Alan hung half in and half out of the rough water, knowing damned well that he was bleeding into it and knowing there were sharks below him, around him, moving nearer with every second, that were tasting his blood, coming to feast on him, with other monsters in their wake.

Blood in the water.

He clung to the side of the dock, to the tiny rungs, and he prayed that Michael and Phoebe would reach him before the sharks did. He was only going to get one chance, if he got even that, so he prayed that he’d picked the right spot. That he was where he needed to be. That Fate would smile on him and deliver the monster into his reach.

God, he prayed, I don’t like to think that I’m in a position to call in chips, but if you’re out there, you know I honored my part of the bargain. I did medicine, I’ve saved lives, haven’t asked for much, and I kept my part of the bargain even when you took the most important person in my world away from me. You owe me. You owe me a lot. Let me save Phoebe. That’s all I’m asking here. If I die afterward, fine. If I die during, fine, so long as Michael Schaeffer dies first. But I love her, and I didn’t think I was ever going to be able to love anyone again. You owe me. One good shot. One good shot and the death of that monster. For her.

He knew uncounted ways to save a man’s life. Had never been able to understand how anyone could kill rather than save.

But he understood now, and he was surprised to discover how useful all his years of putting people back together had become now that he wanted to take one apart. Alan hung there and planned where he would hit Michael with the knife. Where he would drive it in. Presenting parts — he thought of those — if he was facing the bastard, he would have to hit there... and there. A side shot would give him two different targets, one on the left, one on the right. A back shot — with a knife and a back shot Alan thought he could kill the monster well, and quickly. Didn’t matter that he had to do it left-handed. Didn’t matter what angle he got. He was going to make his shot work for him.

If he just got an angle.

Where the hell were they?

God was playing his cards pretty close to the vest; he didn’t give Alan a sign, or an okay, and Alan hung just below the edge of the pier, with waves pounding him and dragging at him and sometimes submerging him for an instant. He was terrified that he was going to be pulled under the water. Terrified of things in the water.

I hate the fucking ocean, he thought.

A wave slammed over him, and he hung on, gasping when it passed, and then he heard Michael’s voice over the wind and the rain, screaming, “Where the FUCK is my BOAT?”

Thank you, God, Alan said silently, and poked his head over the edge of the dock.

Michael stood there, his back to Alan, slapping the shit out of Phoebe and screaming at her, accusing her of doing something with his yacht. Beating on her because she was in reach.

Yeah. That fit.

Hang in, Phoebe, he thought, and launching himself out of the water, he took the few steps he needed to reach Michael at a dead run, and punched hard with the knife — in through soft tissue, up, around. Left-handed. His shot wasn’t perfect. He’d entered too far left.

He heard Michael grunt.

Blood poured over Alan’s hand, hot and sticky.

And then Michael turned, ripping the knife out of Alan’s grip in the process, throwing Phoebe halfway down the dock away from the two of them. Onto her back. Michael smashed a fist into Alan’s face, and Alan saw stars.

Alan had taken a good shot — but he hadn’t severed Michael’s spinal cord, hadn’t sliced through the ascending aortic artery that ran just in front of it. He’d gotten bowels and maybe a chunk of kidney, but not enough to stop the fucker from hurting Phoebe, if that was what he chose to do.

Alan had half a second to consider possible next moves. And then he was looking down the muzzle of Michael’s gun.

And behind him, Phoebe screamed, “You said you didn’t have a gun.”

Michael shouted, “No. I said I didn’t need one.” And to Alan he said, “That hurts, you pissant. That hurts enough that I don’t think I’m even going to play with you anymore. I’m just going to blow your fucking head into the water while she watches. And then I’m going to take her, and go somewhere with her, and do all the things I was going to do in the first place. You won’t get to watch. But all the things I’m going to do to her will make something nice for you to think about as your face goes squirting out the back of your skull.”