Page 135 of One Last Chance

Or maybe the only plan. He scooped up a rock, held it in his fist.

Just in time, because Dillon the Serial Killer edged into the forest, holding his father’s old rifle like he might be hunting bear.

The man crouched, staring at the leaves and the trail, a regular tracker, then stood up and listened.

Axel hid maybe fifteen feet away, hunkered under brush, his breath tight as Dillon scanned the forest.

Dillon advanced, one step, then two, and then kept going.

Please, God, let me be fast.

Axel flung the rock through the forest, away from him, across the path. Birds scattered and Dillon turned, searching?—

Axel lunged toward him.

He might be his own brand of buffalo, but he was also a panther, and he cleared the forest and tackled Dillon just as the man turned.

Shot.

Missed as Axel wrapped his arms around Dillon, scrambled forward?—

They hit the net and fell.

It was deeper than he’d thought, maybe from years of accumulation, because the water seemed to suck him down—or maybe that was Dillon’s hold on his life vest. But still, they landed in the muck and mud and liquid, and despite the semi-cushioned landing, it blew out Axel’s breath.

He shoved Dillon away, fought for footing, and pushed himself up.

It was ten feet deep, easy, and he was treading slime.

Dillon popped up next to him and Axel turned just as a fist slammed into his head. Ringing, but he shook it away, rounded, and dove for Dillon.

The man was thrashing, trying to get to the sides, but Axel grabbed him back and threw his own punch.

Dillon howled as blood exploded from his nose. He reared back and pushed Axel away.

Axel treaded water, also kicking away. It wasn’t completely viscous. He could tread and kick, although he didn’t want to know what might be decaying in here, the smell rank.

He might not have thought this completely through because, yeah—no exit. At least, not one he could spot. He made the mistake of turning to search, and Dillon grabbed him from behind, an arm around his throat, and pushed him under.

He let himself go, dropping hard, bringing Dillon with him.

Holding onto him at the bottom.

He could hang here all day. Or five minutes—whatever came first.

Dillon punched him, fought to wrench free, and a minute in, Axel let him go.

Surfaced behind him.

Dillon was coughing, hanging on to the side. He stiff-armed Axel. “You’re going to die in here.”

“But the women aren’t, so . . . there’s that.”

Dillon stared at him.

“You should know that I’ve won records for my ability to tread water.”

Dillon swore at him and lunged.

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