Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paul dove sideways to avoid the blast.
His motion rocked the boat, and threw off Bennett’s aim. The bullet went wide. The sound of the gunshot echoed in Paul’s ears as water enveloped him. Paul pumped his arms and legs furiously, heading for deeper water. Bennett fired again and missed again.
Paul swam underneath the surface as fast and far as he could manage.
His lungs burned with the need for oxygen, and his jeans hampered his movements, as expected.
The extra fabric felt like thick reeds, tugging at his legs.
When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he returned to the surface.
His left hand explored the contours of his chest to make sure he hadn’t been hit.
He grabbed fistfuls of his wet cotton T-shirt. There was no wound. No blood.
Paul wiped the water from his eyes to clear his vision. Bennett made no attempt to swim. He lay facedown on the surface, his limbs outstretched. He didn’t lift his head or move his arms. The stolen cowboy hat floated next to him.
Paul searched the shoreline, his gut clenched with fear. The additional shots had come from a long-distance rifle. At this range, only an experienced sharpshooter could perform the task.
Mendez.
An icy hand skated down his spine. Paul continued to gasp and tread water, scanning the area. If the sniper was Aiden Mendez, had he mistaken Bennett for Paul? Bennett had been wearing Paul’s hat. Even a gunman of high caliber could hit the wrong target.
Paul eased closer to the boat because it offered the only cover available.
Maybe he could cling to the vessel and float around until someone rescued him.
He kept his head low, because any sniper who could pierce a heart at a half-mile could blow apart his skull at the same distance.
Paul’s wet scalp tingled with anticipation.
The damaged boat offered little refuge. Gunfire had penetrated the transom, the engine, and the fuel storage container.
Gasoline shimmered on the surface of the lake in psychedelic colors.
He tried not to gag from the acrid smoke in the air.
The vessel wasn’t just inoperable, it was no longer buoyant.
Water gushed through the hole in the transom and churned like a bubbling broth inside the cabin.
One of his boots spun in the whirlpool. Paul watched, helpless, as the stern tipped downward.
The damned thing was going to sink.
Paul glanced at the shore again, his eyes burning.
He had to swim before his shoulder gave out.
But if he made it that far, how could he escape the shooter?
The man would kill him on arrival. He wondered why Mendez hadn’t fired at him yet.
Maybe the man was toying with him on purpose, drawing out his death as a twisted form of entertainment.
Bennett’s corpse bobbed nearby, a macabre reminder of Paul’s fate.
The body, like the boat, didn’t stay buoyant.
Water filled the lung cavity as easily as it had filled the damaged vessel, and Bennett slipped beneath the surface.
Paul’s cowboy hat drifted out of reach and his wet jeans clung to his legs like weights.
He imagined a dead hand wrapping around his ankle, pulling him down into the dark deep.
With a hard shudder, he kicked away from the wreckage.
He considered going the opposite direction until his shoulder gave out.
This death seemed more dignified than presenting himself to a sniper for execution.
Then Vanessa’s tear-stained face flashed in his mind.
He held on to the image, taking a ragged breath.
He focused only on her. Her pretty eyes, her soft mouth, the sweet succor of her body.
Paul didn’t care if she never spoke to him again; she was still the love of his life, and his number-one reason for living.
He had to fight to survive, not calmly accept his fate.
So he removed his jeans with gritted teeth.
The wet denim was as stiff and unmalleable as heavy rope.
Houdini would have drowned in these jeans.
Paul wrestled with the fabric, fighting to keep his head above water.
When he finally kicked free of the material, he was panting from exertion.
His boxer shorts and T-shirt weren’t going to make a difference, so he left them on. He had to travel a half-mile across open water with a shoulder muscle that was sure to spasm, while dodging bullets.
No problem. He started swimming again.
The first stretch wasn’t difficult. He’d always been a good swimmer, and he didn’t mind deep water or long distances. He’d played water polo in high school. He enjoyed pushing his physical limits. Maybe he could do this.
