Chapter 40

The minutes after Dagan shoved the dinghy into the surf were foggy for Chelsea. But not the good kind of fog, not the sweet-smelling, first-of-fall fog. She was talking industrial spill, evacuate-the-area fog. Noxious fog. Fog tinged with terror and the haunting knowledge that Dagan had gone off to confront their enemies.

Alone!

She didn’t remember precisely what she had done. Time had gone all wonky on her, becoming fast and slow all at once. But given she, or rather her backpack, was pressed against one of the pilings supporting the harbor arm and her booted feet were sunk into the pebbles of the beach, she must have rowed to shore. And given she was gripping the cold metal of the revolver, she must have retrieved the weapon when she saw it skitter over the beach. And last but certainly not least, given Dagan was sprawled at her feet, facedown and cursing roundly, he must have escaped being hit by any of the shots she’d heard fired.

Praise the Lord and all his angels!

The dark shadows that had filled her vision were chased away when he looked up at her, blinked in astonishment, then growled, “Damnit, Chelsea! I thought I told you to get out of here.”

“When have you ever known me to do anything you say?” She offered him a hand up and then quickly transferred the revolver to his grip. She wasn’t too proud to admit he was the far better shot.

“There are only four rounds left in the cylinder,” she told him, surprising herself.

Did I check?

She must have. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember. Besides, she was distracted by the dark flecks dripping down his cheeks.

Had one of those bullets found its mark?

“Are you hurt?” She lifted a finger, touching the sticky substance.

“It’s not mine,” he assured her. “It’s Morrison’s. He’s dead. I think his own man shot him.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he was about to tell me who Spider is.”

“Wha—”

“Apparently Morrison isn’t Spider. But that’s news to be dealt with later,” he said in a rush. “For now, we need to get out of here. I think there’s only one guy out there, probably that black-haired fuckwad who tied you up and threatened you with the letter opener.”

“Steven Surry.”

“Yeah. Him.”

“How did he find us?” They had been careful, hadn’t they?

“Who knows. CCTV cameras, maybe? And if Spider’s network is as vast as we suspect, no doubt he has spies and informants inside law enforcement as well as the government. Could be he pulled some of those strings. Now, where’s the dinghy?”

She pointed to the place where the little wooden boat rested on the beach. It was behind another piling.

“We’re making a run for it.” Dagan grabbed her hand. “Stay behind me.” He jerked her into a run made awkward by her bouncing backpack.

They’d gone no more than three feet when a bullet slammed into the beach in front of them, sending pebbles in a stinging, shotgun spray. Instinctively, they both jumped back, racing to the safety of a piling.

“Damnit!” Dagan cursed. “He’s coming!”

Her heart sputtered like the old outboard engine that had been on her father’s ancient aluminum johnboat. Before she could ask him, What now? Dagan pulled her out from under the pier and up to the moss-and-algae-covered retaining wall at the end of the harbor arm.

Dead end. A worm of terror wiggled through her chest, winding itself around her lungs and making it impossible to breathe.

Shoving the revolver in his jacket pocket, Dagan bent and made a basket of his hands by threading his fingers together. “Up you go!”

She looked at him. Looked at the wall. “Go sell crazy somewhere else. I got all I can handle here.”

“Hurry, Chels!”

She slipped her foot into his waiting hands and jumped at the same time he gave her the ol’ heave-ho.

Weightlessness.

Vertigo.

Dread.

She experienced all of those as she sailed through the air until…wham! She slammed into the retaining wall, her arms over the top, her hands digging for purchase, and her boots scrabbling against the surface.

“Just hang on!” Dagan hissed.

Right. Because it didn’t seem she could do much else. Her arms didn’t have the strength to pull her over the top.

Oh, why hadn’t she hit the gym a little more? Or, for lands sakes, laid off the peanut-butter crackers? Dangling there, her backpack doing everything in its power to yank her backward, she felt as useful as boobs on a man.

In contrast, Dagan jumped, caught the top of the wall, and hoisted himself up and over so easily that she cursed. Then he grabbed her by the armpits and dragged her up next to him. She marveled at his strength. The whole of him was like steel forged in fire. She imagined his bones were made of the same stuff used in Tolkien’s High-Elven Swords. Would he glow blue if an Orc were near?

And great. Wonderful. Fear had made her a little batty.

“Up you go, Chels,” Dagan said again, pointing to the railing on the side of the pier.

