I attempt to scoot around, but I stagger and hit the edge of the dock, nearly falling into the river. I’m in no condition to run or jump. I could play a round of quick draw, but everything else will be in Castor’s favor. I have to spot him first.
“He’s getting into the boat!” Rhett yells.
I don’t dwell on the statement. I pull down on the edge of the boat and heft myself over the ledge, allowing the rocking to aid me. Castor fires and stumbles, but he isn’t looking at me—he shoots at Rhett, no doubt having forgotten the other man existed until he opened his mouth. I lift my gun to fire, but Castor whips around, catching my arm.
Again, the boat rocks with our movements. When he steps forward, I reach for his gun arm, and we become locked in an odd dance to disarm each other. The man trips me with ease, but I maintain my hold and we both hit the deck of the ship, tumbling around the sodden grip carpeting. I knee him in the gut and he drops his handgun, but he stomps down into my bruised midsection, weakening me.
We roll again, and Castor pulls a knife—a seven-inch black carbon steel blade that looks sharp enough to slice a piece of hair down the middle. Unable to fire my gun, I drop it in favor of controlling Castor’s arm. He gets on top of me, his skill at grappling far exceeding my own. With gravity on his side, he thrusts down, attempting to slice open my neck. I hold him back with both arms, but it’s a struggle given my shoulder.
He presses harder and harder, his intense gaze so focused on mine it’s hard not to stare back, and I know he wants me dead. I’ll lose if I keep this up.
I spit in his face, right across the eyes. When Castor flinches, I kick up with the rock of the boat and get on top of him, reversing our positions. Grabbing the hilt of his blade over his hand, I push down, angling the thing to cut him. He thrashes up, his elbow clipping the left side of my face, and the contact lens in my eye jams back past the eyelid, cutting something along the way.
Bloody tears weep from my injured eye, but I double down, knowing I have to get him here or else I’ll lose later.
Pressing my full weight on the blade, I drive it down on his throat, slow and steady. His skin and muscles offer little resistance against the edge of the blade, and the moment I cut through, blood gushes over the handle, getting everything slick. Despite me cutting into him—despite hearing him choke on his own fucking blood—he continues to fight me, his struggle becoming ever more intense.
Castor lifts up and elbows me again, my eye socket bruised and my eyebrow cut open. Why won’t this fucker just die? I pump down with my body, like I’m giving CPR, and plunge the knife deeper. The next ten seconds play out as though neither of us moves, but the strain is real. Finally his strength fails, and I feel the life leave him as the cold sets in.
I stand, leaving the knife, and stumble back, shaken. I’ve fought lots of thugs before, but no encounter was quite so fervent. I pick up my gun and limp to the side of the boat. I disembark with the grace of a drunkard, half falling into a stack of boxes.
I chuckle to myself. Nothing lifts my spirits like fighting to the death and coming out on top. I’m a goddamn animal—that’s eight men dead. Well, I didn’t kill the surgeon, but still. Eight motherfuckers thought they could do me in. I didn’t run as Big Man Vice’s top enforcer because of my good looks, and I guess they all learned that lesson the hard way.
Rhett goes to stand, though it’s awkward given his arms are trapped behind his back. I point my handgun at him. He freezes midway, his eyes narrowing with realization. He gets back down on his knees as I hobble over.
He regards me with a look of uncertainty. I continue until I’m a foot away, my gun half-cocked but not pointing straight at him. I have all the power, and he knows it, but the man has a spine of steel. He glares up at me, one eye black and blue, with dried blood stuck to the side of face and neck.
Rhett doesn’t quaver or shake when I bring the handgun up. The intensity in his gaze tells me he’s ready for anything, even death.
He’s been a thorn in my side since we met, and he wants to lock me up for the rest of my life. It would be easy—so easy—to shoot him here and have the Worldwide Decurion people take the blame. No one would know. There aren’t any witnesses, and I could make my getaway before anyone tracked me down. Simple stuff.
But….
I exhale and lower my gun.
“You don’t want to die here, I take it?” I ask him, more amusing thoughts crossing my mind now that I’ve decided I won’t kill him. No reason I can’t fuck with him.
Rhett hesitates for a moment. “What’re you saying?”
I smirk. “Well, you like men, don’t ya? That’ll make what comes next real easy for you.”
His resolve flickers for a moment as my words settle over him. He regains himself and shifts his gaze to the floor, glaring at the wood planks that creak with the water.
“Don’t get shy, Princess. All I’m asking is for a run of your pretty mouth. That’s fair, right? Your life’s worth that much, at least?”
“You’re a sick bastard,” he forces out, no longer able to meet my gaze.
I can practically see his internal struggle, and I get an
