Crack. Another shot. Rifle. Suppressor. The sound reminded me of Pop and Uncle Simeon testing new weapons.
The dock splintered inches from my head, shards of wet wood spraying my cheek.Someone was … shooting at us!
“Down!” Lachlan roared, twisting us hard. My scream choked off as he rolled us over the wet wood. Wood and sky spun. Then the freezing bite of Loch Ness swallowed us whole.
43
LACHLAN
What in thebloody hell was happening?
I’d gripped, caressed, pawed, and kissed places I’d never dared. My mouth was trailing the swell of Natasha’s breasts. A stuttered cry escaped her when the first shot split the air.
The sharp crack whizzed, a subdued firecracker, and the wood beneath us splintered inches from my head. Natasha’s pulse, wild underneath my mouth moments ago, froze in terror.
Another shot. Instincts took over. My arms locked around her waist, and I hurled us both off the dock’s edge.
The loch swallowed us whole.
Bubbles and dark water surged around us. A bullet sliced through the current, tearing past my shoulder. Natasha opened her mouth to scream, but I pressed her under the dock’s shadow, forcing her against the slats where faint light streamed between the boards.
We surfaced, gasping. My head cracked against the dock’s underside.
“We gotta move,” I rasped.
“Wh-where …” She panted, dog paddling in panic.
My eyes darted to the two boats moored at the dock’s farthest side. One was a small fishing craft, steady and solid. The other, an old cabin cruiser that hadn’t seen a decent oil change since my parents migrated. Both fully exposed.
“Hell no, La?—”
“Wewilldie. No one’ll ever know.” My voice was steel, and before she could argue, I hauled her with me, dragging her out into the open water, into the line of fire.
Footsteps pounded the dock above. A shout rang out. “Did you get him?”
Him. They didn’t saythem. Justhim.A cold bite sank into my gut.
Vassili Resnov.
The bastard’s revenge. I’d been too wrapped in Natasha—her mouth, her body, her yes—to remember the hit on my life.
We reached the boats. I shoved Natasha’s slick body against the hull and helped her climb over the gunwale, then I pulled myself up, keeping low.
My fingers flew over the controls.Keys.Thank You, Jesus.Fishermen never bloody took them out. I slid the key forward as footsteps thundered nearby.
“Don’t shoot! You’ll miss the Scot!” A voice snarled. Italian-adjacent, cocky, vile. My stomach dropped. Lorenzo Ferri. “Make the call.”
Another voice, female, grunted. “Answer the phone, Mr. Resnov!”
I fumbled for mine and tossed it at Natasha. Seated on the deck with her back against the port, she tapped the screen, then shook her head.Crap. The thing dripped lake water, but I was hoping water-resistant meant more than I thought it did.
“Yours?” I asked.
“My … my mobile’s on the dock,” she whispered, guilt raw in her eyes.
A curse in Italian ripped across the evening, and though I couldn’t translate, I guessed he wasn’t happy we’d escaped. Almost.
I jammed the throttle forward. The boat lurched, coughing once before roaring to life. Natasha scrambled beside me, shoving her wet hair from her face, her knuckles white on the railing.