Planting her foot in his hands, they repeated the jump-and-toss maneuver. But this time she was able to not only grab hold of the lowest rung on the rail, but also swing her leg up and over, which allowed her to hoist herself onto the pier.

Praise Jesus!

Ridiculously pleased with herself, she turned in time to see Dagan leap and latch on to the railing just as Surry raced onto the beach below. A dark newsboy cap was pulled low over Surry’s brow, making it impossible to see his face. But she had no trouble making out the evil black eye at the end of his pistol. It was staring straight at them. Or, more precisely, at Dagan.

“Look out!” she screamed just as Surry’s gun belched up a round.

The muzzle flash was blinding. The roar of the weapon deafening. But the bullet smacked the side of the pier six inches from where Dagan dangled, and she nearly fainted with relief. She might have done exactly that, had she not been looking around for something to throw at Surry, something, anything to distract him from taking another shot.

But she needn’t have worried. Dagan didn’t need her help.

Moving so quickly she could barely track him, he one-handed the pistol out of his pocket, aimed, and fired. Bam!

A bark of pain sounded from below. Surry dropped his weapon and grabbed his shooting arm, his cap slipping off his head and landing on the beach. She wasn’t certain if the bullet hit him square or just grazed him.

“Here!” Dagan handed her the revolver.

The weapon was hot from its recent work. The barrel singed her fingers as she turned the gun and aimed for Surry who was already running for cover beneath the pier, pistol back in hand.

Dagan hoisted himself over the railing and wasted no time yelling at her to run!

Yup. Good plan. But which way?

Back into town where more of Spider’s or Morrison’s or whoever’s goons probably waited? Or worse, the police? The cry of sirens sounded in the distance. The gunplay had obviously been overheard and reported. And yessiree, given Chelsea was a wanted woman, and given that the guy she was supposed to have stolen something from lay dead on the beach somewhere down below, getting apprehended by the local law was something she should probably avoid at all costs.

But that left…what? What else could they do? Where else could they go?

Dagan must have realized she was caught on the horns of a dilemma because he snatched the revolver from her hand, threaded their fingers together, and gave her a tug down the pier.

“We’ll jump,” he said as he broke into a run, dragging her with him. “And hope Gautier is still there.”

What are the chances? she thought, racing beside him. Then she figured since straws were all they had, they might as well grasp at them.

It wasn’t until a few seconds later, when the lighthouse loomed large, that she remembered the first thing he’d said. We’ll jump.

Lord have mercy! Jump? As in off the end of the friggin’ pier?

If memory served, it had looked to be a least a two-story drop. Now, with the tide out…what? Three stories? Four?

Her legs felt like pinwheels, spinning, spinning, spinning until her thighs screamed in protest. But finally they made it to the lighthouse. The motor atop buzzed as it spun its white lights over the Channel, warning away passing ships.

Peering into the dark water below made Chelsea dizzy. “Holy crap,” she breathed, gripping the railing so hard her fingers ached. “Are we crazy to even consider this?” Three. It had to be three stories.

Before Dagan could answer, they both saw it.

A submersible bobbed just beyond the pier. It was torpedo-shaped and painted black as pitch. They may have missed it altogether if not for the fact that the hatch was open and standing in the center of it was a man with the face of a medieval monk, all long and pale and slightly foreboding.

“Bonjour!” He waved up at them. “The problem on the beach has been eliminated, oui?” His French accent made it sound like zee problem on zee bitch.

Dagan didn’t answer, just lifted his hand. And that’s when another shot boomed through the night.

The round hit the railing two inches from Chelsea’s fingers, and the ping of the bullet against the metal sounded louder than a gong. Since she was holding on to the rail, the reverberation traveled up her arm and rattled her brains inside her skull.

Once again, Dagan was lightning fast. He swung around and fired.

Now, when taking a shot, a shooter had to consider environmental factors. Like wind and elevation. But Dagan was so skilled—or so battle-tested—that he did it all automatically. She couldn’t see where his bullet buried itself into Surry’s body, but Surry yelped and hit the deck.

Before she could do more than blink, Dagan was climbing the railing, holding a hand down and pulling her up beside him. Another bout of vertigo hit, the world doing a fast spin. But before she could get her bearings, Dagan squeezed her hand, his fingers so strong, his palm so warm and rough, and together they jumped!