Anchor point, p.1
Anchor Point, page 1
Anchor Point
The Inland Seas Series - Book 4
Gwyn McNamee
Anchor Point
by Gwyn McNamee © 2020
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Michelle Johnson at Blue Sky Designs
Cover Models: Chris Hayman and Desiree Lyn
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Editing: Wallflower Edits
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. Elijah
2. Evangeline
3. Elijah
4. Evangeline
5. Elijah
6. Evangeline
7. Elijah
8. Evangeline
9. Elijah
10. Evangeline
11. Elijah
12. Evangeline
13. Elijah
14. Evangeline
15. Elijah
16. Evangeline
17. Elijah
18. Evangeline
19. Elijah
20. Evangeline
21. Elijah
22. Evangeline
23. Elijah
24. Evangeline
25. Elijah
26. Evangeline
Epilogue
About the Author
OTHER WORKS BY GWYN MCNAMEE
To realize the worth of the anchor, we need to feel the stress of the storm.
* * *
Corrie ten Boom
Acknowledgments
Anchor Point was an emotional book to write. I can’t thank the people who helped me with this book. Christy, Renee, and Stephanie, you guys ROCK! And, as always, I owe a huge thank you to my husband for always supporting my work and making sure I have time at the computer so get things done.
1
Elijah
The freezing spray coming up over the bow of the Calista batters my skin, but it does nothing to quell the boiling hot rage surging through my blood. Even the bitterest February cold out on the lake can’t do anything about that.
I can't believe I'm back here again. After all this time. After all these years.
My hands clench around the rail, and I close my eyes and let the brutal winter weather on Lake Michigan attack every exposed inch of my body. My bare arms and face take the brunt of it, burning and stinging with the brutal force of Mother Nature. I stand here and take it all, but no amount of self-flagellation will absolve me of my sins. The ones that brought me here, to where I am today, about to face my greatest enemy…again.
There’s no way I should be here. And everyone knows it.
I shake my head and suck in a cleansing breath of the biting cold air. I should've stayed back at the warehouse. I should've told them no.
The moment Valentina mentioned the Albanians, I should've shoved away from that table and told them all to fuck off.
But I didn't.
I sat there in stunned silence while she asked us to raid yet another ship of one of her rivals—one I know all too well.
Her request wasn’t a surprise. She always has us going after some sort of shipment from her competitors. And I would love to let myself believe it’s with altruistic intent, but we all know what’s happening. She’s the head of one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the Midwest, and she wants her rivals gone, their supply chains and resources interrupted.
I can't say I blame her. She's trying to maintain control over a territory in flux. One being attacked from all sides by the cartels, by the Albanians, by the Irish and Russians, by every goddamn organization in Chicago.
It should give me comfort to know what we're about to do today is going to help fuck up the lives of the people who ruined mine, but it doesn't. It can't. Nothing can temper the ache in my heart or the scorching burn in my soul—the anguish I live with every fucking day because of my choices and because of them.
I force open my eyes and glance behind me to the wheelhouse. Cutter stares back at me from behind the wheel. Or should I say, stares back at me from behind the shades. Even with me, he can't take them off. Valentina is the only one who's managed to break that down, and only when she's alone with him. Around us, the men who have been his brothers for so long, he’s still the same closed-off asshole as always.
He motions for me to return inside. I probably should before I fucking freeze to death. Though, maybe that’s what I really want deep down. To die an agonizing death.
Maybe it’s what I deserve.
Though death would be too easy. A simple way out to end my suffering. Life would never give that to me. Enduring this agony day in and day out is the only way to pay, the only fair consequence.
I take another deep breath before I shove away from the rail and stumble across the slippery, wet deck to the door. I heave it open and step into the warmth of the small room. A shiver rolls through me, and I shake off the water clinging to my skin and run a damp hand over my wet face and through my soaked hair. Goose bumps break out all over my body, and my limbs start to shake—though whether it’s a potential early sign of hypothermia or my nerves is a toss-up. I grab a towel hanging next to the door and wipe my face, even though we're just going to get wet again in a few minutes.
“We’re almost there.” Cutter’s announcement only confirms what I already know.
It was almost like I could sense it looming in the distance, even though we weren’t close enough for me to see it when I was out there.
I focus on the front window and the water beyond it. Through the sleet and spray at the bow, I can just make out the ship.
The ghost ship. The Wanderer.
She shouldn't even be here. Not this time of year. February in the lakes is usually controlled by thick ice on the water that ships can only move through at a snail’s pace with an ice-breaking barge in front of them, or they don't move on the water at all.
