Katarina
Killian is at the helm, and we drop anchor at the location we’ve chosen to launch our attack.
I’m double-checking our latest coordinates against the flight plan Sasha’s provided when I hear the crinkle of a wrapper being opened.
The tang of cheese and onion hits me long before the packet gets shoved under my nose.
“Eat some,” Killian demands.
Only this man would bring Tayto crisps on a mission. I take a single potato chip, not because I’m hungry, but because Killian will only force feed me something else.
The closest I’d ever come to being nurtured before was with my sestras, but we soon learned to guard our feelings. It’s a shame my uncle only ever considered affection as a weakness. He doesn’t understand the power that comes from love. Power that is going to bring him down very shortly.
Killian rustles the packet, clearly not satisfied that I’ve eaten enough.
With a huff, I grab a handful of potato chips and shove them into my mouth. I’m swallowing just as a message pings.
Boarded.
I jump out of the captain’s seat, but before I can get out of the wheelhouse, Killian grabs my arm, pulling me back against him.
“Let’s send him to hell,” he says before smashing his lips against mine.
The fact that my kiss tastes of cheese and onion seasoning will be an added bonus for this crazy man.
While I race to get into position, Killian fires off a message to the Griffins. Ash and Mace have been enjoying a little vacation in Hawaii, island hopping so they’re on hand when we need extracting. By tonight I could be sipping cocktails on a beach while Killian feeds me yet more snacks.
We’ve attached the missile launcher to a tripod on the mid-section.
Our set up is camouflaged with fishing nets and surrounded by barrels and an ice chest to keep our mini-arsenal of weapons and ammunition from view.
We have handguns, knives and an assortment of rifles and grenades if we need them. In truth, one missile should be enough.
The timber deck is warming with the rising sun and as I crouch down behind the tripod, sea air mixes with the stink of fish and the lingering smell of Tayto crisps. I lick my fingers before picking up my binoculars. There isn’t a dark cloud in sight. The next storm will be of my making.
Killian starts up the engine and there’s the clank of the anchor being raised in case we need to adjust our position quickly.
I’m hoping we don’t as I scan the horizon for confirmation that we’ve chosen the right position, and while I wait, Killian comes alongside me.
There’s a tug at my waist as he tightens my bulletproof vest.
We’ve changed out of our wet suits and I’m wearing khaki shorts and t-shirt. Killian’s outfit consists of bright Bermuda shorts and a Kevlar vest, the dark ink of his tattoos rippling over muscles my fingers itch to explore in sunlight for a change. Later.
A dark speck appears in the distance, heading in our direction. We’re not directly under the helicopter’s path, but close enough.
I take a deep breath, expanding my chest to make room for the nerves fluttering in my belly. I’ve waited a long time for this. “I see him.”
Killian chambers a bullet in his long-range rifle. He’ll aim for the pilot at the same time I release the missile. It’s a failsafe in case the pilot has time for evasive action, or if I miss, which I won’t.
I’m about to swap my binoculars for the scope on the missile launcher when the helicopter pauses in midair. Spiders crawl down my spine as I sense us being watched.
“Fuck,” I mutter as the helicopter veers to the left, turning sharp enough that I can see the insignia on its side. “They’re changing course.”
“A chase it is then,” Killian says, hoisting his rifle over his shoulder. “Keep your head down, lovely.”
He races back to the wheelhouse and when the engine roars and the boat lurches, so does my stomach.
The helicopter is too far away to engage in a meaningful attack, and if Vasili chooses to escape, he will.
We won’t win in a chase no matter how fast this boat can move.
There’s only one way to persuade Vasili to hang around for a fight now.
I stand up.
“Come get me, you bastard,” I curse.
“Katarina, get the fuck down!” yells Killian from behind me, his voice scratched with fear.
“Drop the anchor!” I reply by way of an answer. I’m smiling as I watch the helicopter correct its course again. “He’s coming.”
There’s the crash of the anchor dropping fast, and pounding footfalls that match my racing heart. Killian slams into me and pins me to the deck.
