10. Luke
LUKE
The water hits like a fist.
Cold doesn’t even begin to cover it. The shock punches the air from my lungs, and for half a second my body locks up—every muscle seizing against the temperature. The current drags at me, trying to pull me downstream, but I kick hard and break the surface gasping.
The van is twenty feet ahead, nose-down in the shallow rapids, water pouring through the shattered windshield. The back end is still partially above the waterline, tilted at a sick angle against the rocks.
I swim hard, fighting the current, my boots dragging like anchors. My shoulder screams where I landed wrong on the way down, but I ignore it. There’s no time.
Movement catches my eye—passenger side. A guy is scrambling out through the window, half crawling, half falling into the water. He’s coughing, disoriented, but the second he sees me, he raises his gun.
Not happening.
Diving under, I close the distance in three strokes. Shots hit the water around me, missing. The next one goes up high as I burst through the surface and grab his wrist. I twist hard, and he yelps, trying to swing at me with his free hand.
I drive my elbow into his temple—once, twice—and he goes limp. I let the current take him downstream.
The van groans, metal scraping against rock as it shifts deeper into the water.
I haul myself up onto the side panel, boots slipping on wet metal, and move toward the back. The rear doors are partially submerged, but I can still reach the handle. My fingers are already going numb, but I wrench it open.
The door swings wide.
There’s a woman inside.
She’s curled against the far wall of the cargo area, soaking wet, shaking so hard I can see it even in the dim light. Her hands and feet are zip-tied. Her eyes are wide, terrified, locked on me like she’s not sure if I’m here to save her or finish what the driver started.
“It’s okay,” I say, my hands open. “I’m getting you out.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at me like she’s forgotten how to trust another human being.
The van shifts again, sinking lower, and that snaps me into motion. I reach for her, and she flinches hard. I curse mentally, but I need to get her out, so I hold her arms gently and look her in the eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you, but we need to move. Now. So I’m going to pick you up.”
She nods—barely—and I pull her toward me, lifting her out of the van and into the freezing water. She gasps and huddles into me as I carry her toward the bank.
Behind us, the van groans one last time and slides deeper into the water.
I don’t look back.
I just hold on to her and keep moving.