Page 15 of Critical Mass
Thiscouldn’tbe happening.
“Stay down!” Hudson’s voice cut through the chaos, and suddenly the boat lurched to the side.
Natalie slid across the deck, her hands scrabbling for purchase as a wall of spray soaked her.
More gunshots sliced the air, audible even over the roar of the engine.
Each sharp crack made her flinch.
Something shattered above her head, and glass rained down on her back.
Then another bullet tore through fabric with a sound like ripping paper.
They were shooting at her. People were actually shootingat her.
The boat’s engine screamed, a high-pitched whine that vibrated through the deck beneath her.
Hudson hunched over the throttle to avoid the incoming bullets. He pushed the motor faster, harder, racing into darkness so complete she couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began.
Behind them, she heard shouts—angry voices calling out in words she couldn’t understand.
Then another sound made her blood freeze.
Another engine roared to life.
They were being chased, she realized.
This was far from over, and safety was still out of reach.
She pressed her eyes closed and began praying.
As the chaos continued, Natalie pressed herself flat against the deck. Her hands covered her head, and her body shook so violently she thought she might come apart.
Saltwater mixed with tears on her face, and she couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t think past the primal terror seizing her brain.
Two hours ago she’d been at dinner with her boyfriend.
Now she was lying on a stolen boat driven by a man she thought she knew—but clearly didn’t—while people shot at them, and she didn’t understand any of it.
“Hold on!” Hudson shouted over the wind and engine noise. “Just hold on!”
The boat hit something—a wave, she thought—and suddenly they were airborne.
Her stomach dropped, and for one terrifying moment she was weightless, certain they were going to flip, crash, and then die in the dark water.
They slammed back down with bone-jarring force.
A sound tore through the air—then she realized it had come from her.
Her fingers ached from gripping the wet deck, her nails trying in vain to dig into the slippery fiberglass.
She risked a glance behind them and immediately wished she hadn’t.
Through the spray and darkness, she saw lights. Another boat—bigger and faster—cut through the water.
“They’re gaining on us,” she tried to say, but it came out as a whimper that the wind stole away.
Another gunshot split the air, closer this time.
