Two Guns - Chapter 10 - Waiting for a Girl Like You

The soothing azure ocean of her dreams made room for the whooshing waves in the background when Sharon came to again; the sun was shining, and when she sat up, the rays blinded her for a few seconds. A small part of her brain tried to say that a rising sun couldn't shine through the front windows if the boat was pointed west, but she was still too tired to listen to that. With a stroke, she rubbed the rheum from her eyes and looked around. She found Mark standing at the stove without a shirt, heating up a pot of water.

"No sugar on my toast," she said by way of greeting; Mark turned to face her, smiled a bit and nodded.
"I prefer 'Good morning'."
"Yeah, good morning to you."
"Thank you. Now, toast is gonna be a bit hard, but..."

Sharon tried to move her legs, which reminded her that she'd had sex last night.

"How did you clean up?" she asked.
"This" - he held up a washcloth - "and a pot of hot water. I'm warming up one for you right now."

Sharon gave him that look.

"Please tell me there's another one," she said. Mark's look swayed from her face to her uncovered breasts - don't draw attention don't draw attention ah shit she saw you move on move on dammit! - to the washcloth, and then he made a show of not looking at Sharon while he climbed the steps up into the pilot house. Sharon heard a few more footsteps outside, then a splash.

"Begone!" Mark shouted; Sharon suppressed a small giggle. When he walked back in, he saw that she still wasn't doing anything for her modesty, so he covered his eyes and carefully stepped down back into the cabin.
"This isn't easy, you know," he said, trying to find a tone that wasn't offensive.
"Don't play this game," she said, still emphatically not hiding anything. "They were perfectly fine yesterday."

Mark uncovered his eyes and looked at her.

"No entrapment here," she said. "Come on, get your fill."

He looked some more.

"Satisfied?" she asked.
"Not yet..."
"Would you prefer a different pose?" she asked, leaning to the side a bit.
"No, that's alright."

And he looked.

"I'm not trying to shut down something I approved," Sharon said with a tone of resignation, "but I wanted to demystify my body, not put it on exhibition."
"Hey, you opened that door. Also, they are still perfectly fine."

Sharon stretched out, thrust out her chest and smiled.

"...the pot's boiling over," she moaned huskily.

Like a flash, he turned and wrenched the pot off the stove, splashing his hands with some unexpectedly hot water and shaking the uncomfortable fluid off while trying not to spill the whole container all over the floor. Behind him, Sharon sunk down deeper into the bed, raised the sheet over her head and started laughing like a maniac.

"This is not funny," Mark said, turning back to her; Sharon giggled and lowered the sheet a bit, letting him see her eyes peeking out.
"Fuck yeah, it's funny. Don't you hear me laugh?"
"You dirty little..."
"What are you gonna do about it, big man?" she said, lowering the sheet to where it could show off her grin.

Without looking, Mark opened a drawer, fished out another washcloth and dipped it into the pot full of hot water. He wrung out some water, then weighed the damp cloth in his right hand.

"You brought this on yourself, you know," he said, then stepped up to the bed and climbed onto it. Sharon giggled and hid under the sheets in response, while Mark dug at the pile of fabric between them, trying to catch her.

And lo, there was much laughing, scrubbing and squealing.

---

After dressing - some, ahem, time later -, Sharon climbed up into the pilot house and surveyed their position. The boat had drifted overnight, leaving them turned away from the shore and maybe a few miles further out. Mark - now himself dressed in a Saturday Night Fever suit entirely too small for him, yet wearing it with dignity - restarted the engine and slowly brought the tender back on course, then brought the boat to speed and aimed for Sheepshead Bay to the North. He was more somber now than during his romp with Sharon, but still riding the emotional high.

"You ever been there?" she asked as she strolled up next to him, then leaned on the console and looked at the waterfront in the distance.
"Couple of years ago." He sucked in a tiny bit of spit and air, setting his teeth on his lower lip in something approaching an un-whistle in look and sound. "T'was nice."
"So," she said, then didn't continue as she fought her voice for words. "How do we handle this? Do we just...forget about it?"

Somehow, Mark felt no surprise whatsoever.

"'kay."
"No, I'm...no. I'm not saying that we should, I'm just..." She threw her head back, closed her eyes and counted to ten - in Latin, as Mark noted with faint approval. "Okay. Start over. I'm not sure how we should proceed from here. I was asking about your opinion." When he didn't answer, she added "In my charming, rhetorically stunted way."