The lakes are practically shut down from December to March, and sometimes even longer, depending on how the weather turns. That's why this ship got Valentina's attention. It showed up at the Soo Locks when there hadn't been a ship through there for weeks. This ship is taking advantage of the unusually warm temperatures and the ice break up.
And Valentina has been watching for it.
She has spies in every camp in Chicago, it seems. People unscrupulous enough to sell her information and rat out their own organizations. I don't know if she knows what’s on the ship or not. All that matters is she wants to have it and them not to.
Would it have changed things if I had told her no? That I wouldn’t do it?
Probably not.
It only would have made the job harder for the rest of the crew to take down the ship one man down.
Though my being here may not help them much. My head isn’t in the right place to be doing this. And they all recognize it.
Cutter’s attention flicks over to me before returning to what’s in front of us. “Are you sure you're okay? You can stay on the boat. You don't have to—”
I hold a hand up to stop him. “I’m fine.”
It's a fucking lie, and he knows it.
But Cutter is the one who isn’t going to press me. If anyone would, it would be Rion or Preacher. They won’t, though. Not today. Not with this. Both of them learned very early on after I joined the crew that it wasn't something I was going to talk about, and what we’re doing now doesn’t change that.
They don't need to know all the details. And I don't need to relive them. I already do that enough in my head every fucking day of my life.
I flip open the bench in the wheelhouse and pull out our rifles. After a quick once-over to make sure they're loaded, I grab a couple of extra magazines for my Glock. “You loaded up?”
Cutter nods and lifts his shirt, showing me his pistol and ammo.
I leave the guns on the top of the bench and watch our approach to the Wanderer. The Destiny rolls in the water alongside our target.
We couldn’t play this like we normally do. The whole distressed pleasure craft game doesn't really work in the middle of Lake Michigan in February. Just like this cargo ship shouldn’t be here, no one should be out this far, either, especially on a yacht.
Our only choice was to use the Destiny as the decoy. A fishing vessel is the only thing that might not draw too much attention or unwanted questions. But even with her here to get the Wanderer to stop, we have to go in hard and fast. There’s no room for error. They’re going to know exactly what our purpose is.
It's not ideal, but Valentina swears it's necessary to take whatever is on this ship. One thing I learned about that woman over the last six months is that she doesn't do anything just because. She's wicked smart and knows her business. Il Padrone taught her well in the short time she was with him. And I trust her. Especially after what she did for Everly. If her source to ld her something important is coming in, then it’s our job to ensure it doesn’t reach Chicago.
Even at a great personal cost to myself.
We bounce over the choppy waves churned up by the winter winds, and I grab one of the ARs and tighten my hand around it. We’re as prepared as we can be. This is what we do. Yet, the nerves that are usually absent during our missions won’t dissipate. Just knowing who the men on that ship work for has me wound so tightly, I might snap.
The radio crackles to life. “We’re ready.” Warwick's deep voice booms over the static. “No contact with them since they stopped.”
“Roger that.” Cutter's brief reply is all that's needed.
This mission has been planned out down to every last detail, just like they always are before we even set foot on these ships. Before we even agree to do it.
The only problem is the unknown.
When they came through the locks, the information indicated six crewmen. But for such a big ship, that seems like a small crew. My guess is they may have paid someone off to avoid a closer inspection. Not unheard of and actually quite the norm up there. Especially this time of year, it would be easy to slip through with whatever cargo you wanted, basically untracked.
That doesn’t bode well for us. But this isn’t the first time we’ve been in this situation. We know what to do even if we face something we’re not expecting.
The ship looms ominously over us, and we draw closer. No movement or response from the crew aboard the Wanderer, even though they must have seen us coming. We pull behind the Destiny, but no gunfire greets us yet.
Why aren’t they firing?
Unease crawls through me. They’re getting ready for a fight. It’s the only explanation.
We tie up to the ship, and Cutter eyes me one last time as he tosses his shades onto the counter in the wheelhouse and replaces them with his NODS goggles that give us such a huge advantage in a firefight. “You're sure?”
“Fuck you, man.” I blow past him and push out the door onto the slick deck.
He follows on swift feet and shoves me out of the way to ascend the ladder first. His place is at the head of the pack, and he’s not about to let me charge in first. Not when he doesn’t trust me to keep my shit together today. Warwick and Rion climb onto our bow from the back of the Destiny to board with us.
