“Run!” I tell Drago. “Hurry. They’ll be here in minutes.”
“Where the fuck are we running to?” he growls.
“The dock,” I say, pushing myself to keep running even when pain splits up my side.
I can hear Drago panting behind me, but he’s keeping pace. Apparently, fear of death is a pretty big motivator for him. No surprise there. The biggest cowards are always the most afraid to die.
My feet pound onto the wooden boards of the dock and my breath is stabbing in my ribs, but I don’t stop until I’m on the yacht.
“Do you know how to get this thing moving?” I call at him, as I turn around.
He stumbles onto the yacht, almost tripping in the process. “What?”
“The fucking boat,” I tell, gesturing to the massive panel of controls in the cockpit. “I don’t know how to drive it.”
“Move!” Drago yells, pushing me aside and heading towards the cockpit.
I watch him tinker with the controls. Within seconds, the yacht is purring to life.
I glance back over my shoulder, expecting to see men running towards the beach with guns raised. Maybe even another boat materializing from the boathouse.
But there’s nothing. No one. Not a peep from the night.
I walk unsteadily over to the cockpit as we take off into the vast blue ocean. I have no idea about coordinates or sailing or whatever the hell goes into getting this thing away from here. My plan was mostly “point the ship away from shore and hit the gas.”
But Drago seems confident enough as he mans the wheel and revs the engines. He glances over at me with a scrutinizing eye.
“You look good,” he comments. But he says it accusingly, as though the fact that I look so good is a betrayal.
I choose not to engage. “Your arm doesn’t,” I point out. “You’ll need a doctor.”
“I’ll call him. Let him know we’re on our way.”
I balk at the way he groups me in with his plans. But I don’t bother correcting him. Let him think I’m coming along for the ride. It’s probably better that way for all of us.
“Go out back. Check to see if they’re on our tail.”
“They’re not. I checked.”
“Fucking check again,” he growls. “And look for some weapons while you’re at it. We might need something to defend ourselves if those fuckers catch up.”
I know for a fact that there are weapons on this yacht, but I have no desire to share that information with Drago. So I make a show of heading down below deck to check while he makes a ship-to-shore call to arrange a pickup at wherever the hell we’re going to land.
I snake down the precarious stairs and stand in the dark hallway, looking between both doors. I’m feeling queasy again. I know it has to do with the fact that the room to my right is filled with dead bodies.
I’ve made the traveling morgue my getaway car. But I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had any other choice.
I allow myself a moment to think about Kian, tied up downstairs in The Room. I close my eyes for a moment. Being with him in there… It had been more intense, more overwhelming that I’d ever imagined.
I hadn’t expected to feel so free.
Nor had I expected to feel so horrible for what I’d done to him afterwards.
I shake it off and make myself remember why I’m doing all this in the first place. I’m taking my life back. And to do that, I need to shake off all the men that want to tie me down.
I look up at the ceiling, imagining Drago standing over my head, planning his next move. I have no doubt that I’m currently the star of his schemes. But if I get my way, I’m going to be long gone before he can set anything in motion.
When I head back up to the top deck, Drago’s sitting down and rooting around in the lower compartments of the cockpit. “Jesus, this fucking dinghy is empty. No booze anywhere. What kind of yacht doesn’t have alcohol?”