He tried not to smile and failed. A part of him actually felt relieved.

"I don't know, either. Life's funny that way."

She returned his smile. There wasn't much to say in response.

"We have nine more days," Mark said. "Why decide anything now?"
"So we enjoy the ride," she said.
"Let's."

---

Of course, the clothing situation hadn't improved since the day before, so their first stop after dropping off the tender and a short walk on the promenade was a clothing shop. It wasn't haute couture, just rough denim and cotton suitable for a blue collar neighbourhood, but it provided Mark with an opportunity to place a phone call with Alex.

"It's quiet now," Alex reassured him. "Everybody's taken a step back, and we're working out the new ground rules."
"So you need me."
"I'm not gonna lie, I would really like for you to be here," Alex said, sounding a bit too cold for her age. "This isn't an easy time. But we've really got a chance here, you know?"
"I don't think I follow," Mark said, concerned because he usually did follow. That felt uncomfortable.
"Daddy always aimed for detente with the cops. Now we've got you - and you're the man of the hour, believe me - as liaison. This is gonna help us more than a dozen triggermen on the streets."
"This isn't political."
"No, no, of course not, and that's really great! I mean, look at it this way: if you hated her - which you don't - I'd order you to stay on her, make it look good. But you actually do like her, so it's like, win-win. Right?"
"...right. I just don't want..."
"Mark, look. It's all good. You're out there, I'm here. We both do our jobs, okay?"
"Okay," Mark said, letting his breath out. He felt the tenseness of a bad conscience slip off him. "Take care...boss."

He thought he heard Alex laugh.

"Talk to you later," he said, then hung up.

"What do you think?" Sharon asked, parading around in a fresh set of jeans, a denim jacket, flannel shirt and dockworker boots. The smell of fish pervaded Mark's nose without actually being present.
"Very...nautical. Does that chafe?"
"You're about to find out," she said with a wicked smile, then pointed to a similar getup lying folded on the counter.
"You guessed my size."
"I had your old clothes on the boat and all the time in the world to read the labels."
"Solid police work, as always," Mark replied with a smile. He reached into his pocket, slapped a few large bills onto the counter (to the apparent indifference of the craggy-faced shop owner) and went to change in a small cabin.

"We should get a car," Sharon said.
"Oh, definitely."
"And something to eat."
"Yeah."
"Oh, can we go to Coney Island?"
"Sure."
"Because I want to ride the Cyclone!"
"No problem."
"I kinda wanted to for a long time, you know."
"Uh-huh."
"But I didn't dare."
"Hm."
"I think I'm feeling bold today."
"That's great."
"Yeah, we're definitely gonna ride it. It'll be great."

He stepped out of the cabin with the new clothes. His flannel pattern was a bit darker than hers, but other than that, they were wearing basically the same outfit.

It's a wild decade, Mark concluded, then smiled. "How do I look?" he said.
"Ridiculous," Sharon said, keeping a totally straight face.

He gave her a lopsided, one-eyed glare. She just stuck out her tongue for a second and laughed, then grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the store. The shop owner waited until they were well out of the door, listened to the little bell ring when the door slowly drew closed, then took the wad of cash and started counting it.

"Half woulda done it," he said, then shrugged. "City folk," he said, to nobody in particular.

Two Guns - Chapter 9 - Invisible Touch

The worst of the storm was over when the tender clipped the waves, leaving a burning soon-to-be-wreck behind in the depths of the Atlantic. Owing to its long-range applications, the tender was rather a bit bigger than the Zodiac our heroes had used on the way to the yacht, featuring a small cabin below deck and a half-open pilot house on deck. The latter was where Mark stood, trying to make it back to solid land, while Sharon perused the former to locate dry clothes. When she did walk out, Mark reduced the speed to account for the potential distraction, because no thinking and/or feeling female should ever be forced to wear a pearl-white disco suit with a flimsy silk shirt underneath.

"If you even think of the Bee Gees," she said, "I will smack you." Her dark reddish hair still hung in small clumps over her shoulders. It just refused to dry fully, though it had been downgraded from dripping wet to merely damp. "So, uh, about what Silvestro said..."
"Bullshit," Mark said emphatically.
"Yeah, I guess," she said, biting her lip. She let out a short, nervous laugh. "Probably thought he could mess with me."
"Yeah."
"Something on your mind?" she asked and saw him flinch. Truth be told, she was getting better at reading him.

