Silence presses in around us as I strain to hear any sign of movement. Then, the crack of a gun sounds through the night.
Chloe
At first, I think the gunshot went wild and a rush of relief streaks through me. I slump against Gabe’s back, my forehead lolling between his broad shoulders. His warmth and his closeness are immeasurably reassuring.
It takes a few seconds for me to register the liquid on my hands isn’t spray from the ocean. Absently, I bring my hands up under a near spray of light and find them covered in red.
My eyes widen and I duck around Gabe to find his face awash with anguish. I thought I could handle traumatic. Apparently, I’ve got a hidden talent for it. Guns, bombs, murder. But my kickass girl-power persona melts away when he goes limp against me.
I catch him, his weight listing heavily against the metal railing beside us. “Gabe?” I whisper.
His heart thunders beneath my hands and his chest heaves in an effort to catch his breath. He opens his mouth like he wants to talk, but a hiss of pain escapes instead and his knees buckle.
My own breath hitches in my throat and tears prickle the back of my eyes. “Gabe?”
His weight takes us both down to the cold, wet floor and I do my best to control our descent but he’s six-foot-two of pure male muscle and I’m one hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. His head bumps against the rail and he makes a pained sound in the back of his throat.
He can barely keep his head up and his lips are pulled too tight to talk. It’s pitch black and I can’t even see a foot in front of my face, so I can’t see where he’s injured.
“Gabe?” I say, and this time I can’t even hear my own voice over the sound of the waves. “I’m going to check to see where you’re hurt.”
He makes a sound, but I can’t tell if it’s a warning or an assent. We don’t have time for me to second guess myself, and if he’s wounded he certainly doesn’t have time for it, so I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm my nerves. Then all I can do is start.
His hair is shorn closely to his head and aside from a goose egg, there aren’t any other serious injuries. I probe the bump, which makes him wince and rear back.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling my shaking hands back. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he manages, his breath shallow. “Leg. It’s—leg.”
“Leg,” I repeat. “Okay, right.”
As I move down, my hand bumps against his midriff and he sucks in a quick breath.
“What are you…” My stomach drops when my hands come back soaked in what must be blood.
“He shot you twice?” I say incredulously. “Jesus Christ, Gabe. You aren’t superman. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Put…pressure on it.”
“Oh, I’ll put pressure on it,” I mutter. “I’m gonna help you with your zipper so I can wrap your wound up.”
“Don’t…have time. Need to…find Jones.”
“Yeah, you sure as hell won’t have time if you bleed out. Just shut up while I do this, then we’ll go find Jones.”
“Bossy,” he says and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Damn straight,” I say. “Now shut up.”
I unzip his wetsuit slowly, afraid of what I’m going to find underneath. My eyes adjust to the dark the hem of the suit reveals a track wound maybe four inches long through the fleshy part of his waist, I suck in a breath. I let it out in one shaky exhalation.
“Well, the good news is that it doesn’t look deep,” I say. “The bad news is that you’ve definitely been shot.”
“Not the first time,” he manages grimly.
“Now the part where you don’t like hospitals is starting to make sense,” I say.
I feel like a heroine in a Regency novel as I rip off the bottom part of my dress off to wrap around his waist. “I’m going to do this quickly,” I say.
“Just do it.”
I have to wedge my arms behind him to wrap the large strip around his stomach. The slash through his sides starts by his right hip and wraps around his side to end near his back. I fix the wide part of the strip over the wound and carefully align it to make sure it’s completely covered before I arrange it on the other side and tie it off. I do it more tightly than I think is necessary because I have a feeling he’s not going to take a few minutes to rest, even if we could.
I help him get his wetsuit back on as quickly and painlessly as possible. When I glance back up, I catch him grinning at me. “What?”
“You’re not a nurse are you?” he jokes even though he’s short of breath and grimacing in pain.
“Definitely not,” I say.
He chuckles. “Maybe you should be. I wouldn’t have such a bad attitude about them if I had a pretty nurse like you.”
“You must be going into shock,” I say and look away so he can’t see the reluctant smile pulling at my lips. “Now be quiet. I’ve got to concentrate.”
“Yes ma’am,” he drawls.
My fingers tremble as I check over his leg. The material of his suit wicks away moisture, but it’s slick on his outer thigh. I tear off another strip of my dress and wrap it around his leg.
“Not normally how I get women out of their clothes.”
A laugh catches in my chest and I glance over at him as I tie off the tourniquet around his leg wound. “I think the knock on the head may have damaged your brain.” Once the cloth is tied, I sit back on my heels. “Okay, it’s not pretty and if you don’t get medical treatment soon, I’m sure you’ll risk infection or worse, but I think it’ll do for now.”
“You did great,” he says.
“Thanks.” I cross to his other side and wedge my shoulder under his arm to help him up. “Now let’s find this guy and get the hell out of here. Where do you think he is?”
Gabe hisses in pain as he gets to his feet. “Well, he knows we’re here, and he hasn’t come to finish us off.”
