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Outside the shop, Gator jumped back in the truck. "Got 'im. And listen to this—the old lady had a coin from the wreck. Spanish gold."
"No way," said Smitty. "Wanna get me some of that. Place a couple of pirate coins on Tyrone's eyelids to pay the ferryman."
Gator started up and drove away. "If we play this right, we get both our jackpots back. Rowe's close to the wreck, or so she says. He's meant to help them find it."
"Let me guess, so that they can spend the gold on whales," Flick grumbled. "If the Alliance gets a windfall like that, we're pretty much screwed. Private security, top lawyers, the best police department money can buy."
"And all my hard work setting them up as grifters goes down the hole," Monty added. "No reason to care about a few grand when they could get a few million. Even if Sofia and Arryo get arrested or fired, the Alliance can just hire on whoever they want."
Smitty crooned to himself in the back seat, but low enough that he wasn't a nuisance. Yet.
"Okay, we need to ditch Ty someplace and pick up the bike. Back to our place and pack up properly. Don't know what kind of operation we're looking at on this pirate wreck thing. Gotta imagine the thing's still buried in the sand, at least part way."
"Demolition job?" Flick perked up.
"That's the fastest way to gain access and clean 'er out."
"Woot!" Flick punched the ceiling. "Let's go." Behind the tumbledown wall where they'd parked earlier, the motorcycle waited, though its rider lay in the bed of the pick-up, probably leaking body fluids by now. Dang. Gator could've used the help with this kind of job. Track down Rowe, hopefully with the wreck, gut the wreck, take down the Brit. If there was no wreck, then gut the Brit. Done.
"Could bury Ty in the dunes a little south," Smitty suggested. "He'd like that."
"Good plan. Can you and Flick handle that?"
Flick cast him a glance. Another man might ask what Gator would be doing in the meantime. His people knew better. "Sure, Gator. All we gotta do is dump him in one of those gullies and send a bunch of sand on top."
"Make it happen, quick. Then load up on supplies. I need you back here in an hour—we've got work to do." Gator caught Monty's eye and tipped his head toward the door. The two of them climbed out of the truck, which headed away.
"What's up?" Monty folded his arms, making his biceps bunch up a little, a trick he often deployed against others. Gator was making him nervous. Not his intention, but not necessarily a bad thing.
"Seems like you're right. Jessica's his bodyguard, crazy as that sounds."
"Well, she is a Marine." Monty's teeth flashed, the emblem on his arm peeking out from beneath his sleeve.
"That likely to be a problem for you?"
"Killing her? Wouldn't be my first choice." He shrugged. "Also wouldn't be the first time."
"That you've taken out a fellow Marine?" Interesting. Probably hadn't been a sexy woman that time. "We'll put off elimination for as long as possible. She'd be handy leverage to apply toward getting our projects back on target. If we can land her."
Monty tipped his head dubiously. "She's got other experience, though. Can't put my finger on it. She's not your average jarhead."
"That's why we need to get them apart. And I know how."
His man perked up, some of the nervous tension ebbing away. "I assume that's why we're here, you and me."
Gator nodded. "We've got the perfect setup now to reel her in—and we've got Joe to thank for it." He offered an especially toothy grin.