"Well, I was looking for a good excuse to mention it, but...thanks."
"Okay, but what for?"
"For that crazy stunt in the pool. I don't have a clue how you came up with that, but that was a damn good way to get down quickly, break your fall and bail me out."
"That's a little too much credit," she said, smiling. "I was mostly saving myself."
"Look, you can't know this, but I don't often say 'thank you'."
"I do appreciate that...I just couldn't leave you with a, well, false impression of my motives. Or technique. By everything I know, that shouldn't have worked."
"Frankly, Sharon, all I care about is the what, not the how. So, thanks."
"You said that already."
"Guess I did."

Mark shut down the engines. There was a horrible, ghastly silence as they drifted through some winter fog.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted.
"Maybe you just don't know how to say it."
"Yes!" he exclaimed, then calmed down and blushed a tiny little bit. "Er, I mean, yes, it's more a problem of how than what."
"So what?"
"Detective...Sharon. Would you like to go out for dinner with me?"
"That was it?" she asked.

He nodded.

"It's three minutes past Midnight," she said.
"Umm..."
"...but there is a small galley down there."

She gave him a mischievous smile, and he returned it. They were drifting out of the the fog, gradually revealing the glittering lights of the coast in the distance. When it came into full view, Sharon took a look and caught her breath; Mark slipped the tattered remains of his trenchcoat off and draped them around her shoulders like a cloak.

"Enjoy the silence," Mark said. "I'll fix something."

---

The pilot house was too cold to sit comfortably, so they'd relocated to the cabin below and were now camped out on the bed, sitting in sukhasana and eating out of bowls made when Emiliano Zapata was still trying to stick it to The Man. The glittering lights of New York City were visible through the small forward view ports of the cabin, and the maritime radio was softly whispering summarily ignored weather reports.

"That's certainly something," Sharon admitted after her first taste of the rice & beans dish in front of her. The concoction was, well, hearty and wholesome, but there were a few elements to the flavor she couldn't place. "What's in it?"
"Banana and red pepper," Mark said with an earnest expression.
"Wow," she said, eating another sporkful.
"You know, stakeout food."
"I usually make noodles. You know, with tomato sauce." She smiled softly and added "Old Irish family recipe."

"Do you like it?" he finally said.
"Um-hum," she mumbled, awkwardly pulling the spork from her mouth and swallowing the latest bite. "I do."

In eating, Sharon realized how much she hadn't eaten those past few days. The dish was incredibly rich and filling, but she still managed to finish her bowl, which left her with a cozy, warm feeling when she just let herself fall back onto the bed. The boat swayed softly, as if in response, and she closed her eyes. She felt like she was floating in a warm, tropical ocean, far away from the shores of New England.

"Something nice?" Mark asked.
"Hm?"
"You're smiling."
"Something very nice," she admitted. "Do you have family, Mark?"

He stopped chewing for a second, then thought about his response.

"No."
"That must be hard on you."
"It's okay," he said. "My Dad's been gone a long time, my mother passed away a few years ago...but I hadn't spoken to her since I left. I guess Alfredo was there when I needed a father. I owe him a lot."
"Basics of criminal psychology," Sharon said as if she was reciting something. "Sharp focus on personal loyalty."
"Are you analyzing me again?"
"Yes. It's annoying me, too. Please stop being fascinating."
"Oooh, I'm fascinating?"
"I think you are."
"Well, you're not exactly boring either."
"Does that pass for high praise from you?"

Mark stowed the plates on the floor below and crawled over to Sharon.

"No, of course not. You're also daring, capable and good-looking."
"Not beautiful?"
"Not in that suit," Mark quipped. Sharon jumped up and grabbed his shoulders, rolling him onto the bed and sitting on his chest. "I've half a mind to get out of it," she said with a twinkle in her eye.
"Don't let me stop you."

She bowed down, as if to kiss him, but stopped a few inches short.

"What are we doing?" she whispered, genuinely curious rather than scared.
"I don't know, I'm making it up as I go along..." he said, closing his eyes.
"Do you have any more cliches like that?"
"You'll see, won't you?"
"...hang on," she said, then climbed off and scrambled away from the bed. Mark kept lying there while she scrambled through the various drawers in the small cupboard.

"I don't want to pressure you or anything," he said, "but you, Madam, are a goddamn tease. I didn't go into this with any unclean intentions, you know, but certain expectations have been built up..."