Again, it's not ideal. We’ll be sitting fucking ducks coming up on one single ladder, but the ship doesn’t offer any other entry points, probably by design.
What the fuck do they have below deck?
It’s something major enough to get Valentina’s attention.
Drugs? Guns? Other weapons to help them wage war in Chicago?
Whatever it is, it’s not getting to them. Not if we have anything to say about it.
We follow Cutter up, one by one, with Rion bringing up the rear. When Cutter reaches the top, he pauses and peeks over the rail. I try to glance up to scan the deck, but from this position, all I see is the metal side of the boat…and Cutter's ass.
He pulls up his rifle, holds out his hand for a second to tell us to wait, then climbs over the rail. Gunfire erupts almost immediately from his left, and he returns fire, providing me cover as I leap over the rail after him.
The bullets whiz past me, pinging off the metal bulkheads and rails around me, and a sharp pain strikes my left arm.
Fuck.
I return fire and dive behind a stack of crates on the deck. Cutter's right next to me, and he fires around the edge of the crate as Warwick and Rion race our way.
They dive for cover with us, and Rion eyes my arm. “You all right?”
“Just a graze. I'm fine.”
It's nothing compared to the one I took the first time I was shot or the one that hit me in the leg on the Marcella Marie. That hurt like a fucking bitch, and if it had been an inch over, I would've bled to death in seconds. This is just a flesh wound. Nothing more than a scratch really. The blood isn’t even dripping to the deck.
Cutter peers around the crates and fires again. “I took out two on the way over here. One more just now. Do you guys see anybody else?”
I shake my head. “No, but there has to be somebody in the wheelhouse.”
He nods his agreement. “And probably someone below deck with the cargo.” He motions backward toward the wheelhouse. “Rion and War take the wheelhouse. E and I will go below.”
Warwick peeks around the other side of the box. “We'll go this way. I see the door for the staircase to the wheelhouse.” He motions for Rion to follow him, and they creep to the edge of the crate and disappear around the side.
I shove to my feet, and Cutter and I move in the opposite direction, directly for the door that leads down to the cargo bays, using the row of crates as cover.
Cutter nudges the ajar metal door, and it creaks open to a dim, descending staircase. He motions down, and I follow him into the darkness. With those goggles, he can see everything. I should be wearing mine, too—something Cutter would have insisted on under other circumstances—but I haven’t been thinking clearly since hearing the word “Albanians” a week ago.
Every moment since then has been a mix of vivid, blood-red memories and hazy ones I try to push deeper into my psyche. No wonder Cutter wonders if I’m okay. I’m clearly not.
But I can’t let it break my concentration right now. It could cost one of us our lives.
We reach the bottom of the stairs, and Cutter pulls a bullet from one of his magazines and tosses it out into the room in front of us. It draws fire from the far-right side of the cavernous space.
At least we know where some of the crew are, but they could be scattered all over the cargo area.
“There’s only one.” The soft, accented voice comes from our right, so faint, I’m barely sure I heard it.
I squeeze Cutter’s shoulder. He nods. He heard it, too.
Who the hell else is down here? And can we trust what we just heard?
If there is only one, we know exactly where he is, but the other possibility—that we’re being set up to walk into a blood bath—is also very likely.
Cutter quickly peeks around the edge of the stairwell. He leans back to me and indicates he has eyes on one crewmember. He’s going to eliminate him. Even with his limited vision, he’s still a crack-shot. He crouches down and shifts the barrel of his AR around the corner.
A single shot is all it takes.
Cutter rises and motions for me to follow him. We need to do a sweep of the cargo bay—to make sure we got every crewmember and to figure out who the fuck whispered that information to us.
He steps around the corner and freezes. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
He shoves me back behind him to the safety of the wall of the stairwell. “There are heat signatures everywhere down here. Dozens of them.”
“Then why aren’t they firing at us?”
Even in the dim evening light streaming down the stairs from the deck, I can see his lip twist up into a sneer.
“I don’t know. Maybe they aren’t crew. The one I took out had a rifle and was standing. These are all lower, on the floor.”
“None of us are armed. You’re safe.” The same gentle voice floats across the cargo bay, louder this time. “Turn on the light. There’s a switch on the wall to your right.”
What the fuck is going on?
Cutter gestures to the right, and I reach over and fumble ‘til my hand finds the switch. He lifts the NODS from his face, and I flip it on. We both blink against the florescent overhead lights, then step cautiously around the corner, our guns raised and ready for anything that might be waiting.
“Holy shit…” The rest of the words die on my lips.
