I press my hand to my thigh. Blood wells between my fingers, dark and steady—not bright arterial, not spraying.
The bullet barely missed the femoral.
"I can manage,"I reply.
"You better," he mutters as the lift motor whines, lowering the boat toward the lake.
Metal squeals. Chains rattle. The boat splashes into the water with a slap.
Ivan jumps in immediately, hands on the ignition. The engine coughs once, then roars to life, echoing loudly in the enclosed shed.
"Get in," he snaps. "Now."
I push off the wall.
Pain consumes everything.
I force my leg to do what it resists—hold weight—just long enough to reach the gunwale.
My hands grasp.
My body heaves.
I collapse into the hull like a sack of broken parts.
Ivan releases the boat.
The shed doors swing open to reveal the lake.
Gray water stretches before us, wind ruffling the surface, spray lifting like a breath.
The boat surges forward.
Cold water slaps my face. My teeth click together.
Behind us, smoke and flames billow out from the trees.
There are men on the dock—dark silhouettes against the firelight, rifles raised.
One fires.
The round strikes the hull with a sharp crack and a splintering thunk near the stern. The boat shudders but keeps moving.
Then something goes wrong for them on shore.
A propane canister—one of the ones stored by the stove for winter—ignites.
The explosion blooms quickly and violently.
A fireball erupts from the side of the cabin, engulfing the dock in orange. A shockwave slams into the lake a moment later, rocking our boat so violently that I grip the gunwale with my good hand, holding on as if the water is trying to pull me under.
Secondary pops follow—ammo cooking off, fuel reserves igniting, small blasts woven into the larger inferno.
Men scream.
Their cries pierce the air, cutting through the crackle of the fire—high, ragged, human.
Some are on fire. Some hit the water. None are pursuing us.