As if in response, he felt a little item being thrown at his chest. He opened his eyes, sat up and reached for it - a condom. He glanced to the side and saw Sharon throw the tattered trenchcoat aside.

"Get dressed," she said.
"Yes, Ma'am," he replied.

Two Guns - Chapter 8 - Ace of Spades

One fucking corner. That's all they got before everything went to shit.

It wasn't their fault, they were careful, it's just that having a guy looking your way right behind the first corner was a case of excessively bad luck. Mark had his gun up and fired a single, suppressed bullet, which was bad enough, but then themerc didn't have the courtesy of going peacefully and screamed as he fell, though he was mostly dead when he hit the ground.

Needless to say, this was a rather worrying development for Mark and Sharon, for now they were two against two dozen and the entire ship was waking up around them. Mark took cover behind a bulkhead, and Sharon followed his lead across the small hallway. It was still dark, and the mercs were reacting to the scream, not the shot, so nobody had thought to switch on the exterior lights. Two mercs came down a nearby exterior staircase and hurried on, passing by the pair with nary a second look at the shadows. Sharon glanced over to Mark - he pointed upwards, and she broke cover, knowing that they had to keep moving. She hurried up the staircase while Mark followed - another merc ran up to them along the side of the deck, spotted Mark but caught a bullet in the chest before he could add another shout. Instead of crumbling down like a nice little corpse, he flailed over the yacht's railing, prompting a "Man overboard!" shout from the top (fourth) deck. The floodlights stirred in response, leaving their assigned patrol routes - and spotting a small rigid-hulled inflatable boat just outside the normal search radius, which produced a shout of "Intruder alert!"

Well, actually, only the "Intruder" part, because then the shouter caught a bullet in the neck and hit the water two seconds later. That didn't result in any more shouting, though. The following noises were much more...martial.

The decks were laid out in an compressed H shape; the walkway Mark and Sharon were on had a twin on the starboard side, both terminating into the outer walls of the superstructure before reaching the yacht's bow. In the middle of the yacht, they opened into a large atrium-esque affair, with a swimming pool on the second deck and a glass roof up there in a pavilion-like construction. At the very end, they branched back into two walkways flanking the rear superstructure. The stairway they'd used on the way up was at the terminating end of the forward superstructure, but without direct (and stealthy) access to the individual cabins, so they had to use the exterior walkway to get up to Silvestro's cabin.

Sharon had the heavier armor and the semiautomatic shotgun, so she stayed back and covered the enemy approach while Mark pressed forward, easily killing the two guards with the rest of his magazine. He dropped the empty mag into the sea below and fed the gun with a spare, then kicked the door to the main cabin open. The guards were still confused and disorganized, which counted for something, but the cabin was empty, and Mark felt like he'd been had again. However, that incident was not an example of Silvestro's fiendish intellect - the silver-haired man was simply downstairs in the game room, ruining his wrists on a particularly vicious game of Tempest. Well, not anymore, at that point he'd heard the shots and prepared for battle...but that wasn't a very positive development, either, and now Mark had to account for the fact that Silvestro could be anywhere on the yacht, potentially not even on the ship at all.

He walked out of Silvestro's cabin just as Sharon fired her first shot, blasting an approaching merc with a faceful of double-ought buck. Although she gladly let Mark take the lead in killing - after all, she reasoned, she was a cop and it was bad enough to assassinate one guy, let alone kill random people -, she felt a little less inhibition towards defending herself, and armed mercenaries charging her position definitely fell into that category.

With a few shots, Mark took out the floodlights on the starboard side of the yacht, then grabbed the rail and climbed down one deck, hoping to catch the bulk of the guards in akillzone between him and Sharon's shotgun. Again, an ill-positioned guard spoiled his plan, but this one put two bullets into Mark's vest and took the rest of the Colt's magazine out of the equation. Angrily, Mark tossed the suppressed pistol and snapped his Hi-Power twins free from their spring-loaded holsters. He was through being sneaky.

Both guns readied, he hurried toward the staircase, turned into it and emptied his magazines into the masses of mercs streaming upwards. It was simple and brutal, but in the close quarters, there was no dodging his fire. Those that could do so jumped free through the exits to the lower decks, but most of the mercs didn't stand a chance. When they finally returned fire, they were standing in the blood-soaked mess of six dead and two injured, while Mark ducked out back onto Deck 3 - and behind cover - to reload. A different hitman might have balked at the 'cheap shots', but Mark had less ego and more survival instinct than that. On the third deck, there were walls and windows flanking the atrium part instead of the top deck's simple hand rails; a window shattered from the return fire before Sharon's shotgun barked again from above.

