The force of the shot reverberates through his arm, ringing up into his skull, and Arran hadn’t thought it would take such physical strength to shoot a man. A pistol is so small, in the grand scheme of things. But neither had he thought it would be so easy. A gun is still a weapon. And he’s never shot one in his life.
Had never, not till now.
Arran watches Darius Miranda drop out of sight on the deck above, and only then does he lower Darius Miranda’s own pistol. It still rings in his ears, but life goes on around him, as it tends to do.
Griff, punching her brass knuckles into the last of the blackbags’ face with a satisfying crunch, leaping over the half-foot space into the skiff, shouting, “Let’s go.” Theo, hand in hand with Selah on the deck above, jumping into the water below. Griff, taking charge of the bowline rigging as he veers the skiff around to meet them, and he doesn’t ask how she knows what to do. Selah, her hand in solid in his, as he pulls her out of the water. Theo, their eyes meeting his, and he doesn’t know where to start to say, Thank you. Griff, who doesn’t have time for this, yelling at him to steer out into the fast-lightening dark. And then Selah, suddenly frowning, looking wildly around.
“Tair,” she says, panic coming in at the edge. “Where’s Tair?”