CHAPTER 42 - Sylas
The impact of the rifle butt against the back of my knee sent a violent, sickening shock straight up my spine, but the physical failure of the joint was nothing compared to the sight of the launch bobbing alone at the edge of the dark pontoon.
I hit the wet wood hard, my breath tearing from my lungs as a second tactical boot slammed directly into my ribs.
The force sent me sliding across the slick planks.
My fingers clawed at the edge of the floating dock, searching for friction that wasn't there, before the freezing, black current of the Thames swallowed me entirely.
The cold was an absolute shock, closing over my head and instantly constricting the muscles in my chest.
When I broke the surface, gasping for air through the downpour, Miller was already standing at the top of the ramp. He was raising his rifle, his barrel tracking the dark water to finish the liquidation sequence. I had no leverage, no angle, and no protection against the ballistic trajectory.
Then the hemp line hit the water.
“Catch it!” Elara’s voice screamed through the roar of the storm.
I didn't calculate the weight or the tension.
I lunged through the freezing current, my fingers locking around the wet, rough fibers with an absolute, unyielding grip.
On the deck of the launch, her small frame was anchored against the wooden rim, the rope wrapped tightly around her forearm as she threw her entire weight into the line to counteract the river's pull.
She was actively tearing her own unhealed shoulder apart to keep me from slipping under the hull.
A muzzle flash illuminated the rain from above, the round splintering the wood inches from my neck, but Elara didn't let go of the line.
With a final, desperate strain, she dragged me close enough to reach the gunwale. I threw my wet upper body over the side of the utility launch, tumbling onto the rough canvas of the deck in a freezing, shivering heap of soaked wool.
I didn't waste a single second to stabilize my breathing.
I scrambled to my feet, half-blinded by the river rain, and lunged straight for the manual helm.
My wet palm slammed the iron gear lever into hard reverse, my other hand wrenching the cold metal wheel as Miller's second volley shattered the wooden canopy directly above our heads, raining glass down onto our shoulders.
The diesel engine roared under the sudden acceleration, the propeller biting violently into the black water to pull us clear of the shipping yard's orange glare.
I kept my eyes fixed on the narrow, dark opening of the Southwark under-canals ahead, my hands locking the wheel into place as Vivienne's frantic screams of failure were swallowed by the storm behind us.
The network was dark, our safety was compromised, but the girl with the kindle was sitting in the cabin—and the chase was officially moving on our terms.