Caribbean Sea
The boat was at rest.
The sky rich with stars, the whole galaxy unfolding.
Whatever happened tonight, she needed to remember just how unimportant she was. How unimportant her life was, in the grand scheme. As long as the kids were safe.
Not that she wanted to die. She didn’t. She had no intention of dying. But she knew she might. She wasn’t sure what Brian was planning. But she saw the position he had put her in. The slow, steady moves he’d made. Separating her from her gun. From witnesses. From police. Anyone who could help, anyone at all. Getting her drunk.
Though she wasn’t quite as drunk as she seemed. She’d had her share of the first bottle, but since he opened the second she’d only nursed a glass. She was afraid of getting dehydrated because of her leg, she told him. He joked a couple of times about her not keeping up, but he didn’t push.
He stopped the Chris-Craft in time for them to watch the sun disappear over the horizon, the sky above turning from blue to black. Somehow, without talking it over, they decided to stay out for the night. He finished making dinner, cracked the lobsters, tossed a salad. She set the table, poured them water and champagne. The low companionable work of marriage. Maybe if she’d been home for more dinners. Maybe they would have been stronger together, loved each other more. Maybe Brian wouldn’t have grown so lost.
Or maybe not. Maybe he was who he was. Maybe they would just have bored each other sooner. Nothing more useless than trying to guess how a mythical past might change an impossible future. Becks knew she wasn’t much of a romantic. Even before she joined the FBI, she’d never been a unicorns-and-flowers girl. Brian wasn’t particularly romantic either, though he could fake it.
Seemed he could fake almost anything.
She was standing near the front of the Chris-Craft now, looking into the blackness, the boat rocking on the chop of the waves. She didn’t have to be an oceanographer to know that they’d headed into open, rougher water. Maybe it wasn’t the Atlantic, exactly, but it wasn’t the Caribbean either.
Brian was still in the kitchen, washing the last dishes.
Only he wasn’t. He was behind her. His hands on her shoulders. “Gorgeous, huh?”
“Gorgeous.”
“I’d forgotten what it’s like to be so far from anything.”
“It feels good.”
“Becks. You ever wonder what our life would have been like if we’d had kids later? If we’d traveled more?”
“Not really. No do-overs, right? Only one ride on the coaster. Anyway, soon Tony will be in college and we can start again. Have all those things.”
“Yeah.” He sounded unconvinced.
She turned to him, looked into those blue eyes of his. Thought of the first time they’d said I love you, how she’d wanted the world to stop forever in that moment.
But the world didn’t stop, did it? It whirled like a centrifuge until it revealed every truth. Back then she’d thought his eyes were perfect. Flawless. Now they just looked cold.
If it’s going to happen it’s going to be now.
Still she had to be sure. She would rather die than not be sure.
He kissed her.
“Can you play through the pain?”
“I’m sorry, Bri. But—”
She dropped to her knees.
The sad truth: Kira had given her the idea when she’d told Rebecca about what had happened with Rodrigo. I knew the best way to distract him was putting his cock in my mouth. Works every time. Men, right?
Jesus, Kira.
Yeah, that’s pretty much what he said. She’d laughed, a cold laugh that reminded Rebecca of no one so much as Brian. But then Kira was half Brian, wasn’t she? She’d make a great FBI agent. Or a great criminal.
Brian responded immediately. And vigorously. And he didn’t need long.
“Oh God. That was. Wow.”
She wiped her mouth, looked up at him. “Where’s the champagne.”
He handed over the bottle.
She took a pull. Felt it hit her right away.
He looked her over. A gleam in his eyes. Hard. Unsettling.
Her leg itched.
Wait. Wait.
She handed him the bottle.
Tried to, anyway. But he didn’t take it.
He picked her up and threw her over the side.
She rolled through the air, landed hard, stung her shoulder and head against the water. The water was warmer than she expected, none of the shock of diving into the Atlantic. She found her bearings, lifted her head, took a breath. Had a moment to wonder whether he would run for the helm, speed off—but no—
He jumped down. Grabbed her shoulders. Pushed her under.
So he planned to finish the job himself.
She closed her eyes against the blackness. The water churning over her, clammy, enveloping, pushing at her from every side like it wanted to take her in. Which, of course, it did. Brian’s hands helping, heavy and firm, squeezing her shoulders. Pushing her down.
She let him. She didn’t fight. She didn’t panic. All those years as an FBI agent had drained the panic out of her. She’d been working on her swimming too. Every day. As soon as Brian brought up the trip. She knew just how much time she had. Ninety seconds at least, if she didn’t thrash around. Probably two minutes.
Everything had brought her here.
Now she knew who he was. What he was.
Now she knew.
She knew, and she could act. He was stronger, he was bigger, but she had one great edge, the one that beat all the others.
She reached down. The bandage had already come off. She’d used tape that wasn’t waterproof.
Underneath, her leg was unburned.
And a single spring-loaded syringe was taped tightly to her thigh, halfway down.
The trickiest part. But she’d practiced this too. Practiced in the dark. Practiced wearing goggles and weights. She wished she could have practiced with someone attacking her, but that would have raised too many questions.
Two hands now. No mistakes. She’d decided not to wear two syringes, she was worried about hiding two. Which meant she had one chance. If she dropped it, if it slipped from her hands into the deep, she’d die. She could already feel the pressure building in her lungs.
She peeled off the tape with her left hand, took the syringe in her right. Made sure she had a firm grip.
The syringe was medium-gauge, surgical grade, spring-loaded.
Inside, five milliliters of 50 mg/ml epinephrine solution. Two hundred fifty milligrams of epinephrine.
She could feel his legs brushing her ribs. He was hardly moving. He might be wondering why she wasn’t fighting. Maybe he thought she was too stunned to struggle, that she was saving her breath hoping to last as long as he could.
She’d never know. No matter. As long as he didn’t start thrashing himself.
He was pushing straight down on her shoulders. So her arms were free, a full range of motion forward and back. Measure twice, cut once. She made sure she could feel his leg.
She jabbed her arm up, putting the needle into the meat of his left thigh. Felt the spring release.
Felt the syringe surge into him.
Epinephrine is adrenaline. A typical adult dose, an EpiPen dose, runs one-third of a milligram. A lethal dose is eight milligrams. This shot was thirty times that.
Brian’s heart attack started moments after the needle delivered the dose.
His grip on her shoulders tightened so powerfully that she bit her lip not to scream. His fingers tore at her collarbones. Then his hands came loose and he thrashed, kicking wild and helpless, catching her in the ribs, the back. She swam now, swam toward the boat, away from him. The water no longer her enemy.
She surfaced. Opened her eyes. Watched him as he moaned, grabbed at himself. Tried to swim but his motions were rough and disconnected and she knew he had only a few seconds before he sank. His eyes wild and feral. Opened his mouth, to speak maybe. But water sloshed in. The water took him.
Until he disappeared beneath it. The end he’d meant for her.