorway he just passed through. “No, there are two other crew members inside, sir. We were cleaning the salon. Can I help with something?” His voice is shaking.
He stands in a passage only wide enough for one person with the tinted glass windows on his left and the railing on his right. The black glass hides the interior from our view. But I peer at it anyway, seeing only the reflection of Brock and the crew member. Brock stands on the steps and the crew member still has his hands up.
The window cracks, Brock grunts, and the sound of a gun firing all happen in the same instant.
Robert and I both crouch low, hidden in the stairwell from the windows. The crew member drops to the ground, covering his head with his hands and lets out a scream.
“Brock!” I yell.
“Stay put!” Robert growls at me, blocking me with his arm. He then slides down the steps, still protected by the sides of the stairwell—though if we popped our heads up, we’d be in the line of fire from inside the salon.
The question is…how many of the crew are trying to kill us? Are we in enemy territory? Or is this a rogue actor?
I turn to look up—checking our backs. Blue stands behind me, his focus already on our unprotected rear. A crew member appears. They don’t have a gun, just a confused expression. But I center my weapon on his chest. The man yelps and turns, running away, out of my line of fire.
So not everyone is in on it…
“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.