Predictably, his left shoulder began to ache.
It wasn’t the sharp stab of a pulled muscle, sudden and debilitating.
It was more of a slow, steady burn. The burn increased with every stroke.
Soon he was wincing with each rotation of his arm.
Paul endured the discomfort and carried on, because he was tough, and he had no choice.
This was do or die. Literally sink or swim.
What saved him from certain death wasn’t his willpower, however. It was the memory of Vanessa’s PT sessions. He mimicked the motions she’d shown him, and the pain receded. He was able to keep moving because of her. Soon, he was halfway there, and Mendez still hadn’t shot him.
In the final stretch, the pain returned with a vengeance, and his progress slowed to a crawl.
He switched to a sidestroke, with his left arm hanging uselessly under water and his right doing the bulk of the work.
Paul had to dig deep to finish the grueling trip to the shore.
He recognized the spot he’d visited recently—was it only yesterday?
He headed there. He used one arm, and he kicked his legs, and he propelled his body forward through sheer determination.
He wasn’t sure how he did it. He thought of Vanessa and Emily, and he just did it.
When his feet touched the sandy lake bottom, he made a sound like a dying whale.
Dragging his body forward, he beached himself on the rocky shore.
He shuddered and heaved, grabbing handfuls of wet soil. He leaned over and vomited into the shallow water. Wiping his mouth, he crawled a few more feet and collapsed. If Mendez wanted to shoot him, here he was.
Come and get me, you bastard.
“Not much of a swimmer, are you?” a man asked.
Paul spat onto the rocks, and opened one eye. He knew without looking that the voice belonged to Aiden Mendez, but he wanted a visual confirmation. The man standing nearby wore black clothing with no markings. He had short, dark hair and an athletic build. A black gaiter covered most of his face.
“I was better before your brother shot me,” Paul said.
“You know who I am?”
Paul coughed weakly and nodded. He took his time to recover.
No sense hurrying to become Mendez’s next victim.
After a few minutes, he straightened to a sitting position.
Aiden Mendez didn’t seem interested in Paul’s struggles.
He wasn’t watching, at any rate. He was looking across the lake.
He didn’t appear particularly threatening.
The binoculars around his neck could have belonged to a mild-mannered birdwatcher.
Paul wondered where he’d stashed his rifle, and how long he intended to keep him alive.
“Why are you here?” Paul asked.
“To kill you,” Aiden replied.
It was a chilling reply, delivered in a conversational tone. Paul was too exhausted to feel anything, even fear. He followed Aiden’s gaze toward the water. There was no evidence of the boat or Bennett.
“You missed,” Paul said.
“I never miss.”
“You meant to kill a stranger?”
“Based on my observations, he deserved it.”
Paul couldn’t argue with this assessment, though he didn’t understand the endgame. His head was still fuzzy from the near-drowning, his stomach queasy, and his muscles trembling. He tilted his face toward the sun, eyes closed, and tried not to vomit again.
“Do you disagree?” Aiden asked.
“No. I’m just surprised you would bother.”
Aiden pushed away from the tree and picked up a nearby rock.
He sent it skipping across the water. Paul had read an extensive amount of background on the Mendez organization.
Aiden was an interesting case. He hadn’t participated in the family business as much as his brother—Angel.
He’d done a tour of duty in Iraq. He was in his mid-twenties, and he looked more like a college student than a career criminal.
“Tell me about your woman,” Aiden said.
Paul felt another wave of nausea crash over him. He knew the cabin was visible from this vantage point. “What woman?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough to get an eyeful.”
He swallowed hard. It was better to keep Aiden talking, even if the subject was Vanessa. “What do you want to know?”
“Why did that guy come after her?”
Paul spat on the rocks again. “He was her ex-husband. He wanted her to drive him to Mexico.”
“Who was he running from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You offered to give him a ride in your boat.”
“Yes.”
“She agreed to this plan?”
“She did not.”
“What did you do to her?”
