They were on the tram beneath Nice, headed east towards the Port—just like their first day in Nice together.
All this trouble with Eeva, the French thugs, and the Russian brothers started on a tram ride just like this—to the Port and back—where Eeva first recruited them for help against the French thugs following her.
Recruited was the operative word.
Cal was now a soldier in Eeva's personal war against the Russian brothers. And, at this point, he'd volunteered for duty. He could walk away at any moment, but—even if the tram ride was the same—Cal recognized that he had changed. No more moping. No more sitting around and waiting for an invitation to act. He was going to keep Eeva alive, even if she didn't want him to. In her own way, she had saved him, and he wasn't going to walk away when he had the chance to return that gift.
He didn't have a plan, exactly, but he had Frank. And that counted for something.
Wait, was he fucking sleeping?
Cal fumed at his best buddy across the aisle of the tram. Frank sat sideways on the two seats with his shoulders and head casually leaning against the window behind him. His eyes were closed.
"What's the plan, Frank?" Cal asked with urgency.
Frank opened one eye to meet his gaze.
"You're asking me? I'm following you."
It was up to Cal, then, and he didn't have much time to think about a plan. The tram plunged out of the tunnel and into the sunshine beside the port and, moments later, Cal and Frank were off the tram and descending the few steps down to the port. Cal stormed through a crowd of seagulls and sent them squawking into the crystal blue sky. It was another beautiful day in paradise, with salt heavy on the sea breeze and a circus of boats bobbing like toys in the marina. Here was hoping it wouldn't be his last.
The ass-end of the Kosatka was ahead of them alongside the seawall dock and its heavy diesel engines were already churning the water slowly, ready to depart. There didn't appear to be anyone deckside on the yacht, and its windows were mirrored reflections of the Niçoise skyline.
Hoodie and Goggles were standing guard along the pier.
Cal steamed towards them like a train, and they moved to intercept him, yelling in French as they did. Goggles closed the distance first and glared up at Cal through his magnifying-lens glasses, his eyes dark and buggy.
Cal shoved him hard at the shoulders and the weird, little man stumbled on his feet and went over the edge with a tremendous splash.
Fuck him.
Hoodie was right there, next, and grabbed Cal by the shoulders. The younger Frenchman was strong, but Cal was stronger. Year after year, he hadn't put in those hours in the team weightroom for nothing. Perks of being a coach. He and Hoodie struggled against each other at the edge of the dock, and Cal laughed internally that Europeans were so fucking skinny.
"Eat a goddamn burger, sometime, you fucking French waif!" Cal yelled and then, with a twist of his body, he sent Hoodie flailing over the edge after his friend.
Fuck him, too.
Frank caught up to him two steps later.
"Why are you yelling about food?" he asked innocently.
He then looked over the edge of the dock at the splashing and cursing coming from below. Goggles peeked his head above the seawall clinging to a ladder built into the wall, his face and eyeglasses matted with wet hair. Frank casually stepped over and yanked his glasses off by the elastic strap around his head, pushed his face, and plopped him back into the drink.
Hoodie was next up the ladder, but Frank greeted him with the barrel of his silver SIG Sauer pistol. Hoodie's eyes went wide. Frank made a no-no-no gesture, waggling the pistol back and forth. Hoodie took the hint and kicked off from the ladder, content to tread water rather than eat lead.
Cal would have laughed, but he was focused on how to board the yacht and then what to do after they did.
There was an open space at the rear of the Kosatka filled with lounging sofas for entertaining, and it was near level with the dock. It was unguarded and looked like a great entry point onto, and inside, the Kosatka. The problem was the absence of a gangplank and the six-foot gap between the dock and the deck. It wasn't a large gap, but they weren't young men and there was no room for error.
"We have to jump."
Frank nodded and said, "Together then."
They backed up on the dock to get a running start and then charged the edge.
"Wait!" Frank cried and pulled Cal to a halt, their momentum almost sending them over the edge and into the water.
"Goddamn it, what?"
"I just need a moment," Frank said and his face was white as he stared at the greenish sea beneath them and the yacht looming above.
There wasn't time for this. Frank's water phobia would have to wait.
"How did you grow up in Florida and never learn to swim?!"
"I can swim!" Frank countered, his hands still unconsciously gripping Cal's arm in terror.
"No, you fucking can't and you prove it every time you try!"
Frank appeared at a loss for words; frozen. Cal shook his head. Frank was certainly an ass sometimes, and like an ass, you couldn't get it moving with force. He tried a different approach.
"Frank," he said and locked eyes. "You've done shit that I can't even imagine in your career. And you did it—not for money, not for glory—but to protect the American people and to give hell to our enemies. Buddy, I need you. You've got this!"
Frank pursed his lips, looked far away, and nodded.
"Don't tell Lil' I hesitated," Frank said and Cal barked a laugh, but nodded.
They backed up and then ran towards the edge with the speed of two old dogs who'd forgotten their age, howling with joy as they did.