CHAPTER 41 - Elara
The sound of the first gunshot was a whip-crack that shattered the roar of the downpour.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate the geometry of the yard.
I lunged to the right, my sneakers skidding on the slick cobblestones as I bolted beneath the massive, rusted iron framework of the old dockside crane.
The pain in my left shoulder flared into a blinding, white-hot scream, but the pure adrenaline of survival pushed me forward through the blinding rain.
Behind me, the shadows were a chaotic, violent blur.
Sylas hadn't run for cover; he had targeted the lead contractor, Miller, using the man’s own hesitation against him.
He slammed his weight into the contractor, throwing off his aim as a second round ricocheted violently off the crane's steel leg just inches from my head.
Sparks showered into the dark, reflecting in the deep puddles of Thames water.
“Get her!” Vivienne shrieked, her voice cracking over the sound of a second contractor scrambling into the gravel after me. “She’s heading for the water!”
I hit the open pier, the wet wooden planks groaning beneath my feet.
Sixty yards felt like an infinity. The cold river wind whipped through my soaked sweater, heavying the wool so much it felt like it was trying to drag me down into the mud.
In my right hand, my fingers were locked around the scuffed plastic of the kindle with a death grip.
Don't look back, he had said.
But as my boots hit the slippery iron ramp leading down to the floating pontoon, I couldn't stop myself. I turned my head through the sheeting rain.
Sylas was breaking away from the SUV. He had managed to disable the first man, but the remaining two contractors were closing in, their tactical boots heavy against the asphalt.
He didn't look like the flawless, untouchable CEO from the seventeenth-floor penthouse anymore.
His charcoal sweater was torn, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his face was entirely driven by a raw, primal determination to reach the pier.
He looked toward the ramp, his gray eyes locking onto mine through the dark and the rain.
“Jump, Elara!” he roared, his voice carrying over the thunder of the storm. “Into the launch!”
At the end of the pontoon, the old utility boat was bobbing violently against the tires of the dock, its ancient diesel engine still chugging low and steady from when Sylas had prepared it. It was our only way out, our only blind spot left in London.
I scrambled down the slippery ramp, my boots barely finding traction on the wet iron.
I threw myself over the gunwale, landing hard on the rough canvas sails inside the cabin.
The breath knocked out of me, and a fresh wave of agony sliced through my wounded shoulder, but I forced my eyes open, looking back up the pier.
Sylas was running down the pontoon, but he wasn't going to make it.
The remaining contractor had recovered, skidding down the ramp behind him. He didn't try to grab Sylas; instead, he brought the butt of his rifle down hard against the back of Sylas's knee.
Sylas buckled, his knee hitting the wet wooden planks with a dull, heavy thud.
He tried to swing back around, his fist cutting through the rain, but the second contractor was already there, slamming his heavy tactical boot into Sylas’s ribs.
The force of the kick sent Sylas sliding toward the edge of the floating dock.
His hands clawed desperately at the slick wood, but his grip failed, and he fell heavily into the freezing, dark water of the Thames.
“Sylas!” I screamed, the sound torn from the raw depths of my throat.
Vivienne and Miller reached the top of the ramp, Miller raising his rifle to aim directly into the black water where Sylas had just vanished. They were going to end this right here.
Driven by an impulse that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the terror of watching him disappear, I ignored the scream of my torn muscle. I bolted out of the cabin, lunging across the slippery deck of the bobbing launch.
I grabbed a thick, coiled hemp mooring line attached to the boat’s heavy iron cleat. With a desperate heave of my uninjured arm, I threw the heavy knot into the dark water just as Sylas’s head broke the surface, his gasping breath choked by the freezing current.
“Catch it!” I shrieked through the downpour.
Sylas’s hand shot out of the water, his long, pale fingers locking around the rough hemp rope with an iron grip.
He was a massive weight to pull against the pulling river current.
I wrapped the line around my own forearm, anchoring my heels against the boat's wooden rim, the rough fiber tearing into my skin as I pulled with every ounce of strength I had left.
“Hold on!” I gasped, my vision blurring from the sheer physical strain.
Above us, Miller fired. The round slammed into the wooden pontoon inches from Sylas’s shoulder, showering his face in splinters.
With one final, agonizing yank, I managed to haul him close enough to the gunwale.
Sylas kicked off the side of the floating dock, using the last of his momentum to throw his wet upper body over the side of the utility launch.
He tumbled onto the deck in a soaking, shivering heap of dark wool and river water.
He didn't waste a single millisecond to catch his breath.
Still dripping and half-blinded by the storm, Sylas lunged across the deck toward the helm. His wet hand slammed the manual gear lever straight into reverse, his other hand gripping the cold metal wheel.
The ancient diesel engine let out a deafening, violent roar. The propeller bit hard into the black river water, throwing up a blinding cloud of spray just as a second volley of gunfire tore through the wooden canopy above our heads, shattering the glass of the small cabin.
The boat surged backward into the dark, heavy current of the Thames, breaking away from the orange glare of the shipping yard. We slipped backward into the black, unmapped belly of the London under-canals, leaving Vivienne's screams of fury behind us in the rain.