Chapter Twenty-One
Harley
Everything happened in slow motion.
Harley watched her fingers curling around the heavy rock in half time, lived the moment it took for her to swing the lichen-covered stone over her head for a hundred frantic beats of her heart, and felt the clench of her gut as she reversed direction—slamming her makeshift weapon down at a slight angle—for so long it felt like her abdominal muscles were going to pinch in two and squeeze the life out of her.
And then the rock hit Clay’s head, a gush of blood burst from the pierced skin at the base of his skull, and time jerked back to normal speed.
Harley cried out as he collapsed, splashing into the pool just ahead of her. Water sprayed into her face and the waves caused by his collapse rocked against her thighs, but Clay didn’t jump back to his feet, prepared to take his revenge. He remained facedown in the water, his long arms trailing down to brush the smooth pebbles beneath the surface, his torso rocking gently as the pool rediscovered peace, clearly not overly disturbed by a murder being committed near its banks.
“Shit,” Harley whispered, the stone splashing back into the water as her hands began to shake. “Shit!”
He was going to drown. He was going to drown and die. He might still die—she hadn’t intended to kill him, just knock him out, but clearly she’d hit him harder than she’d intended—but unless she got him out of the water, death was a foregone conclusion.
She probably shouldn’t care that the man who’d tortured her for two weeks was about to die, but his taste was still in her mouth and her body still ached desperately for his touch, and she did care.
Damn her, she did. She didn’t want to be a killer and she especially didn’t want to kill Clay.
She’d already lived with his blood on her hands for years. No matter how demented a bastard he’d become, she didn’t want to live that way anymore.
Bending down, she flipped Clay over onto his back, heart jerking when he coughed and water streamed from his nose and mouth. She froze, ready to drop him and run, but after the coughing had stopped, his eyes remained closed, and after a moment, his breath grew slow and even. Pulse still thready from a dizzying mixture of fear and adrenaline, Harley quickly towed him to the edge of the pool. As the water grew shallow, moving him grew harder, but she managed to hook her arms beneath his armpits and drag his heavy body over the stones and onto the grass at the edge of the pool.
She deposited him as gently as she could and stood staring down at his naked, unconscious form for a shock-numbed moment. And then she turned and ran like hell.
She stopped to scoop her tee shirt and Clay’s boxers off of the ground, but she didn’t bother with the misery-inducing boots or take the time to dress. Now that she’d made sure Clay wasn’t going to drown, she couldn’t afford to waste a second.
Terror fueling her weary muscles, she sprinted back down the hill, away from the cliffs, her bare feet slapping against the hard-packed dirt. At the base of the incline, where the path split in two, she skidded to a stop, keeping one panicked eye on the trail behind her as she shrugged on her shirt and yanked the boxers up and over her hips. The forest was still empty, but she swore she could feel Clay coming for her, rapidly eliminating her head start.
You knocked him unconscious. He’s not going to be able to recover from that quickly. He’ll be slow and unsteady if he’s on his feet at all.
But her thoughts offered no comfort. Clay was out of his mind, stubborn as hell, and in incredible shape. It was a combination that could work miracles—she should know.
After everything she’d been through, most people wouldn’t have the strength left to jog five miles. Harley didn’t jog; she sprinted, flying through the woods, leaping over rocks and tree limbs and other obstacles in her path. Her breath burned in her lungs and her legs cramped, but she didn’t slow her pace or waste another second looking over her shoulder. She ran like the devil was chasing her out of hell, arms pumping at her sides, her thoughts an endless mantra of hold on, hold on, hold on.
She was on her way to Jasper. She just had to hold together long enough to get off this island and everything would be okay. She had a plan in place for emergencies like these. She had passports under three different aliases stored in three different post office boxes throughout Europe, along with enough cash to get her to Prague and Jasper.
She would get to him before Marlowe and then she would figure out what came next. She just had to hold on.
Hold on.
Hold on.
She burst from the woods into the clearing near the cottages and veered left, headed toward the ocean. She hadn’t seen anything but the officer cottages and the main building, but this was a military installation. There had to be a dock nearby.
A dock, and hopefully, a boat.
Please let there be a boat and please let it be easy to hotwire and please let there be water and food on board.
For a split second, she considered turning back toward the brown and white building where she’d been held prisoner, knowing there was water, food, and other supplies stored inside, but then she saw the dock—and the fishing boat rocking gently in one of the five slips—and kept running.
Freedom was so close she could taste it. She couldn’t bear the thought of going back inside that miserable place and surely she wouldn’t die of thirst in the time it took her to get to safety. Clay had transported her here in a day or two. The south Thai islands weren’t that far apart and the boat no doubt had GPS.
She trotted out onto the dock, the sun-warmed boards hot on her bare feet, and jumped over the boat’s railing onto the deck. The small craft was spic and span, and in the cabin, beneath a storage bench, she discovered a flat of bottled water, packages of almonds, tinned meat, a locked shotgun case, and a box of shells.
Hope and gratitude flooded through her, making her hands shake as she twisted the cap off of a water bottle and tipped it up to her lips. She sat down hard on the floor beside the bench, guzzling the water as she pulled the shotgun case out onto the floor beside her. It was a simple lock, the kind likely to pop on its own if you dropped it on the ground enough times. But there were faster ways to get basic mechanisms like this to give.
She looked up, swiping water from her mouth as she scanned the rest of the tidy cabin. All she would need was a paperclip or a straw or—
A pen!
She stood, hurrying to the control console, snatching a ballpoint pen from its place beside a leather bound notebook she guessed was the captain’s log. With any luck, it would list the location and time of departure from the port Clay had left when he’d brought her here. She would look, as soon as she got the gun open and the boat started and the craft headed out into open water.
Dropping back down to the floor, she twisted the pen apart and pulled out the pressure screw, forcing it straight with slick fingers. She was still dripping sweat, her body struggling to cool her down after the long run. Salty drops streamed down her forehead and into her eyes, but she didn’t bother wiping them away. She focused on the lock, jiggling the straightened spring back and forth until the box popped open with a soft snick.
A moment later, she had the shotgun cocked open and slid a shell into each of the barrels. She had just snapped it closed and turned to see about opening the boat’s ignition panel when she heard footsteps on the dock.
Fast, heavy footsteps, making no effort to be silent as they pounded across the wood.
There was only one person it could be. One other person on this godforsaken island.
Clay.