Free Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six) by Julie Ann Walker Page B

scattered in the corner like so much confetti. Same could be said for the marine radio.
    “So this is happenin’,” Maddy had whispered, staring in disbelief at the destruction and finally understanding why the guy with the Southern accent had stayed behind in the cottage for a while after the others had marched her, Rick, and the girls back to the beach.
    Which left her the task of taking care of their second order of business: cleaning and dressing Bran’s wound so they could all get back out there and rescue the girls.
    The girls…
    Donna, Louisa, Sally Mae…
    Their names were on a loop inside Maddy’s head. And every second that ticked by increased her desperation tenfold. Not to mention her self-reproach…
    If only she hadn’t used the teens as an excuse to see Bran again, those three sweet girls would be home studying. But just like she’d been doing since she was old enough to climb onto the back of the sofa with a pillowcase tied around her neck cape-style, she’d leaped before she looked, plunging headlong into this let’s-go-camping-on-the-Dry-Tortugas-in-celebration-of-your-scholarships scheme.
    Although, in her own defense, even if she had looked first, there’s no way she could have foreseen this…this…whatever the devil-lovin’ hell this was.
    “Where exactly?” she demanded again, down on her hands and knees beside Rick’s twin bed with its wooden frame and red, white, and blue quilt. The only things she saw were sand and what, upon second glance, turned out to be a dusty stack of girlie magazines.
    “Maddy, just grab that dish towel hanging on the refrigerator and the roll of duct tape on the table,” Bran called to her from his spot by the little window on the side of the cottage.
    He and Mason were keeping eyes on the entrance to the fort. Since it was the only way in and out of the structure, Maddy knew there was no way the masked men could spirit the girls onto their dinghy or their fishing boat without Bran and Mason seeing and stopping them. That should have had a calming effect on the boatloads of adrenaline coursing through her veins.
    It didn’t.
    She was wound tighter than a fiddle string.
    Taking a quick glance at the dish towel in question, she curled her lip. Like most young twentysomethings, Rick didn’t appear to be too keen on laundry. The towel was stained with something brown and crusty.
    “You!” She pushed up on her knees, pointing a finger at Bran and using one of the magazines to swat at the mosquito that landed on her thigh. “Zip it! I don’t want to hear any of that tough-guy, don’t-cry crap from you. And you!” She turned to point at Rick. “ Where is the first aid kit? There’s nothin’ down here but a layer of sand and…” She held up the magazine so she could read the title in the low glow of the single bulb hanging from the center of the room. “Old copies of Jugs .”
    “Th-those aren’t mine,” Rick stuttered, his ears doing their Fourth of July thing again.
    Any other time, she would have reveled in teasing him, just as she’d done when she was thirteen and caught her oldest brother with a Playboy centerfold tucked between his mattress and box springs. But right now all she cared about was seeing to Bran’s leaking leg. “First. Aid. Kit.” She enunciated each word with precision.
    “F-far back corner by the footboard,” Rick said.
    She made a face that said, Now, was that so hard? before turning to scrounge under the bed again. “Aha!” she crowed when she found the red and white case just where Rick had said it would be.
    When she spun around, it was to discover Bran’s eyes zeroed in on her ass. She might have been embarrassed, or even insulted, but she was fully aware her rear end tended to draw scrutiny. Probably because it was, in the most genial of terms, ample. She hated it. Especially since she didn’t have the boobs to match.
    But what’s a girl goin’ to do?
    Get the guy with the gun back on track, she assured