by Gwyn McNamee
But, their lines are still tied. I need to get to them and untie them so they can take off before this guy calls in the cavalry. I make my way down the ladder, my hands tightening on each wrung.
This guy will fuck up everything.
We’re dead if we don’t get this shit to Arturo.
Fuck.
With only a few feet left, I glance back over my shoulder and gauge where he’s standing.
Two feet behind me.
Close enough.
I launch myself backward at him.
It has the desired effect. He’s totally unaware, and I land on him, knocking us both back onto the dock.
He scrambles for his weapon, but my fist connects with his cheek before he can get his hand around it. I knock his arm away and land a left on his temple.
His head cracks back against the dock. He winces and swings wildly.
The blow hits me. My head snaps back, pain radiates through my face, and stars dance across my eyelids.
Fuck.
The world spins, and my jaw aches. I shake my head and try to regain my ability to think.
I still hold one of his arms down, but the other is free and reaching on his belt for something.
No way, fucker.
I try to wrap my hand around his wrist, but pain slices through my side.
Fuck. He has a knife!
He slashes at me again, but I block it with my forearm, taking a nice chunk of flesh from it.
Warm blood leaks down my side and my arm and drips onto the dock.
I need to end this.
Before one of us does something we can’t undo.
I grab both of his shoulders and slam his upper body back. His head cracks against the pavement, and his eyes roll up and back. The blade falls out of his hand, and I land three or four good blows to his face before he sags slightly under me.
Shit.
I scramble back. He’s not moving.
Shit. Shit.
My side and forearm burn, and blood seeps between my fingers where I have my hand pressed against where he slashed my side.
I turn around, and The Destiny is already on its way back out to open water. They must have cut the lines from the boat.
At least they got away before any security could call it in, but I need to get the fuck out of here.
I grit my teeth and break out into a run toward the fence line as close to where Grace is parked as possible. The pain splitting my side has me doubling over, and I press against it to stem the flow of blood.
Fuck. This all went so bad.
I should’ve known.
It looked too easy.
I should’ve known nothing is ever easy for me.
At least, not lately. Not since I met this woman.
The six-foot fence looms in front of me, and I pause and take several shaky breaths.
Suck it up or you won’t get over.
The pain will be unbearable, but I have to do it. There’s no other way out of here.
My blood-stained fingers curl into the chain-link. I close my eyes for a brief second, and then, I go.
I block out the pain with thoughts of Grace’s soft skin and blazing red hair under my fingertips. Her lips pressed against mine. Her nails scoring my back while I pound into her.
It’s probably not the best image to use, and one I shouldn’t even consider, but it’s there, nonetheless.
Creamy pale skin.
Soft pink flush spreading across it.
A groan slips from my lips—both from the pain and physical exertion as well as the sudden throb in my pants.
I get my leg over the top of the fence and drop on the other side.
Fuck.
My feet don’t catch me.
The hard ground is the only thing that breaks my fall. Pain shoots up my arm and through my side and hip.
“Motherfucker!”
I grasp at the fence and pull myself to my feet. Several deep breaths do nothing to clear the red haze of pain clouding my vision.
Shit. I might pass out.
I stagger toward the truck. My toe catches on something, probably my own damn feet, and I lurch forward but put my arm out to catch myself before I face-plant on the sidewalk.
Darkness encroaches the sides of my vision, and another stab of pain shoots in my side.
I stumble again, and this time, there’s no stopping my downward momentum.
Striking the pavement feels like running into a brick wall.
My injured arm and shoulder take the brunt of the fall, and a scream that sounds almost inhuman wrenches from my throat.
“Warwick?”
What?
Did someone say my name?
Who the hell knows my name?
“Warwick? Can you hear me?”
Wait…
Grace.
I try to push myself up off the ground with my good arm but barely manage to get up halfway sitting before I fall back over again as the pain shoots through me.
“Oh, my God.” Her footsteps pound against the sidewalk, and then she’s squatting down in front of me.
In the almost blackness of the poorly lit street area, the concern in her gaze is still evident. She cups my face. Her eyes dart down to where my hand is pressed against my bloody side.
“Oh, my God. You’re hurt.”
I grunt, and she slides an arm under my armpit. “We have to get you up and to a hospital.”
Despite her tiny size, she helps get me to my feet with a lot of difficulty and a lot of cursing and pain so sharp it darkens my vision.
This must be what dying feels like. It must be. Maybe that knife hit something more vital than I thought.
The truck is only a few hundred yards up the road, but it seems to take an eternity to get there. Every agonizing step is more time for the police to get here.
I grit my teeth and move forward, forcing myself to take step after step.
Just keep moving.
Grace tugs the passenger side door open before practically shoving me inside. It closes, and she’s in the driver seat starting the engine.
