Chapter Thirty-One

Mitch steered the speedboat across the harbor, staring into the distance, his pulse erratic as he tried unsuccessfully to stay calm and focused. As the building he recognized as the dealership’s showroom came into view, he squeezed the throttle tighter and strained to make out details. He wanted to find Andrea standing safe by the docks, her hair sparkling in the sunshine. But deep down he knew hoping wasn’t enough to produce a happy ending.

The dock appeared empty, but to his left and about a mile away, two fast-moving boats of the type Stone sold at the dealership were heading out toward the sea. A red boat was traveling at a dangerously high speed and weaving down the channel. A blue one going just as fast followed close behind. On a hunch, he looked down at his computer to check the GPS signal. The blip on his screen was moving. Andrea had to be in one of those boats.

Over the roar of his boat’s engine, he heard a distinctive pop. A shot. His heart skipped a beat, and adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream. He turned the wheel forty-five degrees, pushed the throttle forward to the stop, and took off after the second boat.

He grabbed a pair of binoculars from the small compartment under the wheel. Waves bounced his boat, and he spread his legs farther apart and struggled to focus on the driver of the first boat. Yes. He knew that hair, that profile, that well-toned body. Andrea. His breath whooshed out. She was safe, for the moment.

A group of three startled seabirds took flight in front of her boat. He watched her squint into the sun as she headed toward a outcropping of dangerous rocks. She was too close. He prayed she would spot them in time to swerve. He held his breath. At the last instant, her bow angled away.

The maneuver cost her precious seconds. The blue boat was closing on Andrea, and the driver was alternately steering with both hands and shooting. The waves bounced both boats and interfered with the man’s accuracy, but if the gap closed by as little as a few more yards, one of his bullets might well find its mark.

His stomach lurched at the thought of Andrea being shot. He gritted his teeth and murmured, “If he harms her, I’ll kill him.”

Mitch realized his pulse was pounding at his temples and ordered himself to get a grip. Panic clouded a person’s judgment, and he wouldn’t be of any use to Andrea without mental discipline. He needed to think and act rationally, stay strong, and not let his emotions precipitate failure. He was a Ranger, a professional trained to remain calm under pressure.

Calm usually worked. But at the moment, the problem boiled down to his feelings for Andrea. When he imagined losing her, it was hard—no, impossible—to be objective.

In that instant, Mitch understood why Steve had sacrificed his life. When someone was about to die, a man had to choose between watching that person be killed or acting counter to his survival instincts to prevent it from happening. Steve had made the instant decision that the young girl’s life was worth risking his own. And Mitch knew without a second’s hesitation that he would gladly die, too, if it meant saving Andrea.

He studied the relative positions of the two boats. Praying he wouldn’t be too late, he jerked the wheel to the right and his boat responded, slicing through the water aimed at the narrow slot between Andrea’s boat’s stern and the bow of her pursuer’s.

A shot. Andrea flinched and looked behind her.

Mitch willed her to see him. Don’t be afraid. Know I’m here, know I intend to do everything humanly possible to keep you safe.

As if she could hear his thoughts, she looked away from Elliott and turned her head in Mitch’s direction. Their eyes met across the distance for a split second that would remain in his mind’s eye for an eternity. She sent him a message in a small smile, and his heart clutched with desperation. He had to make sure she survived.

Mitch pulled his gun from his waistband.

The driver of the second boat turned his face toward the roar of Mitch’s engine, and Mitch had a jolt of recognition: Elliott Stone.

Elliott’s bow angled slightly to the left, following his gaze. His gun hand swung around toward Mitch.

Mitch’s reactions were quicker. Gauging the relative movements of the boats, and estimating where Elliott would be when the bullet arrived, he aimed and fired. Elliott’s boat rose on a wave. A chunk of fiberglass separated from the rail an inch behind Elliott’s legs.

The man’s eyes narrowed to black slits. The boats drew closer together, bringing both men easily within the other’s range. Elliott angled his bow a few more degrees toward Mitch as a muzzle flash signaled a shot and his gun jerked with the recoil.

Mitch ducked and hit the floor but maintained his heading. His boat was on a virtual collision course with Elliott Stone’s and closing the gap at over fifty miles an hour. He bounced back up and peered over the rail. In his peripheral vision, he saw the wake from Andrea’s boat as she veered away toward safety. He brought up his gun, swept it slightly right, sighted on Elliott’s head. His finger tightened on the trigger.

A huge boom hit his ears. He spun to look behind him. While the idea that Elliott’s last bullet had pierced the fuel tank registered in his mind, the percussion wave from the explosion lifted him into the air, flinging his body up and over the gunwale. His weapon was torn from his hand. He had the sensation of skydiving in the midst of a cloud of debris.

Something solid slammed the side of his head. The world blurred. His vision went black. He hit hard against the water. His last thought was half wish and half prayer: let Andrea be getting away.