Lola mumbles into my palm, and I glare until she goes still.
Her eyes scream at me.We can’t wait forever.
I narrow mine back.I know. Give me a second.
A scrape sounds from inside. Something dragged. Then the unmistakable clink of metal on wood—too close, too sharp. Their movements bleed through the wall like heat through thin fabric.
From the half-open saloon window a few feet away, a voice cuts the night. “What the fuck is this? There’s nothing here.”
Another man snaps, “Nothing? Move. Let me see.”
Metal rattles. Then a third voice—lower, rougher—growls, “The safe’s already open. And it’s fucking empty.”
Lola’s eyes snap to mine, panic flickering bright.
Not yet.I shake my head once and bite my lip, holding back the feral grin clawing its way up my throat. This is not the time for that.
“Maybe he took the cash with him,” someone mutters. “Or, fuck, I don’t know, the cleaning crew stole it.”
Something inside me loosens. Not relief exactly—more like a rope going slack after being wound too tight. Because if it were the owner, there’d be shouting. Threats. Calls being made. Men who believe the world belongs to them don’t sound confused when something goes missing.
These voices don’t know what they’re looking at, which means they didn’t expect this.
And that means, for now, we’re still ahead of them.
“Then why’s the place trashed?” the first guy spits. “Safe’s empty, drawers dumped. Only—” A pause. A metallic rattle. “A couple of gold bangles? That’sit? What the fuck, man.”
Lola mouths,Let’s go.
I mouth back,Wait.
A heavy thud slams into the bulkhead, rattling the fiberglass against my spine. Lola jumps, and I fist the front of her vest, steadying her before she can make a sound.
“This was your one fucking job,” someone snarls. “You were on recon all week. How the fuck did you miss this?”
“I don’t know what the fuck happened.”
“Yeah, no shit,” someone else says with a scoff.
“Fuck you,” one guy snarls.
Bodies collide. Furniture scrapes. Frustration splinters the air in jagged, violent cuts.
“Fuck this. Take what we can, and let’s get the fuck outta here,” a man growls.
“There’s nothing here!” another shouts, punctuated by another thud.
That’s it. The window slams shut on our timeline.
I grab Lola’s hand, fingers locking tight around hers. “Time to go.”
We break into a sprint down the narrow side deck, the yacht rocking gently beneath our feet like it’s oblivious to the chaos boiling inside it. I stay low, legs pumping, eyes locked on the foredeck where the bow rail curves in a clean arc. Lola nearly slips on a coil of dock line, and I yank her upright without breaking stride, my grip bruising, unyielding.
The ladder to the pier comes into view—metal rungs bolted to the hull. Lola starts climbing, fast and silent. I’m right behind her, adrenaline snapping sharp in my veins like broken glass.
Halfway down, noise explodes behind us. Shouts, the slam of the cabin door, and the unmistakable thud of feet hitting the deck.
My heart flies straight into my throat.
