Chapter 17 #2
We're halfway down the dock now. The boats bob gently on the water, their sleek hulls gleaming in the moonlight. Through my earpiece, I can hear the soft sounds of movement as the twins and Hudson close in.
"Now," Hudson's voice commands.
I drop my weight suddenly, throwing the man holding me off-balance. As he stumbles, I twist, driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He doubles over with a grunt, and I use the momentum to pull the knife from my back.
Gunfire erupts around us as Hudson's team engages the men by the containers. The man with the gun whirls toward the sound, his weapon no longer pressed against my forehead.
"Oliver, hide!" I shout, slashing at the hand of another guard who reaches for me. Blood sprays across the wooden planks as my blade finds flesh.
The night explodes into chaos. I catch glimpses of the twins moving like shadows between the containers, their movements fluid and deadly. Hudson's team advances from multiple directions, boxing in the thieves.
I spin, blade flashing, as another masked man charges me. He's fast, but I'm faster, ducking under his wild swing and driving my knife into the soft spot beneath his ribs. He collapses with a wet gurgle.
"Oliver, stay down!" I yell again when I spot him crouched behind a stack of ropes, his eyes wide with something that looks almost like exhilaration.
A bullet whizzes past my ear, too close for comfort. I drop and roll, coming up with my second knife in hand. Three men are retreating toward the boats, firing wildly to cover their escape. I recognize the opportunity—if they get away, we lose our chance to find out who's behind this.
I sprint after them, dodging between bullets, aware that I'm exposing myself but unwilling to let them escape. One of the men turns, taking aim directly at me. Time seems to slow as I register the barrel pointed at my chest, too far to reach him before he pulls the trigger.
Then something—someone—barrels into me from the side, knocking me off my feet. Oliver. He's tackled me out of the bullet's path, his body covering mine as we hit the dock hard.
"Stay down!" I hiss, trying to push him off me, but he's already scrambling to his feet.
"They're getting away!" he shouts, and before I can stop him, he's running toward the men at the boat.
"Oliver, no!" I scream, lunging after him.
The world narrows to this single moment—Oliver charging forward, unarmed, as the men by the boat turn in unison. Their weapons rise. The sound of gunfire is deafening.
I watch in horror as Oliver's body jerks with the impact of the first bullet. Then another. And another. At least five shots, center mass. His momentum carries him forward two more steps before he staggers, his body turning half way as though instinctively trying to protect itself too late.
Our eyes meet across the distance. His are wide with shock, mouth forming a perfect O of surprise. Then he topples backward, his body arcing gracefully—a dancer's fall—before disappearing off the edge of the dock with a splash.
"No!" The scream tears from my throat as I race to where he fell. The dark water below reveals nothing—no movement, no body, just the gentle ripple of disturbed water already fading.
Rage, white-hot and all-consuming, erupts through me.
I turn toward the men who shot him, my vision tunneling until all I see are targets.
The knife leaves my hand before I consciously decide to throw it, burying itself in the throat of the nearest shooter.
He drops, clutching at the blade, blood spurting between his fingers.
The boats' engines roar louder as the remaining men try to flee.
I grab the fallen man's gun, taking aim at the pilot of the nearest vessel.
The recoil vibrates up my arm as I empty the magazine, satisfaction blooming as the windshield shatters and the driver slumps over the controls.
The boat veers wildly, crashing into the dock with a splintering of wood and fiberglass.
"Rylan!" Hudson's voice cuts through the fog of my rage. He appears beside me, his own weapon raised as he scans for threats. "Are you hit?"
I shake my head, unable to form words past the knot in my throat. My eyes remain fixed on the spot where Oliver disappeared, searching desperately for any sign of movement in the black water.
"He's gone," Hudson says, following my gaze. "The current's too strong."
"We have to find him," I insist, my voice breaking. "He might still be—"
"We need to secure the area first," Hudson cuts me off, his hand gripping my arm. "There could be more of them."
The rational part of my brain knows he's right, but everything in me rebels against leaving Oliver to the cold, dark water. He was trying to protect me. He took those bullets because of me.
"We got one," Kai's voice calls from behind us. "Alive. The rest are dead or escaped on the second boat."
I turn to see Kai dragging a struggling man across the dock, blood streaming from a gash in the captive's forehead. Rev follows close behind, his expression grim as he takes in the carnage.
"Oliver?" Rev asks, his eyes meeting mine.
I shake my head, gesturing helplessly toward the water. "He—they shot him. He fell in."
Rev's jaw tightens. Without a word, he strips off his jacket and boots, then dives cleanly into the water where Oliver disappeared. Kai shoves our captive to his knees, pressing a gun to the back of his head to ensure compliance, before turning his attention to me.
"You okay, gorgeous?" he asks, his eyes scanning me for injuries.
"I'm fine," I reply automatically, though I'm anything but. The image of Oliver's wide, shocked eyes as the bullets hit him plays on repeat in my mind. "He was trying to help me."
Hudson's hand comes to rest on the small of my back, a solid, grounding pressure. "He made his choice," he says quietly. "A brave one, and we will forever be grateful to him."
I want to rage at him, to scream that it shouldn't have happened, that we should have protected him better. But the words die in my throat as Rev resurfaces, gasping for air.
"Nothing," he calls, treading water. "Current's already taken him. It's too dark to see."
My heart sinks. Even if by some miracle Oliver survived the gunshots, the cold water and strong current would finish what the bullets started. He's gone.
I need a distraction. I turn my attention to our captive, cold fury replacing the shock. This man—this piece of human garbage—has answers. And I'm going to extract every last one of them, no matter what it takes.
"Take him to the warehouse," I order, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "I want to know everything. Who they're working for, how they knew our security protocols, all of it."
Hudson studies my face for a long moment before nodding. "We'll get answers," he promises, his voice low and dangerous. "For Oliver."
"For Oliver," I repeat, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.
As Hudson's men secure the area and begin the cleanup, I stand at the edge of the dock, staring into the black water that claimed our dancer.
I should feel guilty—he died trying to protect me, after all.
But all I feel is a cold, calculating rage.
Whoever is behind this has just made their final mistake.
They thought they could break us by destroying what we've built. Instead, they've reawakened something far more dangerous: a devil out for revenge.
"We've got work to do," I say finally, turning away from the water. "And someone is going to pay."