The overlook spread before him. A wide, flat expanse of land that jutted out over the ocean. No railings. No barriers. Just rock and ground and sky— and a sheer drop to churning water below.
Emma stood to his right side in just shorts and a sports bra. Her back was to him, hair whipping in the wind.
And from the opposite tree line?—
Movement.
Zach froze.
Marcus stepped out of the shadows like he’d been waiting there for hours. He started toward Emma.
Calm. Unhurried. His posture relaxed, arms loose, gun in his hand. He looked exactly like a man who had complete control of the situation.
Because he did.
Marcus was ten meters from Emma. Zach was thirteen meters from Marcus. The overlook offered no cover. If Zach tried to cross that open space, Marcus would see him coming.
And in his current state—slower, weaker, still fighting off the poison—Zach couldn’t close that distance before Marcus made his move.
Zach’s mind snapped into gear.
The bomb—it had been a calculated move to drive people out of shelter into the storm where deaths could be hidden, explained away as accidents.
And the poisoned blades? That had been to remove him specifically, to take the primary defense off the board. Another tragic casualty of the hurricane.
Emma. Marcus was using her to finish it. If Emma hadn’t treated the venom—if she’d panicked, or run—Zach would still be paralyzed under that overhang.
And she hadn't seen Marcus yet.
The cold fury that swept through him was familiar. Welcome, even. Zach channeled it, used it to push past the lingering weakness in his limbs.
Marcus ambled toward Emma like he was out for a Sunday stroll.
Zach, if you can hear this, respond.
Nick! Can you hear me?
Zach, where are you?
Had Nick heard him?Nick! We’re on the cliffs—Emma needs help. Marcus is here.
Nothing. Nick still couldn’t hear him.
He had to move. Had to get to Emma before?—
Marcus continued forward. He was only about three meters from Emma now. She shifted, turned slightly. Stopped. Good. She saw him.
Zach’s muscles coiled. He pushed off from his concealment, forcing his body into motion even though every instinct screamed that he was too slow, too compromised, that this was going to go wrong?—
His boot hit wet stone, and his leg nearly folded. He caught himself, corrected, kept moving. But it cost him.
Two seconds.
Maybe three.
Three seconds that might as well have been an eternity.
Emma turned fully to face Marcus. Zach could see her profile, the tension in her shoulders, the way she stood her ground despite being alone and exposed on a windswept cliff.