"How are you holding up?" Mark shouted, slipping fresh magazines into his twins.
"I'm fine!" Sharon shouted back.

With the staircase secure for the moment, Mark proceeded into the atrium and drew fire like a flâneur on the battlefields of Verdun. Reflex took over; he ducked and returned fire, nailing the shooter with a group of three through the chest. The man clutched the bloody mess framed by his rips and took a dive into the swimming pool below. More contenders appeared from the rear stairwell, but Mark fed 'em well. More shots from the SPAS-15; Mark counted three before it stopped firing.

After that, things got suspiciously quiet.

Mark wanted to shout and inquire how Detective Collins was doing, but felt ill at ease doing that while someone might be listening - what with implicating her in anything. He hadn't thought to agree oncodenames - or even taken the elementary precaution of ski masks -, so he did what came naturally.

"Sharon!"
"I said, I'm fine!"
"Anybody else?"

There was a lot of silence.

"We want Silvestro. The rest of you are just in the way!"

Again, nothing. Mark reached under his coat and produced a canister of tear gas.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" he howled, then removed the safety pin and threw it into the empty space in the middle of the atrium. The result was a resounding splash as the grenade landed in the pool. Mark rolled his eyes, crept up to the rear stairwell, readied a concussion grenade and sent it into the pool, with the result of another splash.

"Third time's the charm!" a merc shouted from below.

Then the grenade's timer ran out, the explosive charge detonated and the pool erupted into a veritable geyser.

By the time the mockingbird-cum-mercenary had recovered from the titanic spray, he had two of Mark's bullet in his belly and no more air for one-liners. Mark had slipped down the stairs in the confusion and the four guards on the second deck had a pretty serious, dressed-in-all-black problem. Of course Mark took a few bullets, including a good hit on his calf where he didn't have any armor to stop it, but underneath his clothes, that kind of injury was hard to see. For all the mercs knew, they weren't hitting Mark, which meant they aimed center mass for a "safe" shot, which was exactly what Mark wanted them to do. Still, when the slides locked back and the men were dead, Mark leaned against a bulkhead and coughed the pain out of his lungs. His coat was shredded and riddled with bullet holes, his strike plates were shattered and it was a minor miracle that the bullet in his leg had missed the femoral arteries. (As a point of interest, Mark had no idea what they were called in detail, but he knew there were a few and that getting shot in them was a Bad Thing.)

He'd just recovered from that little burst of adrenaline when the hairs at the back of his neck told him to move, and he half-jumped, half-fell forward, barely avoiding the stroke of a broadsword aimed at his head. He needed the strength of his legs to be mobile on the ground, but he couldn't risk straining his right one, so he just rolled, grabbed the rail around the pool (now reddish from the diving goon's blood) and righted himself. Mark noted that his right hand was free, then noticed a trickle of blood running down the sleeve. Half of the spring-loader (the one with the gun) was on the ground, caught on a small wire. Mark trailed the wire to its origin, leading back to the sword wielder - probablySilvestro's personal bodyguard.

"Fuck you," Mark said. Then there was more gunfire from the SPAS above.

The bodyguard was distracted. Mark wasn't.

He lunged forward, his sole gun empty but good for clubbing, and closed the distance. His fighting style didn't admit standing around and taking it; the only way to win was to push forward and unbalance the opposition. The Bodyguard wasn't as good a fighter, but he had a goddamn sword and swung it at Mark. The hitman whirled, caught the sword's edge with the still present spring-loader on his other wrist and tangled it with his trenchcoat. It was enough of a move to backhand the Bodyguard with his right arm, but not enough to disarm him. The man tore his sword free, cutting away Mark's coat and most of his equipment belts in the process. The carefully arranged mess of knives and grenades dangled from one strap while Mark was beat back to the staircase, desperately avoiding the powerful strikes.

He can't keep this up, Mark thought. But I can't, either.

Mark tried to reach for a knife, but caught the sword's pommel in the face. He tumbled down the stairs to the first deck, his bandoliers finally torn loose. He slammed into the wall halfway down, shook his head to clear it and looked up to a smiling bodyguard.

Mark smiled back and held up a safety pin.

