Page 129 of Until the End

Two seconds. She turned the badge to the opposite side and went to try again, but—

The timer hit zero and the bioweapon deployed.

42

3:15 p.m.

Dread and desperation churned in Kit’s belly. She didn’t struggle as Sanborn hauled her a couple of feet inside the cabin. Feigning resignation seemed like the smartest play. Not that she had much of an alternative.

Khan was gagged and strapped to the steering wheel in the cockpit. She’d overheard the death squad mention they’d used a special material on Khan’s wrists and hands that wouldn’t leave a trace in the fire. It would look as if Khan had been steering the boat when the engine malfunctioned and exploded. Khan would be the scapegoat for Sanborn’s unholy handiwork along with Kit—the leader of the Outliers—as his accomplice.

Not only was Sanborn going to kill her but he was going to make the world believe that she and the Outliers had colluded with terrorists.

She shivered with a sudden burning anger, then stilled when she heard the low, rhythmic click, click, click.

A ticking resonated somewhere on the boat. She hadn’t noticed it outside, but in the quiet cabin, she picked up a faint ticking despite the drone from the inflatable raft’s motor.

“Where are the keys so I can lock these two inside the cabin?” Sanborn asked.

Echo lobbed the set of keys to him.

“I’m going to double-check the bomb below and then we’ll get going,” Sanborn said, pocketing the keys.

“I told you it’s good.”

In a hard, certain voice, Sanborn said, “I believe you, but I also can’t take the chance of the smallest mistake.”

“Suit yourself.” Echo climbed over the left side of the boat and dropped out of sight into the raft while Sanborn went below.

Kit had tossed around every outside-the-box, last-ditch-desperado idea she could think of to survive. There was one slim possibility, but she needed to be outside to try it. When Sanborn came back, he’d lock her in the cabin with Khan and then she’d have no hope of escape.

This was her only chance. Even if she failed, even if she died in the process, she had to try. It was now or never.

Kit had used her Ehlers-Danlos syndrome for party tricks but never imagined her joint hypermobility might actually one day save her life. She made herself as small as possible, wiggling her wrists under her butt, one shoulder shimmy at a time.

Once her hands reached her hamstrings, she leaned forward, dropped both shoulders away from her ears, and stuck her feet through the tight gap, bringing her hands in front of her. She wrenched the bitter-tasting gag from her mouth.

With her ankles zip-tied, she inchwormed her way out of the cabin onto the deck. The propranolol she’d taken earlier was doing its job. Popping another would’ve been ideal, but she couldn’t risk the delay of going to her bag, and without having had any Nitrostat, she didn’t know how much exertion she could handle.

Kit gripped the bulwark and tugged herself up. Hoping the rumble of the motor on the raft was loud enough to mask her splash into the water, she let herself tip overboard.

The cold water was a shock to her system and a whimper slipped from her throat. The salt stung all the little scrapes on her body.

In a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds, Sanborn would notice that she was gone. The only thing she could do was put distance between her and the boat. Be the biggest pain in the ass for him. With a bomb ticking away and the tight schedule he had to keep, maybe he wouldn’t have the time to bother with her.

It was wishful thinking, but going out fighting was all she had.

Kit thrashed against the current, struggling to tread water. She had never been an Olympic swimmer and to say that her tied wrists and ankles complicated her predicament was an extreme understatement.

Her original far-fetched plan had entailed taking the buoy to help her stay afloat and trying to get out of the blast radius. But Sanborn had ruined her idea with his intention to trap her on the boat, leaving her with this desperate measure that was far less practical and far more grueling than she’d envisioned.

Every time she pushed herself forward, undulating the way mermaids swam, she’d gain some distance. Then her head went under. She struggled back to the surface, swallowed a little seawater, taking it into her lungs. Cough and repeat.

This was how someone slowly drowned.

Thrusting her arms and legs for downward pressure, she raised herself high enough to get her mouth above the water. The process was tedious and painstaking.

Her heart pounded against her rib cage.