Fuck me. Somehow, even in my fall, I’m dragging Miles along for the ride. But what am I going to do? It’s not like I’ve had many opportunities to turn the tables. And Rhett is anything but an asset.
The roar of a boat motor gets everyone’s attention. Castor enters the boathouse and slams his fist on the boat door opener, causing the garage-door-style shutter to lift up, slowly and surely.
A center console boat slips in—the type of open hull boat with the steering console in the middle—and the grumble of the powerful motor fills the atmosphere as it drives down the dock at a steady pace. Castor and his men get up and ready to greet the guy who came to torture us, but I guess this is as good an opportunity as any.
I press my shoulder up to Rhett and run my bandaged forearm down his. “Do you know how to undo cuffs if you had a knife?”
“Yeah,” Rhett replies.
“I have one under the bandages. Pull it out and get this done.”
The thing is wrapped pretty tight around my arm, but it doesn’t take Rhett long to rip it up enough to pry the multitool out. I can’t see a goddamn thing, but I feel him shift around until he has a good angle with the lock. I guess cops know their way around handcuffs—he unclicks it and releases me before the boat has come to a complete stop. Once the engine cuts out, the place gets quiet once again.
I take the multitool from Rhett, remove my blazer, and get to my feet in a crouching position. While the surgeon disembarks, I shuffle behind a pile of boxes and grab a metal crate. Rhett remains still and doesn’t glance over at me. Smart move. At least he won’t inadvertently give away my position.
I throw the metal crate into the water, careful to keep my body concealed by the boxes. The loud splash echoes within the enclosed space, drawing the attention of the thugs.
“The fuck?” one shouts.
“One of them’s gone!”
“Goddamn it,” Castor yells out, his voice barely intelligible through his thick rage. “You two! Get in the water! You three, follow me! We’re searching the shore! You stay with the boat!”
The four thugs exit the boathouse in a hurry, leaving the rest uncertain, but they follow through with commands.
Two men run down to the end of the dock, passing me without seeing. The first one rips off his jacket and jumps in, gun and all. The second one hangs back, delaying the dunk into ice water, and that’s all I need.
I lunge for the guy—not to punch him out, but to grab for his firearm—and I yank it from his hand while I push him over. The guy tries to grab me, and for a second he teeters, but I fire his .45, and the kick sends him sailing into the river with a cascade of blood as his herald. The guy in the water gasps up a mouthful, and I fire twice into the drink, catching him both times, based on the crimson that floats to the surface.
The boat guard fires at me, and I duck behind the boxes. He takes cover behind the boat, but I don’t have time to play around. When he crouches down, I jump over the boxes, leaping down to the dock and dashing toward the surgeon. He’s unarmed and turns to run, but I grab the older man by his thin, wrinkly throat and hold him against me. I like him better as a meat shield.
The boat guard fires wildly, clipping both me and the surgeon across the calf. I fire back, generous with the bullets, shattering part of the hull, but also the guy’s skull in the process.
I shove the surgeon forward and rush over to the dead boat guard. My leg gives out right as I reach my destination. I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath, nor did I notice how fucked-up my calf is. Blood soaks my sock and shoe, and my leg trembles when I attempt to stand.
Three guys burst back into the boathouse. I fire twice, and they leap behind boxes, but my magazine is empty. I drop the clip and scramble for another, searching the corpse I’m half standing on. The surgeon grabs for my gun. I punch the guy in his side, and the old man whimpers out a cry. I guess he hasn’t been in a fight for a while.
Bullets whiz by as I reload my gun. More and more of the boat’s hull disappears, and I fire above it, not even bothering to aim; all I want is for them to keep their distance. I push the surgeon out into the open, and the men shoot at him, filling his old body full of lead. I stand and fire while they kill their own, catching two off guard before I have crouch back into cover.
The last guy runs forward and leaps over the damaged hull. I didn’t see it coming, and he stomps down with his boot to my shoulder, torqueing it good. We both fire, the guns close and my ears screaming with an incessant ring that won’t go away.
The guy falls, coughing up blood. I fire again, in the head, blowing brains across the planks of the dock. I want to gasp and catch my breath, but Castor enters the boathouse fresh and ready to go. Covered in sweat and blood, I hunker down on the other side of the boat, keeping the vehicle between me and him.
I hear nothing. The ringing kills all nuance.
Not knowing where he is frightens me more than all the other guys combined. I glance over my shoulder, and then to the bow of the ship, switching my gaze back and forth with panicked motions. My shoulder throbs with a steady ache. Moving my neck becomes a terrible ordeal.
Silence.
Where is he? Do I risk looking over