To his credit, the Bodyguard tried to get out of the way, diving into the stairwell, but all he did was shield Mark from the fragments shooting through the air. Looking vaguely like a disturbingly transhuman porcupine, the man slammed into Mark, ramming the tip of the sword into the fake wood panelling in the vain hope of catching himself. After the customary and deeply meaningful locked glances, Mark shoved the man off. He was really hurting now, combat fatigue and most of his gear blown up. Worse, his brain was rattled, and he wasn't perfectly rational on this much adrenaline.

The question was whether this would actually improve things for the remaining mercs.

When Mark appeared on the first deck, he wielded only the sword and a maniacal grin. There was only one guard watching the stairwell, the restpresumably close to Silvestro. Like a good soldier, the man brought his sidearm up and pulled the trigger. It should've been an easy kill, since Mark wasn't making the slightest effort to dodge it, but then the gun failed to fire.

Nobody knows what Mark did to deserve this much good karma.

At this point, the guard should have done a Tap-Rack-Bang! clearing routine, pulled another gun, called for help or maybe even retreated. He didn't. Instead, he got - and this is the scientifically correct terminology -fuckin' stabbed.

But he didn't die, and so he had some screaming to do when Mark set his food against the man's chest when he pulled the sword back out. In fact, he was still screaming when Mark walked on. Oh, he was lethally wounded, make no mistake, but he refused to become unconscious. That wasn't a very good way to die.

---

As a matter of fact, not all of the remaining mercs were with Silvestro. Sharon knew this because a smoke grenade flew up the staircase, belching thick smoke all over the place. Realising the precariousness of her new situation, Sharon decided against backing towards Silvestro's cabin - a dead end - and instead retreated to the atrium. She pumped a few more shells into the smoke where the stairwell's exit had to be, and generated one scream. Still, they had cover, and they tossed a frag in her direction.

Somehow, Sharon's reflexes made her jump the safety rail.

She hit the bloodied water of the pool below just as the grenade went off and went under at once, the heavy armor and weapons dragging her down. A little gulp of air escaped her mouth, but overall she kept it together and failed to panic. The pool was crimson, but mostly on the surface where the corpse still hovered - below, she could see that the pool had windows in its sides showing the first deck.

She pumped the shotgun...

---

Mark was slowly returning to rationality, at an altogether less than optimal point in time. He had his sword to the neck of a guard, who in turn had his pistol aimed at Mark's face.

"You didn't think this through, did you? The old man's behind me. You ain't gettin' past me." the merc said.
"Hey, at least I'm trying, you know?" Mark shot back for want of a better strategy. He had a problem, namely being screwed. But that had a solution: all he had to do was stall the guy. Because when he'd started thinking again, he'd started looking to the sides again, and his backup plan was just about ready...

---

Sharon braced her legs against the frame of the pool's window and set her SPAS-15 against the heavy glass.

This is totally nuts.

---

It wasn't the buckshot that killed Mister Gun-to-Mark's-head, though that helped - but it was the high-speed jet of water that pushed him over the rail and into the icy water. In a better situation, that could have been survived, but there was no chance of rescue. It might have been a bit of a depressing thought, and so it was good that Sharon didn't share his fate - she slammed against the rail but didn't go over it, then opened her eyes and coughed up water.

"Sharon?" Mark said, softly.
"...fine," she wheezed, as if trying to work in a catch phrase.
"I'm gonna need your guns."

He reached for her shoulder holsters and grabbed the twin Berettas. She opened her eyes; water trickled down from her hair all over her face, and she breathed heavily. With an unreadable softness, Mark smiled.

"It'll be over in a minute."

He stripped off the peppered tactical vest, leaving him standing with just a t-shirt. The noise of a boat's motor echoed from the rear of the yacht; he hurried off in that direction.

---

The two last guards stood watch over the yacht's tender while Silvestro prepared to depart, and then Mark appeared. He didn't even try to trick them - he had his guns up when he closed in, waited for them to notice him and cut them both down when they tried to snap up their weapons. He wasn't in the mood to play this fancy, to do stunts or trick them. He just wanted to get this done and over with. He walked to the rear deck and found Silvestro sitting in the tender with a resigned expression. Mark noted that he'd never seen a picture of the guy, but he knew it was him. A middle-aged man with hispanic features, he favored his left leg and wore an impeccably tailored suit - yeah, that's how a cartel leader looks, Mark thought.

"It's funny, you know," Silvestro said. "The guy who helps me with the tender? You killed him first."