“We are going to get you to the hospital.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
I shake my head and wince. “No hospital. Take me back to the warehouse.”
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she can ask another question.
“No arguments, Grace. Warehouse. I’ll direct you on how to get there.”
She mumbles something under her breath I can’t quite catch, and I drop my head back against the headrest and squeeze my eyes shut.
Fucking shit. Everything is going to hell and taking me with it.
16
Grace
He needs a damn hospital. A doctor. A surgeon. There’s so much blood—soaking his shirt, his arm…all over his hands.
And now, all over mine where they curl tightly around the steering wheel.
He looks like death.
Pale as a fucking corpse.
So much like what Dad looked like lying in that hospital bed, taking his last breaths.
Tears pool in my eyes, and I wipe my face with my shirtsleeve.
Breaking down and crying now won’t help anything. It won’t help him.
I never considered what would happen if Warwick got hurt. We never planned for this. At least, not out loud. At least, not with me. After Warwick called Cutter and Preacher to tell them I would act as lookout, there was very little discussion of what was going to happen. Whether that was intentional to keep me in the dark or to protect me in case anyone showed up and I was questioned, I’m not sure. But we certainly never talked about the possibility of him getting injured.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
When he collapsed onto the sidewalk, I never thought he would get up.
My breath caught in my throat. My heart stopped.
All I could do was scramble from the truck and race to him through the cool, damp night.
And now, he’s dying
beside me while I drive through the wet streets toward the highway.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
A shrill ring sounds in the car.
Warwick’s phone!
I scramble to get it out of my pocket and glance over at him. His half-lidded eyes meet mine. He gives me a small nod of permission to answer.
Like I wasn’t going to.
“Hello?”
“Grace?” Cutter practically snarls my name. “Where are you? Is Warwick with you?”
“We’re on the road. He’s with me, but he’s in bad shape. I think he got stabbed.”
His mumbled words have been hard to piece together. All I got was “knife” and “guard.”
“Shit.” The Destiny’s engine roars in the background. “It’s going to take us a while to get back to the warehouse. Even at top speed. The waters are churned up from the storm, so we have to be careful. I’ll call ahead to Preacher and make sure he’s ready for you. He has some basic medical training and can help until we’re back and Rion can look at him.”
What the hell is wrong with these guys?
They act like this is no big deal. It’s not a damn paper cut.
“He needs a hospital.”
He needs a goddamn doctor, not some haphazard care from these thugs.
“No.” Cutter’s words are harsh and direct, brokering no argument. “No hospitals. Bring him to the warehouse. If Preacher and Rion can’t take care of him, we have other options.”
Shit.
I want to scream and rail at him that they won’t do what’s best for Warwick’s health, but this isn’t my game to play; it’s theirs.
I’m just a pawn—or at least, I was before Warwick released me. Now, I don’t know what the hell I am.
An accomplice?
“How far from the warehouse are you?”
I stare at the open road ahead of me. “I have no fucking clue. Warwick, how close are we?”
He groans and flicks his eyes to the road before closing them again. “Forty miles or so.”
“He says forty miles.”
Cutter releases a sigh. “Okay, good. Just floor it when you get to the county highway. There are never any cops there, so you should be fine.”
Fine.
Should be fine…
What the hell does that mean?
It doesn’t instill much confidence. I end the call and return my focus to the road. Preacher better be as good as Cutter suggests he is. Otherwise…I can’t even think of the possibility.
If Warwick dies now, all of this was for…nothing.
Every bump in the road elicits a groan from Warwick.
My heart amps up another level, thundering against my ribs.
Blood seeps from under his hand where he has it pressed against his side and has already stained his sleeve and trickles down his other arm.
He’s losing a lot of blood and fast.
My lack of any medical expertise makes it so much harder to gauge the situation, but every fiber of my being says to fuck the guys and get him to a damn hospital.
If it were anyone else, that’s exactly what I would do.
But this isn’t just anyone, and this situation is far from anything else I’ve ever been a part of.
No.
I have to trust Cutter and Preacher and Rion when they say they can handle it, but the longer we’re on the road, the more dire the situation seems.
Why do I care so damn much?
Considering the answer to that question isn’t even remotely in the realm of things on my radar right now.
Not the time or place to delve into deep, dark, psychological questions. I’ve already made so many shitty decisions. Analyzing more of them now would only lead to beating myself up more.
I glance over. His closed eyes, shallow breathing, and the way his temple is pressed against the window don’t help the fear seizing my chest.
“Warwick. Wake up.”
He jerks up slightly and shakes his head. “Huh?”
“I said wake up. You dozed off again.”
Don’t let him sleep.
That’s what they always say, right? Keep the person awake. Keep them talking.