Paul shuddered violently and refused to answer.
He had no idea what Aiden Mendez was capable of.
He might be planning to kidnap Vanessa himself—or shoot her.
Aiden lifted the binoculars to his eyes and looked that direction.
The cabin was well within a sniper’s range. “You came here to kill me, not her.”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you done it?”
Aiden let the binoculars drop. “I was going to take the shot earlier, but your girlfriend arrived and I got distracted by the show.”
Paul flushed, raking a hand through his damp hair.
“I decided to let you enjoy your last meal,” Aiden said. “How was it?”
“None of your business.”
He laughed at the terse response.
“Why are you toying with me?”
Aiden shrugged. “You’d prefer that I get on with it?”
“I’m questioning your commitment to the task. I’m glad you shot Bennett instead of me. But now you’re stalling, and I don’t understand why.”
Aiden examined Paul’s face. “Maybe I wanted to look you in the eye.”
“Again?”
His dark brows rose. “You aimed at me that day.”
“I remember.”
“Why didn’t you shoot?”
“Because you didn’t.”
In the split second before Paul had opened fire on Angel Mendez, he’d locked gazes with Aiden Mendez. He’d been wearing a half-mask that day as well. The surviving brother had lowered his weapon and retreated.
“That moment haunts me,” Aiden said. “You were right in front of me. I could have fired at you before you shot Angel but I didn’t. I could have fired after he fell, but I didn’t. I let my brother die and I let you live.”
Paul didn’t offer a response. He knew this was true.
“Tell me something,” Aiden said.
“What?”
“Did my brother mean to shoot that woman?”
“I think it was unintentional,” Paul said, after a pause. “Just a reflex as he fell.”
Aiden stared across the lake for a long moment. “My father will never forgive me for failing to act.”
“He expected you to kill a cop and spend your life in prison?”
“He expected it and still expects it.”
Paul felt a tiny spark of hope, because Aiden Mendez hadn’t killed him yet.
Assassins, especially sniper-style assassins, didn’t get up close and personal with their targets.
Paul got the impression that Aiden was weighing his options, and taking his measure as a man. “What if you don’t follow through?”
“That is not an option.”
Paul stretched out on his back on the rocky shoreline and tucked one hand behind his head. The sun beat down on his wet, bedraggled body. If this was the end, so be it. He couldn’t regret the way he’d spent his last day on earth. He’d told Vanessa he loved her, and he’d protected her from Bennett.
“What are you doing?” Aiden asked.
“Relaxing.”
“You don’t believe I’ll kill you?”
“I believe it. I’ll get up and fight you in a minute.”
They shared a companionable silence. Paul figured his chances of dying here were about fifty-fifty. He had no quarrel with Aiden Mendez, but he would kill him if he had to. Until then, he could be civil.
“How long have you been watching me?” Paul asked.
“Since last night.”
Aiden lifted the binoculars again. Paul glanced toward the cabin, massaging his shoulder.
Vanessa’s car was still parked outside. He prayed she would break free of the duct tape and get the hell out of here.
Aiden Mendez might not be a cold-blooded murderer, but he was an experienced gunman.
He might take a shot at her to show off his skills, or to observe Paul’s reaction.
Aiden lowered the binoculars and sat down. “Your woman is very beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“Will she mourn the ex?”
“I doubt it.”
“What about you? Will she mourn you?”
Paul wasn’t sure, so he stayed quiet.
“Maybe it’s superficial of me,” Aiden mused, “but I hate to cause a woman sorrow. Especially one who looks like that.”
“By all means, be superficial.”
“Are you in love with her?”
Paul knew better than to bare his soul to an assassin. And yet, he sensed that Aiden was looking for a reason to spare him. He wanted to do a kindness for a pretty woman, and maybe he wanted to thwart his father. “Yes.”
“Is she in love with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you do with your life if I spared it?”
Paul considered his answer carefully. “I’d spend every moment of it trying to make her happy.”