I’d spanked her. Spanked. Her.

The SUV hummed down the road toward the dock as I glared out the window. How did I lose control so fast? One second, I had decided to show her out of my office, the next, she was in my lap grinding on my cock like the perfect little fuck toy.

I clenched my eyes shut to block the vision from my mind, but it only splayed wider on the canvas of my eyelids. Her blue eyes, the swell of her tits, the feel of her hot pussy against me. And then, when I’d laid her across my lap and spanked her until my handprints had reddened her tan skin.

“Fuck.” I slapped my palm on my thigh.

Peter and David knew better than to say a word to me when I was like this. I should have been focusing on the weed shipment and the bloodshed that would happen in under an hour. Instead, all I could think about was how wet she’d been—her panties soaked—as I’d given her the spanking she’d been begging for ever since I’d seen her in the pool.

I’d broken. When she’d taken her top off, my cost/benefit analysis had short circuited. Taking her over my knee seemed the only response. And fuck, I certainly felt a benefit from it. The satisfaction of turning her ass crimson as she called my name and panted—there was nothing else like it. Oh, but the cost. The cost was going to bury me.

I longed for another cigarette as we pulled up to the abandoned dock. All the day workers were long gone, and I had an arrangement with the owner that my evening shipments would not be disturbed.

A gray trawler chugged up the Delaware, its outward appearance giving the look of a simple fishing setup. It carried a much more valuable cargo than simple cod, though. Some of the choicest strains of weed straight from grow operations in California and Colorado were onboard and represented a small fortune in street value. I kept my fingers constantly crossed that Pennsylvania and Jersey never got around to legalizing the stuff. It would wipe out my stoned clientele.

A handful of black SUVs were positioned around the dock, and I had shooters set up on rooftops and hidden in the few buildings along this stretch of river. The operation was simple—back up our 18-wheeler, load it, and kill anyone who tried to interfere.

The trawler edged up to the dock, the familiar captain visible through the windows along the front of the cockpit.

“We’re ready to transfer. Cops have been paid. There won’t be any boys in blue in this area while we’re working.” Peter peered out of the car, sizing up the scene.

“We’ve got lookouts along the highway. They’ll let us know when the Russians show.” David opened the door as the car stopped, and all three of us stepped out and walked onto the weathered dock. Pockmarked pavement turned to splintered wooden decking along the water. The trawler pulled up, and crewmen threw out its lines. My men secured it to the dock and waited for the gangplank to be set.

We worked in the dark, the only light coming from a sliver moon and a dull street lamp at our backs.

Peter kept a line of communication open with our men on the highway, his handset crackling. “Any sign of them?”

The reply came back, “all clear.”

I motioned for the truck to back all the way to the dock. A cool wind whipped past, and the trawler bumped against the graying wood with a mix of hollow and thick thumps. My skin crawled, and Peter shifted from foot to foot next to me, the boards creaking beneath him.

“I don’t like this.” I peered at the water, then turned and checked the road. Nothing. “Where are our comrades?”

My men opened the back of the trailer and lined up on the dock, waiting for the trawler crew to drop the gangway. We’d use sheer manpower to make the transfer of drugs from the boat to the trailer. It took longer, but dicking with a crane would just draw unwanted attention.

“Something’s wrong.” David moved in front of me. “I can feel it.”

“Call it off?” Peter asked. He scanned the waterline where the small waves lapped against the concrete and wood.

“Fuck no.” I pulled my Glock from the holster under my arm. “Just keep your eyes open.”

“What the fuck are they doing on the boat?” David walked farther out onto the dock.

Then I saw it. The captain wasn’t moving. Hadn’t moved at all since the trawler pulled up. Dead.

The Russians were already here.

I rushed forward and gripped David’s shoulder, yanking him back. “They’re on the—”

Gunfire ripped through the night, and three of my men along the docks fell. The Russians emerged from the trawler, swarming like ants with submachine guns. The rest of my men scattered as the shootout began.

David and Peter shoved me down behind a stack of railroad ties, the thick smell of tar the perfect accent to the thick, bloody violence going on around us. Shouts and gunfire peppered the night as I peeked around the wood to get a view of the battlefield.

At least two-dozen men had taken over the trawler, a planned ambush that went off flawlessly. We had no fucking clue. After their initial volley, they hid behind the thick metal rail and around the other side of the ship, only popping up to take well considered shots. Fuck that.

“Should I pull the guys from the highway to come help?” Peter popped up and fired off a shot. One of the Russians stumbled and fell over the railing, his body crunching on the gravelly shore.

“No, I get a feeling they’ll be coming from that way soon. Tell them to be ready with the spikes.”

“Got it.” He spoke my instructions into the radio as I darted out and took out an asshole through the cockpit glass.

David’s beefy hand grabbed my coat and pulled me back behind the ties. “Don’t risk it.”

“This is war.” I sighted around the ties and took another shot, nailing one of the Russians in the arm. “Everyone fights. Even the general.”

My men had taken defensive positions but continued firing back. It was like Whack-A-Mole. What seemed to be a well thought out ambush turned into shooting fish in a barrel. The Russians had nowhere to go. After half a dozen more of them went down, one of them got the bright idea to take off with the ship. But the morons had let us tie them off to the dock as part of the ruse.

The trawlers engine revved and strained to pull away from the dock. It held fast, but the wood creaked and groaned, some of it splintering as the pilot increased the power to escape.

“We can’t let them get away.” I peeked from cover. “There’s only about ten of them left.”

“Don’t.” David shook his head, his eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Lay down covering fire for me.”

Peter loaded a fresh clip. “Fuck that.” He pulled out the radio. “We’re going to rush the ship. If you’ve got balls of steel, join. If you don’t, cover us.” He tossed the radio down and clapped his brother on the back. “Let’s do this.”

“Fuck.” David pulled his backup handgun from his second holster. “This is crazy shit.”

I grinned. “I used to be known for some crazy shit, man. Don’t go all pansy ass on me now.”

The splintering sounds increased, and the trawler began to get a few feet of separation from the dock.

“Pansy ass?” David smiled—the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. “You did crazy shit, huh? Hold my beer.” He rose and darted out from behind cover, both barrels firing as he rushed the ship.

“Holy shit.” A surge of adrenaline powered through me as Peter and I rose and followed, a hail of gunfire sounding all around us as we bet it all on black.