Mark didn't respond, but he didn't shoot, either; the only movement came from Sharon, who slowly limped up to the scene with the SPAS-15 as a crutch.

"Is that him?" Sharon asked; Mark just nodded, never taking his eyes of the drug runner.
"Why are you trying to kill me?" she said, raising the shotgun to fire.

Silvestro just smiled.

"If I tell you, will you let me go?"
"No," Mark said - before Sharon had a chance to even consider it.
"Then I won't tell you."
"Too bad," Mark added again, then raised his gun to shoot.
"Hang on," Sharon said.

Silvestro focussed his look on her.

"Call it off," she said.
"I can't call off what's already over," Silvestro said. "You've killed everyone I sent after you, killed everyone who protected me. You've won."

He just looked at her.

"What do you think this is? Some kind of bad dream, and I'm the genie who fixes everything? What I say now doesn't mean shit."
"I need you to say that I'm safe," she snarled.
"You're not safe. Not ever. You're safe from me, maybe, but don't think you can pull this shit and walk away." He shot a poisonous glance at Mark. "You're fixing nothing. The good times are over. You don't get it, do you? There's no rules anymore. I did what I could get away with. And that old fucker never knew what hit him."

Mark's finger twitched. Silvestro grinned.

"I gave them orders not to kill the girl, you know. I always wanted a daughter..."

They both shot him.

He didn't stumble and fall into the cold water, he just slumped down into the tender and stayed there, unmoving and unblinking. Sharon lowered her gun first. Not the first guy she'd killed, by far, no - but the first one she'd murdered.

"Take care of the body and launch the tender," Mark said. His face was less unreadable than usual, but still not conclusive. He grabbed the shotgun from Sharon and walked off. "I'm gonna scuttle this piece of shit."

Two Guns - Chapter 7 - Shout

As far as such things turned out, the motel room didn't stay quiet for long. Sharon wondered idly how that could be.

"Prometo mi vida," Mark said, with something panging against his otherwise pretty decent non-accent. He kissed Alexandra's hand and slowly rose from his knee, keeping his head down while she drew in a few small sobs and finally recomposed herself.

"Okay," she said, wiping a small wetness - not a tear! - from the corner of her eye. She cracked a small, desperate grin. "Some cartel we have, eh?"
"We've still got our men out on assignment," Vince said, leaning against the wall and watching the entrance. "We can..."
"Hang on a second," Alex said. "Should she be hearing this?"

Sharon got up from the bed, grabbed her jacket and started to walk, but Mark held her back.

"No, I need to hear this," he said. "And she's with me."

Alex folded her arms and put on a fake pout. Sharon sat back down and opened her suitcase.

"You did just swear allegiance to me, right?"
"Your father gave the order to protect her - boss."
"...why do you always make me feel like a little girl?" she said, and her pout turned into a half-smile.
"Force of habit," Mark conceded. "Now, what's our plan?"
"We can't keep sitting around," Vince threw in. "So far, their plan has been to strike at any vulnerable point they can find. They clearly don't care about losses or noise as long as they get the job done."
"Suggestions?" Alex said.
"We hit 'em where it hurts," Mark said. "Where's Silvestro now?"
"If I had to guess, I'd place him at his yacht. He's usually a couple of miles out, the whole international waters deal. I saw the blueprints in Bogota, that thing is a swimming fortress."
"Difficult," Mark conceded.
"We're too short to do anything," Vince said. "I have to protect Alex, you have to watch the Detective."

In the following silence, the sound of a magazine being slammed home was like distant thunder. Mark turned around to see Sharon reload her Berettas - from the suitcase.

"The difference bein'," she said, "that I'm in fighting shape."
"Where'd you get the ammo?"

Sharon gave him a 'How stupid do you think I am?' look. "I don't need four fucking minutes to grab my suitcase. I figured I'd scavenge a bit."

For once, Mark had no effective reply. Sharon slammed another mag home, then slung a double shoulder-holster over her sweater, filled the pouches with magazines and holstered the two guns. Vince grinned.

"She's your speed," he said.
"Quiet, you," Mark shot back.

---

In the end, Mark managed to divorce Sharon from the impression that the scavenging had been strictly necessary - without, of course, leaving her to think that he didn't appreciate her initiative. However, he explained, a criminal syndicate that makes most of its proceeds from gunrunning can accumulate a far greater variety of small arms than what could be carried in a suitcase.

"How many weapons?" Sharon asked.

Mark showed her. Right there and then, she lost any faith whatsoever in the principles of gun control.

