Page 139 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

Bella did the unthinkable. She crouched with the gun in her left hand and placed it on the deck. Had she lost her mind? Witt was vibrating with crazy energy—Cole could feel it through the pistol still pressed against his head—and the whacko had the morals of a great white shark. Did she realise what was going to happen? Witt was going to shoot both of them anyway; Cole knew it.

Bella started to rise.

Cole felt rather than saw Witt’s grin.

And he realised there was only one chance left. One chance for him to save Bella’s life.

He tipped backward over the deck rail, grabbing Witt’s wrist in a desperate grasp as he fell. The pistol fired harmlessly into the air once, twice, and the last thing Cole saw before he hit the water was Bella leaning over the side of the boat with a weird-looking pistol in her hand. What the hell? Where did she get that?

Cole sank deeper.

Deeper.

Witt wrapped an arm around Cole’s neck and legs around his waist, hitching a deadly piggyback ride as they headed into the abyss.

The water got colder as they fell through a thermocline. Darker.

Cole’s vision began to blur.

Blue turned to black.

This was the end, but at least Bella was safe. She’d live to fight another day, quite literally.

As Cole closed his eyes for the last time, a shadow shot out of the gloom.

He glimpsed a row of jagged teeth, and then he saw darkness.

CHAPTER 49

JEZEBEL

You have to be fucking kidding me.

Cole had a real problem with female authority, didn’t he? Or maybe with authority in general because he hadn’t struck me as particularly sexist. Whatever, he’d decided to “help,” and now we were screwed again.

Witt truly was a gigantic asshole.

And a shitty liar.

“Just put the gun on the deck,” he said.

“You promise you won’t shoot us?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

His eyes had a weird gleam, and he both looked and sounded crazy. Money could send a man mad. And madness could make a man sloppy. I bent to put down the rifle, my right hand reaching for the pistol tucked into the back of my bikini bottoms. After I ascertained Dr. Blaylock was still alive, I’d retrieved it—and my lucky dollar—from the cabin I shared with Cole, and I’d made damn sure there was a round in the chamber. Witt was so focused on the AR-15 that he didn’t notice anything untoward.

At home, all members of the Choir practised pointshooting on a regular basis. In close-quarters combat, where half a second could mean the difference between life and death, there was no time to line up the sights, so we often shot from the hip and relied on instincts honed through years of experience.

As I rose, I whipped out the pistol, aimed for Witt’s head, and fired in a heartbeat.

Except Witt’s head wasn’t there anymore.

No, his head and the rest of him was falling over the edge of the boat behind Cole. Fuck my fucking life.

I dove into the water after them, the gun in my hand. I had a shot, but Cole hated it when I shot people. He especially hated it when I shot people in front of him. So I kicked after them, growling in frustration when Witt wrapped an arm around Cole’s neck, and not in a fun way.

Now I didn’t have a shot, but I did have a job that was far more difficult than it needed to be. Cole’s eyes began closing, and I was ready to claw Witt’s face off when I saw teeth.

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