He’s panting as he looks down at me. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Mad. Psycho. Bitch.”
I shove him off and roll my eyes. “We have a missile launcher. I can hit them long before they can hit us.”
“Assuming they don’t have missiles.”
It’s a fair point.
As we assume our positions, the helicopter closes some of the distance between us then hovers just out of range of our bullets.
It turns ninety degrees to reveal an open door at the rear.
A man I recognize as one of Vasili’s guards is crouching with an eye pressed to the scope of his rifle. I give him the middle finger.
“Jesus, Kitty. Keep your fucking head down,” Killian says through gritted teeth. “With the wind in the right direction, he could get lucky and–”
There’s the distant crack of a shot, but no noticeable impact. If the bullet hit the ocean, it was too far away to hear a splash.
“Hit launch, Kitty. Let’s erase the fuckers,” Killian says impatiently.
“I want to see my uncle first. I need to know he’s onboard.”
“You know he is. Sasha confirmed it.”
“Even so… I want to look him in the eye when I send him to hell.”
Killian must know what I’m planning because he presses a hand to my shoulder to stop me. “No more breaking cover. Please. My heart can’t take it.”
I purse my lips and I’m shocked to find them trembling. Killian’s right. I don’t need to see Vasili. I just need my uncle dead if I’m ever going to be free. I settle my shoulder against the missile launcher and line up the scope with the center of the helicopter. My trigger finger tenses.
One.
Two.
My breath catches as Vasili Barkov appears behind the guy taking shots at me.
He’s carrying something long and cylindrical and as he aims it in my direction, there’s a wide grin on his face.
He’s scaled up his protection since my escape.
My uncle’s missile launcher isn’t quite as big as Killian’s, but the damage it could do to our little fishing boat would be catastrophic.
He won’t waste time taunting me, so neither can I. When I launch the missile, I’m shoved back by the force, but I straighten up so I can follow the trail it leaves as it speeds towards the helicopter.
I’m not looking through the scope so I’m denied whatever will be Vasili’s last expression. Shock perhaps. More likely anger. Or maybe he’s still grinning because, at the same time Killian curses, I spot a second missile heading our way.
When my uncle’s helicopter explodes, the boom is deafening, the ball of fire spectacular and the sight of shrapnel and smoke scattering that bastard’s ashes to the four winds is glorious.
I take in every beautiful detail for all of a millisecond before I’m forced to acknowledge the incoming counter strike.
I hold my breath, hoping its trajectory will be thrown off by the shockwave from the first explosion, but no, it’s heading straight for the midsection of the boat. My uncle had to be such a good fucking shot.
Killian and I jump up at the same time and he grabs my arm. “Get to the stern!” he shouts, pointing past the wheelhouse to the furthest part of the aft.
We make it to the narrow gangway running alongside the wheelhouse and Killian keeps to my back, protecting me. I grab the handrail to propel myself forward just as the boat takes the hit. The handrail shakes, the boat lurches and my ears throb with the pressure of the explosion.
And then… nothing.
I let out a shaky breath. The boat is listing and will probably go down, but we made it.
“I’ll send Ash an SOS,” Killian shouts above the whoosh of flames engulfing the hole in the deck. “Keep to the stern. There’s an inflatable life raft we can use.”
While he disappears inside the wheelhouse, I grab the inflatable and pull the cord to inflate it as I throw it into the water.
When I turn back to Killian, his frame is silhouetted against the thick, black smoke coming from the midsection.
The inferno behind him is being fueled by timber that’s tinder dry from the intense morning sun.
The fishing nets around our cache of weapons will be catching too. Firearms. Bullets. Grenades.
Oh, fuck.
“Killian!” I scream and his head snaps up.
I lift my hand and point behind him. I don’t know if he understands the danger he’s in, or if he’s simply responding to my terror, but he acts fast and races to the side door of the wheelhouse.
It’s not fast enough.
Hell’s fire consumes us for all our sins, of which there are many.