Page 3 of Sink or Swim

I vowed never to get involved in the shit, just like I won’t deal in heroin, cocaine, or anything harder than marijuana. I might be working as a gopher in the mafia, but I have my limits. I have ethics, and I’ll stick to them until I die.

I left the briefcase on the docks and took off into the night. And when three of our guys realized what happened and tried to salvage the situation, a patrol picked them up, along with the briefcase full of Stim.

Last night’s split decision to drop the briefcase and run probably just cost me my life, but I wouldn’t—couldn’t—keep working for people who did what the Mackenzie Brothers did. I might not always say my prayers or go to church on Sundays like my grandma wanted me to, but I’m not about to damn my own soul just to keep myself from living on the street.

“I looked in the briefcase,” I sigh. Somehow, just saying it out loud feels like dropping a baby grand piano from my shoulders. I’m relieved, though I shouldn’t be. No, I should be on my hands and knees, begging this man to forgive me for breaking one of the cardinal rules of the family. Don’t get curious. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.

Luther walks around the desk and stands directly behind me. I don’t turn around. “You looked inside the briefcase. And I take it you didn’t like what you found?”

I don’t hesitate before saying, “No, sir. Stim is a terrible drug that ruins countless lives, including my mother’s. I can’t in good conscience deal in it.”

Hurting other criminals like myself? Fine. We knew what we were getting into. Dealing marijuana. Yeah, whatever. It’s going to be legalized soon anyways, so that’s not going to be an issue for much longer. The gambling hells, the strip clubs? I like gambling hells. I love strip clubs.

“So, you dropped it and ran because what you saw, what you weren’t supposed to see, went against your personal moral code.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t say anything. Instead, he walks to the door and cracks it open to mutter something to someone outside. Three burly bodyguards, including Maurice, come in and grab me by my shoulders. I don’t resist. There’s no point. As they drag me down the hallway, I see the flicker of regret in Maurice’s dark eyes. Then he looks away, setting his jaw.

I hang my head as they drag me outside and toss me into the backseat of the black Rolls Royce waiting across the street.

OONA

There’s a boat in my lagoon.

Why there is a boat in my lagoon, I do not know, and frankly, I do not care. What I do know is that I need to make it leave, because when the boats come, they bring trouble with them. Humans, for instance. Humans are always bad news. They smell awful, taste even worse, and throw things into the water that make the fish bitter and metallic.

In short, I hate them. And they need to go.

Quiet as I can be, I wade into the water and approach the underside of the boat.. It’s a small thing, with a tiny engine that purrs like a kitten, and judging from the handful of voices, only a few humans as occupants on board.

It doesn’t matter how many there are, though, because I can eviscerate them all within a matter of seconds—so long as they didn’t bring their guns that roar and pop and make my eardrums hurt.

When a husky, deep voice speaks, I don’t understand a single word out of his mouth. The humans and I don’t share a language, which is also fine, because I don’t actually care what they’re saying. Over the years, I’ve picked up a few words here and there, but not enough to string a sentence together. Not even enough for small talk.

There’s a shout, some crying, and then a splash. I blink when something thrashes about in the water. A couple of nearby gators, much smaller than yesterday’s meal, slither through the water, no doubt curious and eager to enjoy a nibble.

But when I stride through the water toward the wriggling dark mass, they turn tail and flee. They know better than to tangle with me. I stare at the struggling creature in the water, keeping a healthy distance from it should it become dangerous. Then the boat on the surface purrs to life again and jets off, leaving only a bubbly wake behind.

Through the murky water, I make out the pale shine of skin, and a small mouth that opens in a scream.

Oh, buddy, that’s not going to work.

Knowing what I know about humans, which honestly isn’t a lot, I know that this one probably has only a minute before it’s lights out. No gills. That’s unfortunate. The whites of their eyes are clearly visible to me now as I draw nearer, and when they jerk their head, they finally see me.

Terror fills their dark pupils as they try to writhe away from my grip. They can’t swim? I look down at their legs and see they’re tied up with rope. No, they’ve just been bound. Grabbing hold of them by their middle, I kick off the muddy lagoon bottom and surge to the surface. We break through the water, and the human inhales sharply before choking on the water.

“You don’t want to swallow any of it, trust me,” I hiss.

The way they scream in my earhole reminds me that they can’t understand a word I’m saying. Frustrating, as well as inconvenient. The boat is long gone, so there’s no way I can return this thing to sender. Great. I can’t just leave them, either. I could drop them and leave them for the gators to handle, but something tugs at my heart as I stare into their terror-stricken face.

Empathy. Ugh. Gross.

When we finally reach the beach after an eternity of splashing and sputtering, they try to wriggle out of my arms and make a break for it. I grasp them tighter against my chest and hiss again.

“Stop it,” I warn. “No. Bad human! Bad. You’re going to get yourself hurt. Relax.”

But they’re not relaxing. If anything, they’re getting so wound up their breathing is becoming more erratic, and I’m afraid they’re on the verge of a panic attack. I set them down on the lagoon bank and wipe some of the mud off their forehead.

“There. You aren’t hurt, are you?” I ask.

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