I can do that. Talk. Ask questions. It usually gets me in trouble. It has been the main source of tension between us since the moment he stepped onto my ship, but now, it might actually be exactly what’s needed.
“Just let me sleep for a couple minutes.” His mumbled words are barely intelligible.
“No! No!”
He closes his eyes.
Shit.
I can’t let him fall asleep. We’re close. I just need to keep him awake a little while longer.
“No, you stay awake. Talk to me. Tell me more about your mom.”
“My mom?”
“Yeah, tell me about her. You said she was a librarian.”
And given what I already know and read in her notes, she understood Warwick better than anyone else ever did or ever could. His two tangled natures, inextricable from one another. One leading him down a dark path. The other shining light where it’s least expected.
“Yeah, librarian.”
“Did you spend a lot of time there with her?”
He snort-laughs then groans and presses into his side. He tries to shift his weight but flinches, pain taking over his face. “You could say that. Sometimes because I liked spending time with her, but most of the time because I was in detention.”
Why does that not surprise me?
Warwick has a good heart. I can see that despite all the ways he tries to hide it and push it down, but there’s a darkness there too. One that sends a shiver through me as much as his touch does.
“So, she was the librarian at school?”
He nods again and presses his temple to the window.
“What did you like to read?”
He coughs and clears his throat. “A little bit of everything. She always gave me the classics but pretty much anything I could get my hands on was game.”
The notes inside the books in his room fly through my head along with the million questions about the woman who wrote them. For once, he doesn’t seem opposed to me asking.
“What about the notes in the books?”
I glance over in time to catch a slight grin pull at his lips. “She started that when I was ten.”
The car rolls over a pothole, and he flinches.
Shit. Dammit.
Still a few miles to go.
“What was the first one she ever gave you?”
His eyes open slowly and meet mine when I peek over.
“To Kill a Mockingbird.”
One of my all-time favorites.
“Kind of deep for a ten-year-old, isn’t it?”
He wheezes out a rattling cough laugh, and I cringe and glance at the clock again, then the odometer. Maybe going eighty-five in this truck isn’t the best idea. I don’t dare go faster, even though the need to get him there increases with every grimace and cough.
“It seemed fitting at the time.”
“How so?”
Just keep him talking…
If he’s talking, he’s not dying.
“I had gotten into another fight at school. One of many. But this one was different.”
“Why?”
He shrugs again and winces. “This one was justified in her eyes. We didn’t have a lot of diversity where I grew up. I don’t even think I met someone who was black until I was in middle school already. This family moved into town. The dad was black, and the mom was white. The kids couldn’t seem to fit in anywhere. Some of the kids were picking on him on the playground and I stepped in.”
“What did you do?”
He grins. “Let’s just say there were a lot of bloody noses and scraped up knuckles and I had a big smile on my face when we were done.”
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Of course. His mother’s note makes perfect sense now that I know the story.
Defending your beliefs in the
face of criticism and threats of violence takes bravery you must find deep down, but bravery doesn’t always mean violence.
Warwick’s first response is typically anger and violence. He has to fight to make the right decisions, to be brave in a different way. The insight this woman had into him at such a young age is astounding.
“She kept up the tradition after that? Giving you books and writing notes in them.”
“Yeah. It was sort of our thing until she died.”
The sadness and longing in his pained voice has my chest tightening. The water was always my thing with Dad. The shared love. I swallow through the lump in my throat.
“What was the last one she gave you?”
He looks out into the night whizzing past us. “You ask too many questions, Grace.”
Shit.
Too personal. Too much to expect an answer.
He shuts down before my eyes, leans farther into the door, closes his eyes, and drops his head against the window again. “The turn is coming up on the right. It’s a gravel road so don’t miss it.”
It was too good to be true. Him being open with me. Him being honest. Him really telling me something that will help me understand him and what’s happening.
His wall is up now.
But at least we’re almost there. I don’t know if I can keep him talking much longer, and he looks like he’s about ready to pass out again.
The hidden entrance to the gravel road that will lead us through the woods to the warehouse on the shore appears on the right, and I slow enough to turn in.
This is going to hurt. The bumps, dips, and gravel will be hell on him, but we don’t have a choice right now.
How he’s even stayed alert enough to direct me back to the warehouse is a miracle.
Gravel crunches under the tires, and I tighten my grip on the wheel as if that will help absorb each bounce and take some of the pain away from the man next to me.
The lights come into view, and I release a small sigh of relief and lighten my grip on the wheel. I gun it down the road and toward the warehouse.
Please be ready, Preacher.
I don’t even know the man, not really, but already, I can’t imagine what I would do if something happened to Warwick. If he didn’t come out of this okay.
That’s fucking terrifying.
Even more so than the mob after me or the fact these men held me captive and I’m willingly returning to them.
