I could tell by the way he shook his head that he was lightheaded enough to be distracted.
I stepped back, ducked down, and grabbed the gun. My hold was tenuous, with everything outside covered in a fine mist.
But I managed to grip it, slide my finger to the trigger, only to have him charge, landing an uppercut, then grabbing my wrist in one almost continuous move.
If this wasn’t so life or death, if Noa wasn’t at risk down in the bedroom without a gun, I would have been impressed.
As it was, I was pissed.
I swung out with my left arm as his right hand and mine fought over the gun.
He wasn’t even trying to deflect the punches.
Both of his hands went to my wrist, grabbing it hard, lifting up, then slamming it down on the railing.
The pain exploded.
My fingers loosened automatically.
And the fucking gun dropped into the water below.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Without the gun, I was painfully aware of how well-matched we were.
His lip and nose bled.
My ribs and wrist throbbed.
One wrong move on my part could have me out cold. And Noa unprotected.
Sure, she could fight.
But not likely against this guy.
Centering my weight and dropping lower, I shoved with everything I had, sending him stumbling back. He would have fallen, too, if the fucking cabin door hadn’t been slightly ajar still, letting him grab it to steady himself.
But as I’d been bracing for another advance, he did something unexpected.
He went backward.
He went down the steps, heading back toward the front of the boat.
I was right behind him, grabbing the railing with all my strength so I didn’t slip.
There was a slight blind spot.
But he wasn’t in it.
And it was right then that I should have known he had a plan.
My system was too flooded with adrenaline, though, to be thinking logically.
I just went with my instinct.
And that was to charge.
