Page 87 of Ship Outta Luck

My eyes snag on the propane tank next to the fire, Dean continuing to propel me to the water. Ahead of us, Thompson and Thorne are already to their boat, Thorne pulling up the anchor as Thompson clears the ladder.

The ATVs roar now, the first coming into view on the clear, starlit night. Two hundred yards away. A hundred and fifty. Shit. We’ll never make it.

“We have to go.” Dean pulls me hard, and the salty surf kisses my bare feet. My flip-flops must have come off at some point.

“June?” Dean tugs me towards the shoreline, and I half jog after him. My hands shake on a rifle I don’t remember grabbing. By the fire, the amberjack lure sparkles prettily where we left it.

“Get to the boat,” Thompson roars from the sandbar, his pack slung across his back, a rifle in his hands. A wave slaps into his hips, and I’ve never wished more that this stretch of beach was easier to park a damned boat on.

I glance back at the lure, and it hits me.

“I know where the wreck is,” I whisper, my eyes wide.

“I know you do.” It’s full of his signature cockiness. That’s how sure he is of me.

We walk into the water, bathwater warm and pitch black. I’ve done plenty of night dives, but I don’t love the idea of stepping on a pissed off sting ray at the moment.

Or getting shot.

Neither seem like a great plan.

Deeper now, Dean keeps a hand on my backpack, half towing me along in his wake as he powers through the water.

Thorne or Thompson open fire from their boat, and everything dissolves into chaos.

The unmistakable sound of bullets rip through the night, shouts of “Don’t shoot the woman!” follow, along with Russian that bounces right off me.

A fleeting moment of gratitude passes through me for the foresight of buying black backpacks. Hopefully we’ll be harder to aim at, impossible to see in the pitch dark.

Aim at.

That’s it.

My mind flashes back to the shore, to the embers of the fire. The meal cooked on the propane burner.

“I have an idea,” I gasp out, rewarded with a mouthful of saltwater.

Dean is silent, an underwater missile. He’d put Michael Phelps to shame. But Michael Phelps has never been under the gun quite like this.

I choke out a little laugh, gasping for air, and kick out, finally urged into a maximum effort swim. The current tugs at the rifle strap along my back, and this is not my idea of a fun workout.

If only my stupid watch had battery to see me now, it would probably be shocked by my cardio output.

My lungs burn, crying out for air, and I swing my head to the side, spending a precious second to look over my shoulder. The men are on the beach now, four ATVs parked around the dying campfire, flanking the white propane tank. A group peels off shirts and boots and swim after us.

Not great.

I kick harder, my quads and shoulders burning with the extended effort. Swimming with a pack in the dark with this current is absolute insanity.

I am not going to die. I will not let them take me.

Not again, not now. Not ever.

My knees hit the sandbar. Salt stings my eyes and I stand, the laden, soaked backpack and rifle threatening to topple me over backwards.

“Fuck.”

The men in the water are closing in. Panic grips me.

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