Sonuva—
Tyler rolled behind a tree and heard another object strike the trunk behind him.
What the hell?
A throwing knife.
Possessing no knife-tossing talent of his own, he refrained a moment from removing the weapon. Peering around the tree, he spotted a small figure tucked behind another trunk, fifteen feet from where he stood.
Even in the dim light, he recognized the outfit.
The housekeeper.
It had to be.
The sun took its last gasping breath and dipped below the horizon. Tyler slid his night vision monocular from his belt and scanned the trees.
The housekeeper had disappeared again.
Is she some kind of knife-throwing ghost?
Tyler pulled his silenced .22 Ruger from his waistline. Even silenced it would be loud enough to catch the attention of the big guy at the front door, but dropping the housekeeper would buy him time to paddleboard the hell out. If he could paddle with the wound, which, if he took the knife out, would probably leave him bleeding like a stuck pig.
I’d leave a trail. They’d know I came by water so I couldn’t do it again...maybe I should make a false trail...
Tyler caught a flash of movement in the trees. A crop of goosebumps ran along his arm.
This bitch is crazy...
He crouched, leveling his gun at what he felt certain was a knee poking from behind a tree.
He didn’t want to waste noise on such an uncertain shot, but—
“Beatriz?”
The voice came from Tyler’s left.
Shit. More of them.
He flicked his attention in that direction. The goateed man who’d confronted him earlier appeared at the forest’s edge, backlit by the glow of the hotel’s porch lights.
The woman spoke, her voice closer than Tyler ever imagined she could be.
“William, take cover—”
Tyler’s attention returned to the tree he’d been watching. The housekeeper bounced from her cover, three trees closer to him.
It’s now or never.
He squeezed his trigger.
The woman yelped and dropped.
Gunfire popped to his left and Tyler rolled behind his tree, putting it between him and the man.
Great. This one has a gun.
The big guy would no doubt join in soon. They’d made enough noise to wake the whole neighborhood.
Tyler glanced in the direction of the water.
I have to make it to the paddleboard.
He could be half way down the river before the blond with the gun figured him out.
Tyler glanced at the still body of the housekeeper, feeling confident he’d hit her in the chest, solid.
This was his chance.
Run.
Tyler sent a smattering of shots in William’s direction and bolted for the water. Crashing through the tangle of underbrush like a panicked deer, he ignored the sting of the thorny weeds tearing at his legs. He stumbled. Something tightened around his ankle. It felt as though someone had lassoed his feet.
No—
Falling like a felled tree, he jerked his leg against the restraint and felt it snap...
Not a rope.
The vine tore away in time for him to find his feet. He was moving again.
He spotted the blue paddleboard as another pop of gunfire exploded behind him.
Too late, sucker—
Something struck his neck.
Tyler stopped. He raised his hand, fingers crawling across his collarbone.
Oh.
He inhaled. Air stuck in his throat. He tried again. Something bubbled and coughed like a coffee maker at the end of its brew cycle.
I’m drowning.
Tyler looked at the paddleboard, surprised to find he hadn’t fallen in the water beside it.
But the water...?
His fingers felt a familiar shape protruding from his throat.
Metal.
He turned and shot as he fell to one knee.
Tyler jerked the knife from his throat. He gulped air.
Heaven.
Feeling renewed, he took another breath.
Nothing.
He was drowning again.
Tyler poked at his wound in his throat. He tried to stretch it open, searching for a way to clear his pipe for air.
Darkness bled from the edges of his eyes, closing in. He reached for the silver throwing knife on the ground in front of him.
Maybe I can cut a new hole—
The darkness closed in. The knife disappeared.
Blind, his fingers scrabbled across the earth, searching for the blade.
His face hit the mud.
&&&
Chapter Forty-Six
“Get back!”
Mason wrestled Shee from Martisha’s front step as she struggled against him. She gripped the handrail.
“She shot herself!”
Mason eased but refused to release her. “What?”
She pushed him to arm’s length, panting. “Martisha shot herself. No one’s shooting at us.”
“You saw?”
She nodded and pointed to the window where she’d been standing. Mason climbed the stairs and peered through. Shee slipped her hand past him to try the knob.
It turned. She pushed the door wide.
“Judas Priest,” muttered Mason, his gaze rising to the mess of blood and grey matter on the ceiling above the woman on the sofa.
“Get inside before the neighbors see,” said Shee, entering. He followed and she shut the door.
“Give me a second to clear the house,” said Mason.
He moved from room to room as Shee walked to the back of the sofa, ignoring his orders. If someone was in the house, she figured the gunshot would have brought them running.
The ragged-edged hole in the top of Martisha’s skull left little room for interpretation.
“Definitely dead,” she said as Mason returned.
He grimaced. “Hard to miss at that range.”
Shee put her hand on her hips, her gaze sweeping the small cottage. The air smelled stale, as if the house had been sealed for some time. A thick coat of dust covered every surface.
“There’s got to be something here. Something she came back for.”
Mason nodded to Martisha. “I think we’re looking at what she came back for.”
Shee wandered into the bedroom, finding it cramped with oversized furniture. Draping a shirt over
