Below me, purple sea fans stood out black against the white sand depths. I didn’t need a mask. In the SEALS I had become more fish than man. I took a good deep bite of summer air, then noiselessly swam beneath my boat to the stern of Billy Mack’s. As I had guessed, the prop was gone, the driveshaft bent. I surfaced by the diver’s deck, mounted at water level. I could still hear the guy yelling for the poor little dead blond pirate. Testing every movement, every motion, for noise, I pulled myself up onto Billy’s boat and slid across the bleached teak deck on my belly. I could see him plainly now. He was poised on the foredeck, leaning over the storm railing, trying to peer into the cabin where his friend has disappeared. He held the .357 Auto Mag at ready. His back was to me: a huge guy, taller than I, almost as broad through the shoulders, and much heavier. “Charlie! Goddam, Charlie, we gotta get our asses outta here!” I wanted him to yell. Every time he opened his mouth, I was three feet closer.
What do You think about Key West Connection (2011)?
