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.
Hadone 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.
