He calls me a crazy motherfucker a half dozen times as we motor in as close to the island as we can get without drawing attention. I turn off the engine, and we paddle the rest of the way. I untie him so he can help, but keep the gun close at hand.
Once we’re close enough for me to swim to the beach, I take off my shirt and cut it into a few long strips. Opening the red plastic gas tank, I shove one end of the strips inside and pull them out when they’re soaked. I loosen the hose leading to the engine and tie the end around it, before reaching into the compartment below the helm and pulling out the dry bag with the lighter and the cigarettes.
He shakes his head at what I’m doing. “You’re gonna kill me. No way that thing doesn’t explode before I get there.”
“It’ll take a minute for the flame to work its way up the fabric to the hose, and for the gas inside the hose to ignite.” I’m mostly sure about that. This isn’t rocket science. “All you have to do is point the boat at the beach, make sure the throttle is tied down, and dive off before it gets there. The gas will do the rest.”
At least, I really fucking hope so. It’s been a while since I rigged explosives, and it was never my best skill.
“If I get dead, I’m gonna haunt your ass.”
“You don’t go through with the plan, and I’m going to hunt you down—”
“And make me wish I’m dead before you kill me. Got it.”
I flick the lighter and nothing happens.
Fuck. This whole diversion rests on a shitty lighter that might not work.
“Give it to me.”
I hand it over to him, and he shakes it and smacks it against the side before trying again.
Flame. Thank God.
I tuck the gun into the dry bag and seal it up before tying it to my shorts. The knife goes in my cargo pocket.
My heartbeat slows, just like it would before I’d rappel down the ropes from a chopper.
I got this. This is what I do. This is in my blood. This is who I fucking am.
No one takes my wife from me.
I grab the lighter from him and ignite the hem of the gas-soaked shirt. It catches immediately, and I slip over the edge.
“You better fucking go.”
He gives me a nod. “Good luck.”
That’s when we hear a gunshot and the screams.
Chapter 33
Kat
Someone screams uncontrollably, and until Vander stomps across the room and grabs me by the hair, I don’t realize it’s me.
“Shut the fuck up. You want to scream? I can give you a reason to scream.”
He drags me out of the one-room hut onto a sandy beach, pausing when the sound of an engine comes roaring out of the distance. Anton is nowhere in sight.
“What the fuck?”
The vessel flies toward us, and a man tumbles over the side. Vander shoves me to the ground before it hits the shore with a crack. For a moment, the motor continues running, digging into the sand.
Vander rises to a crouch, taking a step toward the shore, and then all hell breaks loose.
The boat explodes, sending flames streaking into the sky and fiberglass pieces flying everywhere. I huddle into a ball on the beach as Vander takes a chunk of something to the head, knocking him to his knees again.
And then the impossible happens. I hear Dane’s voice.
“Kat!”
I turn and see him running toward me, wearing no shirt, his face bruised.
As soon as I have my wits, I spring to my feet and race toward him, only to be stopped mid-dash by the percussion of gunshots and sand flying around my feet.
“Take another step, and the next one is in your kneecap,” Vander says.
Dane’s reaching behind his back when Anton appears from the darkness, a wooden club in hand.
“Watch out!” I scream.
Dane swings to the side, and the blow glances off his head instead of hitting him straight on. Anton moves to swing again, but Dane tackles him to the ground.
Vander’s hand tangles in my hair, jerking me back against his body. The hot barrel of the gun presses into my temple as Dane lands blow after blow on Anton’s face.
“You want to watch her die, Cross?”
Dane sits up, Anton pinned beneath him, but his attention turns to me.
“I will shoot her in the fucking head.”
“Let her go.”
Vander laughs, sounding like a deranged movie villain. “Not a fucking chance.”
“I will kill you.”
“Not before I kill her. Put your hands up. Now.”
When Dane hesitates, Vander digs the barrel of the gun into my head. “I’m not fucking around, Cross. I will pull this fucking trigger, and I’ll still get paid. Do not push me.”
“Who’s paying you?”
“Doesn’t fucking matter anymore, because instead of sending you alive, I’ll just send your head. I’ll take a hit, but it’ll still be a fat payday.”
Something flashes over Dane’s face too quickly for me to interpret. Who the hell would pay him?
“Bonitez,” Dane says, tossing out a name I’ve never heard.
Vander laughs again. “Try again.”
“Vargas.”
“And on the second try, we have a winner.”
This name doesn’t mean anything to me either, but from the way Dane stiffens, it obviously does to him.
“Now put your fucking hands up.”
Dane moves like he’s about to comply, but instead his hands go behind his back. He pulls a gun and squeezes the trigger.
Click.
Vander yanks the gun away from my head and throws me to the ground before firing at him.
As I roll in the sand, I see Dane’s body jerk back with the impact, and I scream.
“Should’ve checked your gun first. A year out of the field, and you’re a fucking amateur again.”
My ears are ringing from the shot, but Vander snatches me by the hair before I can bolt toward my husband.
“Get him up. On his fucking knees.”
Anton wrenches Dane up into a kneeling position. Blood smears his upper arm, but I can’t tell where the wound is.
Once again, Vander presses the barrel into my temple.
Tears track down my face as Dane’s dark gaze meets mine. There’s no pain. No fear. Just . . . regret.
And then it becomes something else—rage. His eyes burn with it.