“Get down,” she shouted, though he couldn’t hear her.
Her hull slammed a wake, ricocheted. The steering yoke jerked hard, nearly sending her into the mangroves. Behind her, the man holding the mounted rifle fired again. The crack echoed across the marsh like thunder.
Fallon swerved into open water. Her boat coughed, then caught, then coughed again. The smell of gasoline thickened. She was running out of time.
Through the blur of adrenaline, she saw Trent climb back into his seat, spin his airboat, and gun the engine in the opposite direction.
What the fuck was he doing?
She glanced between the tiny island and the wider open waters. Neither option would provide safety.
An engine whine cutting from in front startled her. She turned just as Trent’s boat flew into view, screaming past hers like a missile.
No one was at the helm.
“Trent,” she yelled, but the word tore apart in the wake.
The seemingly empty airboat veered toward the gunmen. For a heartbeat, Fallon thought it was going to crash straight into them. Instead, a flash of motion on the deck—a shape—then something thick and alive launched through the air. Long, with a large, raging mouth wide open.
A python.
She blinked, disbelieving.
The snake hit the gunmen’s deck in a writhing coil. One of them swore and fired reflexively, but he’d already lost control. The boat pitched sideways as the python twisted, angry and loud.
Fallon didn’t waste the chance. She gunned her throttle, trying to outrun the chaos, but the cough of her engine came back worse. The gas smell bit at her eyes.
A new roar rose in front of her.
Keaton.
His airboat barreled through the reeds, lights and sirens blazing.
Fallon risked a glance back. The gunmen fired again—wildly this time. One shot caught Trent’s hull. The other?—
Her heart stopped. Trent staggered.
“Trent,” she screamed.
The gunmen peeled off, their airboat limping but moving fast, disappearing down a side channel.
Keaton’s boat closed in. Fallon cut her engine and coasted hard into Trent’s line. Harley was already kneeling beside him, hands slick with blood, pressing down on his abdomen.
“I told him not to—he wouldn’t listen—” Harley’s voice cracked.
Fallon jumped across the boats, boots slipping. “Hold pressure. Do you know if the bullet exited?”
“It did,” Harley said. “Clean pass, but it’s bad.”
Trent’s face had gone gray, sweat shining across his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. “Did the snake hit its target?”
“Yeah,” Fallon said. “Ten points for accuracy.”
He tried to grin. Failed. “Told you I had good aim.”
“Save your strength.” Harley wiped her chin on her shoulder. “You’re going to need it for that hot date of yours, tonight. Though, it’s gonna happen in a hospital room.”
“That can’t be sexy.” Trent coughed.