---

The sea was too calm for winter, especially with the snow falling around them, but the Zodiac pushed on, gliding through the water with only the bleating of its engine disturbing the peace. Mark was at the controls, trying to navigate by compass without a view of the shore, and it was okay for him and Sharon - after all, they didn't know how stupidly dangerous that was.

Sharon slipped a few more shells into her SPAS-15 magazines, eyeing the prototype weapon with some suspicion. For a cop with a steady marriage to a good old tube-magazine pump-action, a semi-auto shottie with a box magazine just didn't feel right. Despite the cold, she was sweating under the heavy drysuit and amphibious assault gear she'd slipped into, and she rather suspected that Mark had taken a few seconds longer than strictly necessary to fit the right armored floatation vest for her. She couldn't decide whether that was cute or creepy.

In the distance, searchlights pierced the darkness, delineating the silhouette of the yacht. There were a few men on deck, and the yacht dwarfed them. Sharon felt like she'd slipped into a James Bond movie.

"Your pack ready?" Mark asked; she nodded wordlessly and zipped it up, then strapped it to her back. Mark killed the engine; then they both put on their goggles and slipped into the water.

The Atlantic gets cold in winter.

Sharon swam for the light, because that's what Mark had said she should do, and he was right next to her. Short, measured strokes, no hasty moves or big gestures. The floatation vest was uncomfortable, but necessary, both helping her stay on the surface and keeping her body warm. But she had to swim - the vest wasn't rated to keep her afloat without help, and until that moment, she hadn't understood just why.

Then the searchlight swiveled around, heading for her like it knew she was out there, and she knew she couldn't swim away fast enough to dodge it. She struggled, looked for Mark but couldn't find him, nearly screamed when she felt something tug on her and finally went under.

The Atlantic gets very cold in winter.

It bit her face, and she had to fight multiple instincts, like closing her eyes, trying to breathe and struggling to reach the surface. She forced her eyes open, spotting the beam of light passing over her - and Mark below her, dragging her with him. After a second of shock, she started to swim with him, heading for that vague gray mass ahead. Just when she thought she couldn't hold her breath any longer, Mark dragged her further. She couldn't, she thought, every stroke increasing the pressure on her lungs, her eyes watering from the effort, but some dumb stubborn instinct kept her mouth closed. With a start, Mark beat his feet, dragging her upward again.

They broke the surface, producing a large gasp from Sharon that Mark stifled at once with a hand over her mouth. She was almost ready to panic, but his breath rushed past her ears and she felt his heartbeat, even through the heavy layers of protective material between them. A beam of light rushed past them, lingered for a moment, then moved on. Neither of them made a sound.

Steady.

The next thing she knew, Mark grabbed her arm and pushed it upward, letting her reach the anchor chain. He dove again, then grabbed the chain below so she could put her feet on his shoulders. He came up, she pushed herself skyward and grabbed a new chain segment. With the initial boost behind her, she shook off the apathy and wrapped her legs around the chain properly, then scaled it. She was cold and miserable, but by God, she'd make it. A few seconds later, she hit the deck above, then scuttled off to a dark corner, diving knife at the ready. Mark followed a few seconds later, then took over the guard position while Sharon got rid of the swimming gear and changed out of the wet clothes into her combat suit.

"Damn cold water," Mark said, betraying no indecent looks but with a mischievous smile that was still visible in the semi-dark. For a second, Sharon was angry at him, but when she saw him with his knife held close to his torso in a surprise attack stance, she remembered a little song she'd heard her father sing once:

Oh the shark has pretty teeth dear,
And he shows them pearly white
Just a jack-knife has MacHeath dear
And he keeps it out of sight.

After a minute, the roles switched again; now Mark got dressed while Sharon stood watch, wearing a black overall, body armor and more guns than, perhaps, strictly necessary. The SPAS-15 hung from a sling, a trump card to be played when her suppressed Colt - one of Mark's spares - ran out of usefulness. Behind her, the telltale clicking of springs being torqued echoed, far too loud for Sharon's sensitive ears. When Mark strolled up beside her, he was wearing his trenchcoat.

Why, of course.

He flashed his knife - no, wait, another knife, Sharon realized.

"How many of those do you have?" she asked.
"Enough," Mark replied with a smile.

They snuck off, starting their mission to kill Silvestro in earnest. Just the two of them versus a super yacht full of mercenaries.

Piece of cake.