CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The small winding waterways and bayous leading to their meet spot were slow. Moving fast created wakes that would disturb nesting wildlife, like the famous pelicans of Louisiana. The men were cautious to ensure that nothing was frightened.

Inside the cabin, the painting was wrapped and secured. With Ian, Ghost, Bull, Whiskey, and Trak all on board, it would be unlikely that Couvillion would bring enough men to overpower them.

As always, they were prepared if he tried. The team knew the art of intimidation. They might be old, or at least older than they appeared, but they were masters at warfare. Part of intimidation wasn't just about the weapons you carried but also about your appearance.

Every man wore black tactical trousers and tight-fitting black t-shirts, highlighting the curves and cuts of their well-defined muscles. Trak's hair, always longer on top, was pulled into a tight man-bun, making him look decidedly more dangerous and handsome at the same time.

Ghost, with his infinite cover of tattoos, had his hair longer around his shoulders, his beard long to his chest, tied in several spots, giving the appearance of a pirate. Fitting.

Of the three oldest men, Ian was the one who looked pedestrian. His hair was cut neatly around his neck, his beard trimmed to a perfect angle.

Bull and Whiskey looked as they always had. Solid. Muscled. And pissed off at the world.

"He might shoot first and ask questions later," said Ghost. "Be prepared."

"He would be a fool to do so if we still have the painting. Once it's passed over, he might try something. Just make sure he's aware that he'll go down with us or at least point at the painting."

"I've got an idea," smirked Bull. He disappeared below deck, and the others just shrugged.

"We'll be close enough to the highway that he risks being seen," said Whiskey. "Marcel and the others are back by now. They'll be prepared to leave for Caicos."

"I'm sure we'll get Evie or Savannah to drop us on the island and be waiting for him. The storm should hit within seventy-two hours, so we'll need to get there soon. Is there any shelter on the island?" asked Ghost.

"Nothing," said Whiskey, "but we've been wet before, and we'll be wet again. It's only a tropical storm, not a hurricane. Even if he gets off the island, it's unlikely he'll survive sailing in the storm."

"Let's hope we're right." Bull came back up top and smiled at the others.

"What did you do?" asked Ian.

"Bought an insurance plan," he smiled.

The others just chuckled, knowing that their friend had done something that might save them all. With the sun beginning to hide behind clouds, they realized that the weather might not cooperate in Louisiana, let alone in Caicos.

"Up ahead," said Whiskey. "There's a boat coming right for us. He's damn sure not trying to hide."

The candy apple red cigarette boat was woefully out of place in the bayou. Legally, she shouldn't have been allowed on the waters. Her engines were far too big and could scrape bottom at some point. Obviously, Couvillion didn't give a damn and was all about showmanship.

"I hear you have my painting," he smiled, yelling to the other boat.

"I may," said Trak, stepping out on the deck. Ian and Ghost followed. Couvillion immediately frowned at him.

"You brought back-up," he growled. "I'm an honest man. I just want my painting."

"Then pay me the money, and you can have it," said Trak. Couvillion raised the envelope, opening it slightly for him to see the cash.

"Come and get it. Bring the painting."

Whiskey maneuvered their boat alongside the red speedboat. Trak carefully grabbed the frame of the painting, then stepped over and down into the other vessel. He carefully removed the wrapping, and Couvillion looked giddy with excitement.

"Turn it around," he demanded. Trak wanted to put it over his head but instead turned the painting. "Wonderful. It's in original condition. Leave it."

Trak took the envelope of money, stepping back into the boat. As he did, Couvillion pulled out a weapon, aiming it at the men. That's when Bull stepped forward, his hand raised with something on it.

"What is that?" yelled Couvillion. "What did you do?"

"This is called insurance," smiled Bull. "See, this fishing line is connected to a wonderful explosive device on the back of the painting. If anything happens to me, I tug, and the whole thing goes poof!"

The anger and hatred on the other man's face were evident. He'd been bested, and he didn't even know who these men were. He lowered his weapon and nodded.

"Fine. But I will kill you in the end."

"Not if I kill you first," said Trak. Slowly, Couvillion backed the boat up and began to head toward the Intercoastal Highway. Bull cut the string when he believed that he was far enough away to miss them with gunfire.

"You could have lost a finger doing that," smirked Whiskey.

"It was my middle finger," shrugged Bull. "I only use it for special occasions."

"The tracker on the painting is working," said Ian, staring at his phone. "He's headed toward the city. I'm going to guess once he gets the letter, he'll dispose of the painting. Feeling his hatred, I'm going to guess he'll burn it."

"Let him," said Trak.

"That seems cruel," frowned Bull.

"It's a fake," he smirked. "Ela was able to quickly create a replica of the oil painting with the help of Ellie and Ro. They're all quite good at what they do. We need to remember to involve the women more. Except Lauren. Let's not involve Lauren."

"I'm going to tell your wife you said that," laughed Ghost.

"Then you should sleep with one eye open, my friend."