I calculated distances, angles, and risks. Ten feet separated us.
The burning yacht loomed to our left, flames climbing higher with each passing second. To the right was open water. The gap between the dock and the nearest boat was too wide to jump.
Behind me, a growing crowd of resort staff and guests formed a loose semi-circle, their phones raised to document whatever happened next.
The masked man's eyes narrowed behind his covering. I recognized that look—the cold assessment of a trained operative deciding whether to engage or retreat. His posture shifted subtly, weight redistributing to the balls of his feet.
"Back away," I commanded. "Hands where I can see them."
He tilted his head, almost curious, as if I'd spoken in a language he only partially understood. Then, his hand moved toward something tucked at the small of his back.
I broke into a sprint, adrenaline flooding my body. I wasn't Michael the vacationer anymore. I wasn't even Officer McCabe. It was something more pure and instinctual—a body trained to intercept evil.
A blade appeared in his hand as if conjured from the smoke itself. The tactical knife reflected sunlight along its serrated edge, a wicked gleam that promised violence.
I'd faced this scenario in countless training sessions and a handful of real engagements. In my head, I wasn't in Tahiti anymore.
He slashed forward in a controlled arc. I sidestepped, but not quite fast enough. The blade skimmed my forearm, opening a thin cut that I registered but didn't feel.
"Who are you?" I demanded, circling to put myself between him and the fallen guard.
He didn't answer and didn't hesitate. He attacked again with precise movements.
I caught his wrist mid-slash, twisting hard until I felt tendons strain against bone. My knee drove upward into his solar plexus. The breath left him in a sharp gasp, but he recovered too quickly, countering with an elbow strike that told me everything I needed to know.
He wasn't a street fighter. He'd had military combat training.
We crashed against a mooring post, the impact sending shockwaves through my shoulder. The knife fell from his grip, skittering across the dock. He lunged after it, but I hooked my ankle around his and sent him sprawling.
His fist connected with my jaw as he recovered, causing stars to explode behind my eyes. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. I'd bitten the inside of my cheek, releasing blood. The pain sharpened my focus.
I tackled him, both of us rolling dangerously close to the edge of the dock. Seawater splashed up between the weathered boards, and the salt stung the cut on my arm.
His fingers dug into my throat, seeking pressure points with disturbing expertise. I broke his hold with a sharp downward strike against his forearm, feeling something give under the impact.
He didn't make any sounds. No grunts of effort or cries of pain. Only measured breathing.
The heat from the burning yacht intensified as the fire consumed more of the vessel. Sweat poured down my back. My muscles burned. The fight needed to end soon.
I feinted left, then drove my weight forward suddenly. My elbow connected with the side of his head—a solid, ugly impact.
I spotted the knife again, just within his reach. As I lunged for it, my fingers closed around the handle.
He regained his balance and surged toward me but hesitated when he saw the blade in my hand. For one beat, we stared at each other through the shimmering heat.
Next, he did something unexpected. He backed up.
It wasn't a retreat. He was circling to my left, trying to position himself between me and the resort, but he miscalculated the narrowing edge of the dock where it curved around the yacht slip.
He stumbled backward, arms windmilling for balance. His heel caught nothing but air at the dock's edge.
I moved to grab him—a deeply ingrained instinct to prevent loss of life. He didn't want to allow that, and he twisted, driving himself further off balance.
I watched helplessly as gravity claimed him, pulling him toward the burning wreckage of the yacht. His eyes, visible through the mask, widened as he suddenly realized his fate.
His hand reached out, fingers scraping uselessly against a mooring line that slipped through his grasp. Our gazes locked.
For that fraction of a second, he wasn't a threat or an assailant. He was only a man facing his mortality, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. It wasn't fear, more like resignation.
