Beard takes a step back, wrenching me with him. I stumble, falling forward against his chest. The stink of alcohol-infused body odor and fish makes my eyes tear.
“They are going to take you downstairs,” Lenox says, his voice calm. Really too calm. They might notice if he doesn’t start sounding more freaked out.
“No fucking way,” Mulberry growls, playing his part. He knows my being alone with these two men is dangerous…for them.
“I asked that they offer you some privacy,” Lenox continues, ignoring Mulberry’s interruption. “As a favor to me. I suggested they use the guest quarters down the hall from my room.” Lenox’s “suggestion” keeps them away from James’s side of the boat. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But this is for the best.”
Oh yes it is.
“Please,” I whimper, as if all that can save me is their sympathy.
Mulberry steps away from the bar, grabbing hold of my other arm as if to pull me back. As if I’m a bone caught between two dogs. Lenox puts a hand on Mulberry’s shoulder. “We are out-armed,” he says. “They will kill us all if we don’t let them. It’s better at least if she is not humiliated in front of all of us.”
I look back at Mulberry, catching his eyes. He shakes his head—gaze hard, playing the part of a man not ready to die for my honor. “It’s not right,” he says.
“Don’t let them,” I plead, my voice breaking.
He turns away, shame casting a shadow as he steps back. He’s good. Beard laughs. Good thing I’m not depending on his empathy to keep me safe tonight.
Ponytail steps forward to grab my other arm as Mulberry releases it. With Beard on the other side, they start to hustle me toward the stairs. I let out a frightened cry and struggle weakly against their hold. Their grips tighten, their attention focused on keeping me between them.
The steps are not wide enough for the three of us to navigate together so Beard releases me. Ponytail drags me down. I stumble over my feet and fall, sagging my full weight against his hold so that he has to let go of his gun entirely and use both hands to hold me up.
I really am such a klutz.
We reach the hall and I muster a wail of fear. “Please,” I say. “Don’t.” I struggle against Ponytail’s hold, turning to get a view down the hall to Lenox’s quarters. The door stands open and from what I can see the suite is getting trashed.
Bedding is piled on the floor and feathers float in the air. They must be doing a thorough job. Hopefully they will still be there by the time I’m done with these two. I’d love to end them as well.
Ponytail drags me to the closest door—a guest suite not in use. The bed is covered by a paisley cover, the rough kind of thing you see in hotels. Beard follows us in, closing the door with a click that echoes through my bones.
Ponytail twists me so that the back of my legs hit the bed. My gaze sweeps across Beard’s gun as he turns towards me. His mouth splits into a grin, slick yellow teeth slimy in the low light. Ponytail grips my bicep bruisingly hard.
He yells something at me in Spanish. “No hablo Español.” My voice shakes. “Habla Ingles?” I use the only two phrases I know in Spanish.
Ponytail jerks at the hem of my shirt, using the international sign for take off your fucking clothing. I nod, agreeing.
I pull my shirt off over my head with shaking hands. Ponytail stares at my bra, entranced by the simple white cotton—or more likely the promise of what is underneath. I glance over to Beard—his brow is furrowed in thought, his eyes on mine.
I should be more frightened, I should be terrified. And a part of me is—not of being raped or killed, but that one of them may fire a shot that burrows through the walls and strikes my son or one of my dogs. But that part of me stays silent as the monster in me—the one who gives no fucks about these men’s lives, what drove them here, how their mothers or children will miss them—is running the show. And Beard seems to be catching a whiff of that.
I wrap my arms over my breasts and flutter my eyes down to the floor, biting my lip in faint embarrassment. “Pantalones,” Beard barks at me, and I get the gist. This is it. This is my moment, and Ponytail is standing close, just where I need him.
I push my cargo pants over my hips, scrunching them as I go, slipping my fingers into the pockets where my knives wait. I let out a hiccuping sob, making sure my breasts bounce to distract them from what my hands are doing. Ponytail releases his gun, hands twitching by his sides.
I pull the knives into my palms, sliding them up so that the blades are gently held by my fingers, the handles tight to my wrists. I cover my breasts with my right arm, and my underpants with the left, each shielding not just the parts of me these men hope to violate, but the weapons I plan to gut them with.
I start to straighten, moving slowly. Ponytail loses his patience and grabs my right bicep, the arm covering my breasts, jerking me into him. I release the grip on the blade in my left hand, letting gravity pull the handle into my palm.
I feign trying to turn away. Ponytail’s chest rumbles and he yanks me toward him again. I use his pull and my own momentum, twisting into him fast, bringing the knife up and plunging it into his stomach as my breasts hit his chest.
I yank the knife up, ripping through flesh, goring him. His grip on my right bicep loosens. My body is blocking Beard’s view of what’s happening but I’m guessing Ponytail’s expression is hinting at the blade in his gut.
Blood pours over my hand. Keeping the knife embedded just under his ribs, I shift my right hand to Pony’s waist and step to the side, spinning us so that his body blocks me from Beard.
Bullets explode into Pony’s back. His body jerks, our chests banging together. He’s a head taller than me and broader so his body does a good job of blocking the bullets. Ponytail’s weight grows heavy on the knife. I shift the knife in my right hand so the handle is in my palm, the deadly blade exposed.
I cock my right hand back, elbow at my ear, while yanking the other knife free of Pony.
As he falls to his knees, Beard is revealed. His gun is aimed at me. I swing my arm and release. The knife flies across the space between us, end over end, and embeds into Beard’s neck—bullseye. He gurgles, his eyes widening in shock.
Beard drops his gun, and it swings from the strap against his chest as both hands raise to his neck, grasping at the instrument of death. He gasp-coughs. Blood sputters out of his mouth. His knees wobble, then release, and he falls to the floor, landing on his face, blood soaking the carpeting as he dies.
Six to go.