Page 34 of Ship Outta Luck

Speed is our only option at this point.

“Give me the keys!” June shouts, kicking her heels into my lower back. “I only have one round left. You’ll have to hold them off.”

“Like hell!” The smell of barbecued skin fills my nose, my skin burning against the barrel.

“I have to untie the boat.” She kicks me again, and I barely feel it. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

“Fuck that.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” The shotgun barks again, impossibly loud in my ear, and she lets out a surprised, “Oh.”

I felt her say it, the way her body collapsed, the air forced out of her lungs, the soft breath against my aching neck.

“Shit.” I take the steps down to the dock four at a time. Lungs aching, legs screaming. I ignore it.

But I can’t ignore the warm, wet gush of fluid soaking my back.

The dock groans as I pound to the boat, shots pinging around us.

“Hang on, June. Hang in there.”

My arm feels limp, but there’s no time to think.

Clearing the space between the dock and the boat in one huge leap, I wobble as we land. June clings to me, eyes wide and dark, her face ashen.

“It’s gonna be okay, June. We have to get out of here. Hold pressure on it.”

She starts thrashing against me, but I don’t let her go. The boat is clean, empty save for scuba gear and a few fishing rods on the deck. There’s a tackle box near the steering wheel. I jam the keys in the ignition and the boat roars to life.

“We’re tethered,” June yells, staring at me, a strange expression on her face, pointing to the ropes tied to the wooden dock.

“I don’t give a fuck,” I yell back over the roar of the engine.

Out of habit, I look back, lowering the motor into the water. Five men race down the stairs from June’s bungalow as the triple engines roar, kicking up water and debris.

The men land on the dock and I gun it, shoving the throttle. Diesel fumes fill the air.

The boat gives a mighty heave, straining once, twice, before my stupid plan works. The wood, corroded from the salt air and seawater, rips apart and the dock violently disintegrates. Shots go wide, the Russians firing wildly as they splash down in the canal.

A bullet whizzes by us, embedding itself in the fiberglass seating.

“Guns don’t work as well underwater,” I snarl.

“You owe me a new dock, ex-Marine Dean.” June’s arms and legs shake uncontrollably in my arms. “And you better be good toBetty.” Her teeth are chattering.

She doesn’t let go, and neither do I.

“Who werethey? Are they after the wreck too? What the hell is going on?” Her questions barely make it through the ringing in my ears. And when I look at her, her expression is strained, her face ashen and drawn.

“Smugglers. Russian smugglers. Drugs, weapons, you name it.” Pain blossoms across my torso as the speedometer ticks past fifty.

“Russian smugglers,” she repeats. Her gaze goes vacant.

Shock. She’s going into shock. Gripping her side, I look for the bullet’s entry wound.

“This is a no wake zone,” she offers with a thin smile.

I follow her gaze to the sign, and the massive wave trailing us in the canal, part of the dock surfing on it. She tips her head back in laughter and I crack a smile, shaking my head in spite of the worry.

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