Without saying a word, we both head to the back of the boat where we heard Jones push the captain overboard. It’s an arduous process. Gabe can only put so much weight on his wounded leg and I’m no match for his sheer bulk.
By the time we reach the back railing, we’re both covered in sweat and panting, but the loading point is blessedly empty. One look at Gabe’s face has me propping him against the railing. I look around and find a barrel for him to sit on and drag it over to him.
“Sit down before you pass out.”
He glares at me, but collapses on the barrel anyway. “I’m fine,” he insists.
“Yeah,” I scoff. “You’re so fine you’re about to pass out where you stand. Just, sit there. The Coast Guard should be here soon. As soon as they get here you can be all macho, but for now, just, don’t.”
I retrieve the gun from where I’d stored it in my cardigan’s pocket and hold it loosely in my hand. The last thing I want to do is be caught off guard. Not knowing where Jones is at is making me jumpy and there’s nothing in the water behind us except the waves. No sign of the captain.
“C’mere,” Gabe says behind me.
I back up toward him, keeping my eyes on the boat in front of us. The shadows and moonlight are playing tricks on my eyes. Every whisper of wind or shifting light has all of my muscles tensing.
When I get close enough, Gabe tugs me back against him. He’s shivering, probably from a combination of cold, fear, and pain. The tattered suit he’s wearing isn’t much of a barrier from the elements.
“They’ll be here soon,” I tell him. As I press my body into his uninjured side, I try not to think about how hard he is—all over, or how good he smells. So not the time.
“I should be the one rescuing you,” he says and it makes me smile a little to hear the petulant tone in his voice.
“Trust me, I’m happy to be your damsel in distress if it’ll get us off of this thing,” I say.
“Definitely no damsel. You’re more like a warrior queen,” he says. His voice is soft. I don’t know if it’s because we’re so
close or because he’s in pain. “Don’t tell me you’re a police officer, too.”
The thought teases laughter out and I blush. “No, definitely not. I went to college for business management and I work at a luxury travel company out of Jacksonville.”
“After this,” he says, “I think we both deserve a vacation.”
“Only if it doesn’t involve boats.”
A movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. My body goes rock solid, alerting Gabe, and he straightens. “See something?” he whispers, all playfulness gone from his voice.
I strain to make anything out of the darkness. “Not sure. I thought I did,” I whisper back.
Shadows shift and Jones appears with his hands up, which makes the hand holding the gun pointed at his head sag.
“Oh my God,” I say, once he gets close enough for me to see what had taken him so long.
Jones has his hands held over his head and in them is the control for the bomb collars he’d had the hostages wear. And around his neck is a collar of his own.
Gabriel
At first I think I’m imagining things again, but Jones doesn’t fade away like a bad dream. No. He’s one hundred percent, hard to believe reality. He strides unerringly forward with another one of his goddamned bombs strapped to his neck.
“No wonder he took so long.” Chloe shrinks back against me. “He was putting one of those things on. Why would he do that?”
He’s only a few steps away now, close enough for us to see the gray pallor of his face in the spotty lighting. He looks about as good as I feel.
“What the hell are you doing, Jones?” He stops a couple yards away. I may want to throttle the life out of him, but I also have the innate urge to help him.
Jones’ voice is calm when he speaks, despite how peaked he looks. “When I lost my wife, I had nothing left. You took everything from me.”
Chloe opens her mouth to talk, but I wrap an arm around her waist and tug her even closer against my body, cutting off whatever she was about to say.
I keep my response level and calm. There is still the possibility he’ll set off his own collar while standing just a short distance away from us. “I’m sorry, Jones. I swear, we did everything we could to save your wife.”
Jones just shakes his head sadly. “If what you’re saying were true, she’d still be here.”
“I wish I could change what happened.” The intense regret is causing physical pain. My chest is tight and my throat aches.
“I didn’t bring you out here for you to do anything.”
My brows furrow. “Then why did you go to all this trouble?” If it wasn’t to kill me, to hurt me, then why the hell are we here?
“I want you to understand.”
“Then make me understand,” I bite out.
“That’s the idea,” Jones says, and he inches closer.
“Stop right there,” I say, but he keeps coming toward us. To Chloe, I say, “If he gets too close, shoot him.”
His hands are still up, but with the explosives strapped to his neck, I’m not taking any chances. If he weren’t holding the detonator, I would have instructed Chloe to shoot him, but I can’t. I’m no bomb expert and I’m not going to start pretending to be now.
As Chloe trembles against me, I wonder for the first time if I’d caused more trouble coming out here to save her than I would have if I’d let the sheriffs and F.B.I. handle the situation.
“What do you want me to understand?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you how sorry I am—”
“I don’t want your sorries,” Jones says sharply. “I wanted you to know what it felt like to have someone you cared about taken from you because of someone else’s callousness.”
I double over in pain as Emily’s face comes to mind. Without thinking about it, I squeeze Chloe tighter against me and press an absentminded kiss into her hair. I say a silent thanks for her thoughtless actions that kept Emily from this nightmare. If nothing else, I’m immeasurably grateful for her bravery.
“And now?” Chloe’s hand finds my arm. Her nails dig into the skin, but I barely feel it.
