She’s in the water, flailing, her head barely breaking the surface as the boat’s wake churns the ocean into a violent mess around her.
“Shit!” I bellow, sprinting faster.
I don’t care that whoever is on the boat might see me. The only thing I care about is getting to Kruz. I’ll deal with whatever comes after, in whatever way necessary.
My feet pound against the pier as I race to the edge, ripping off my jacket and boots in one quick motion. I don’t think, I just dive.
The icy water steals my breath as I fight against the current. My arms cut through the waves as I push toward her, the chaos of the wake pulling me in every direction. She’s going under again, her limbs weak, her movements slowing.
“Kruz!” I shout, though my voice is lost in the roar of the water.
I reach her just as she slips under, my hand wrapping around her arm. Her skin is cold, far too cold, and I drag her up, her head breaking the surface with a gasp and a cough. I know being caught in this is just as dangerous for me as it is for her, but I’d rather risk dying with her than face living without her.
“Got you,” I say, my voice determined as I grip her tightly. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t respond, barely conscious as I haul her back toward the shore. The waves fight me the whole way, but I don’t let go. I can’t.
By the time I get her onto the rocky beach, my arms are shaking, and my breath comes in harsh gasps. I collapse beside her for a second, checking her pulse, her breathing. She’s alive—barely—but the cold is sapping what little strength she has left.
She was in the water for much longer than I was.
I’m about to pick her up and carry her back to the cottage when I hear it: voices. Shouting. The crunch of boots on the shell-covered shoreline.
I glance up and see them—two men, armed, scanning the shore. They’re from the boat. And they’re not here by accident.
“I love you so fucking much,” I whisper to Kruz, though I know she’s too out of it to respond.
I pull a knife from my belt and crouch low, moving toward the shadows of the rocks. My heart pounds, not from fear, but from rage. They’re here for the drugs, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to get them.
I should have known someone would come looking. A shipment like that doesn’t just disappear without consequences. These men aren’t scouts or messengers—they’re enforcers, sent to clean up loose ends. And right now, I’m the only loose end they can see.
They don’t call out, don’t try to negotiate. They aren’t here for words. To them, I’m just an obstacle, something to be removed. If I know anything about the people who deal in this kind of business, it’s that they don’t leave anything to chance. No witnesses. No survivors.
The first man spots me just as I get close. His gun is already rising, his finger curling around the trigger, but I’m faster, slamming into him and driving the knife into his gut. He chokes on a gasp, his body jerking as I twist the blade deep, cutting through muscle and sinew. His fingers scrabble weakly at my arm, trying to push me away, but I don’t let up. I drive my forearm against his throat, pinning him back as I wrench the knife free. He slumps forward, dead weight against me, and I shove him off just as the second man reacts.
Gunfire erupts, deafening in the open air. A white-hot bolt of pain sears through my arm as the bullet tears through flesh. The force of it knocks me back a step, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
He fires again, but I’m already moving, adrenaline drowning out the pain. The shot misses, kicking up sand and rock as I close the distance. I hear him curse, fumbling to adjust his aim, but I’m on him before he can fire again. My knife slashes upward, catching him across the forearm. He yells, the gun jerking from his grip, and I don’t give him a chance to recover. I slam into him, forcing him back. He stumbles, and I follow, pressing the blade to his throat.
His eyes widen, his mouth parting like he might try to beg. But it’s too late for that.
I drive the knife home.
He gurgles, hands clawing at his ruined throat as he collapses to his knees. Blood spills hot over my fingers, soaking into the sand beneath him. His body convulses once, twice—then he’s still.
I stand there for a moment, panting, my pulse roaring in my ears. The scent of blood thickens the air, mingling with the salt of the ocean. The bodies lie motionless at my feet, their lives snuffed out in an instant.
I barely register the pain in my arm, the blood dripping down my sleeve, staining my fingers.
I turn away and stagger back toward Kruz.
She’s still on the beach, her breathing shallow, her lips pale.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping to my knees beside her.
The fight didn’t take long, but every second feels like an eternity now. The cold has already taken too much from her, and I don’t know how much longer she can hold on.
The mere thought of losing her now sends me into a downward spiral.
