Page 117 of Golden Burn

43

Odin

‘moon and back’ - JVKE

By the time I’ve realized what Etta has done, there’s not much left in me. My legs are on fire, my head bruised and most likely concussed, and my heart is shattered knowing she’s hurt and Ford is on the brink of death.

But Cerbera’s choking brings me immense relief. Etta stands above him like a warrior, her forehead sticky with blood, her face composed as she listens to him gurgle.

Martin never lets go, keeping pressure on Cerbera until his eyes are practically bulging out of his head and his body is consumed by paralysis.

He stares Etta down as he reaches his final breath. My wife does not balk. If anything, she’s relishing in the fact that she’s the last thing he sees before death claims him.

“Good riddance,” she mutters as his hollow eyes lose their life.

I take two agonizing steps until I’m standing behind her. My hand reaching for hers.

She jolts at the touch, turning to me in a flash. As soon as she sees me, she bursts into tears. She wraps her arms around my neck like a vice and I relax for the first time in hours, knowing she’s okay.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to you,” I say, kissing her temple, squeezing her tight.

Etta starts to cry again. “It’s not your fault.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” I whisper, kissing her neck, bracing the back of her head with my palm. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” she whispers, her lips soft against my skin.

Ford groans and coughs, alerting us to his fragile position. “Shit,” I mutter as Etta gasps. We release each other and race over.

“I’m so sorry,” she says as she returns to staunching his wounds.

“You’re gonna be alright,” I say, putting every ounce of hope into my words, my hands searching for his injuries and where to apply pressure.

His eyes flutter. His throat bobs as he swallows. “Tell Dom—”

“No. Tell him yourself,” she admonishes. He manages a small smirk before he loses consciousness.

A gunshot muffled by a silencer goes off behind us, making us flinch.

Over our shoulders, Martin is standing near Cerbera’s head, his gun smoking against the cold night. “Double tap,” he shrugs as a way of explaining the lethal shot.

Sirens erupt in the main section of the port. The sound of cars coming to a screeching halt and shouts fills my ears.

“Thank God,” Etta breathes.

“Hands up!” They shout at us as they climb into the boat, their guns trained on us.

Martin steps in front of us and pulls out his DEA badge. “Gentlemen, the ones you need to worry about are dead. Is there an ambulance? We need medical attention.”

Two paramedics stride onto the main cabin deck and head toward Ford. They ask Etta and me questions about his injuries and mine. They get to work, stopping the blood flow, putting an oxygen mask on his face and providing the necessary drugs to keep him alive.

I call Dom and tell him what’s happened.

He races to the dock and finds the carnage left in our wake, the bodies and the ash filled air. His face is gray when he reaches Ford’s side, his eyes full of tears. He pats his husband’s hair, holds his hand, never lets go as they take Ford on a stretcher to the helicopter waiting on the port.

Etta and I stare blankly after him, our hands interlocked.

“He’ll be okay,” Etta says as a way of reassuring me. “He’s too stubborn to die.”

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