“Now, he’ll get to know the same callousness,” he says.
My mind blanks with panic, thinking somehow he got to Emily without my knowing. It’s the two-second pause that catches me off-guard. Jones uses it to his advantage and he rushes toward us. Chloe yelps and lets off a couple rounds in quick succession. One wings him, but the other two are off the mark.
Jones stumbles, but regains his footing and then he’s within reaching distance. I can see the whites of his eyes, he’s so close. Then he’s throwing the device toward us and we reel back, letting him leap off the back of the ferry and into the dark water below.
Chloe screeches and catches the device with her free hand, fumbling a little. We both spin around and search the white caps for his head.
“There!” Chloe says, pointing at a slightly less black blob about twenty feet away. The boat is still anchored to the ocean floor, but the current is rapidly pulling Jones’ body farther and farther away. It takes a few seconds until my brain puts two and two together.
“NO!”
“What?” Chloe asks. “What is it?”
“The device,” I whisper. “He’ll set off his bomb himself. The water is going to carry him outside of range. He’s trying to commit suicide. ”
Her eyes widen and her mouth parts. “No.”
Knowing what’s coming, I tug Chloe into a squatting position behind the railing. It doesn’t take long; it couldn’t have been more than a handful of minutes from when we spotted Jones to the sound of another explosion.
Chloe burrows into my side, whimpering, and I try to focus on her soft, sweet body and not the horror happening on the other side of the railing. The horror I’m responsible for.
I rock her gently, comforting us both. “Shhh,” I say into her hair. “Shh, it’s over now. It’ll be okay.”
“H-h-he…” she sobs. “W-why would he…I don’t understand.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat, but when I talk, my voice still breaks. “I-I don’t know.” I think she knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t call me out on it.
There’s an explicit emptiness in my chest and an iciness that has nothing to do with my wounds and blood loss. It doesn’t take me long to piece together that the feeling is what Jones wanted me to understand.
Because it wasn’t just his wife’s blood on my hands. Now it’s his, too.
An indeterminable amount of time later, Chloe helps me to my feet. She’s talking to me in a soothing voice, but I’m not listening and I don’t try to add to her one-sided conversation.
“Let’s get you back up to the wheelhouse, then we can radio Tyler and see where the hell the backup is. They would have heard the explosion by now, they should be here.”
The good thing about how I’m feeling is that I can’t feel anything at all. Including my gunshot wounds. Before, I could barely stay conscious they were so painful. Now…nothing.
There’s nothing.
Somehow she shoulders my weight until we get up the stairs and in the wheelhouse. Sensing my uselessness, Chloe deposits me on an empty chair and goes straight to the radio to call for Tyler.
My ears are ringing again, so I don’t hear their conversation. The only thing I can hear is the sound of Jones’ voice and the loud boom from the explosion that killed him.
Chloe’s feet appear in my line of vision and I follow her legs up to her waist and finally to her concerned face.
“I’m fine,” I croak out, but I don’t think she believes that either.
“They’re on their way. About ten minutes out. There were a lot of injuries from the last explosion and red tape to wade through. They haven’t found the captain yet, but they’ll send a search team out for him, too.”
I nod, but I don’t say anything. When the silence stretches between us, Chloe hops back up and says, “I’m going to see if I can figure out how to lift the
anchor so we can meet them halfway.”
I close my eyes. Try as I might, when I try to call up Sheila Langford-Jones’ face, I can’t.
And it’s almost as bad as being responsible for her death.
I should remember her face. I have a vague recollection of a middle-aged woman, maybe dark hair? But aside from that, there’s not much else wiggling free in my fuzzy memories.
What bothers me is what I can remember. The weather. I can barely recall the face of the woman who died, but I can remember the goddamned weather. The awesome force of the gale that swept her boat out to sea. I remember the search grid. I remember the people, all of them, who are assigned to my team.
Apparently I can remember all of the things that didn’t matter, but the one supposed to be the most important of all, I don’t.
“Shit!” Chloe’s shriek breaks me out of my reverie.
I look up and find the wheelhouse empty. The hot lance of fear stabs through me so intensely, I’m up and across the room before a clear thought crosses my brain.
“Chloe?” I shout down the stairs. I take a few steps down and shout again. “Chloe!”
Her shadowed form appears at the bottom of the stairs. Her face is so white I can see it even though there are no lighted pillars near her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but a choked sound is all that comes out. I start to go down the stairs to meet her, but she seems to shake herself out of it and she races up the stairs and past me.
“Chloe,” I say again. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer me. Instead she fumbles with the radio mic again and keys it up. “Tyler?” She slaps an impatient hand on the console and whispers “C’mon, c’mon” beneath her breath. “Tyler are you there?”
A garbled sound answers her and I take slow measured steps toward her. I didn’t think our situation could possibly get worse, but I should have known Jones wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily.
“We have a major problem,” she tells him. There’s another garbled response and then her shoulders heave as she steadies herself. “You guys need to keep back,” she says.
Anchor (First to Fight Book 1) Page 10