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“They're on us!” I shout over the dying engine's protest. My vision blurs at the edges, the steering wheel slick with my blood. "Any bright ideas?"

Alex's face changes, something resolute and terrifying settling over his features. He glances at the shoreline—maybe half a mile away—then back at the approaching boats.

“You need to go.” He pries my fingers from the wheel. “The water is your best chance."

"What are you talking about?"

He yanks me away from the controls, his grip surprisingly strong. "You get to shore, call for extraction. Get back to Vesper."

“We both go," I argue, but he's already shoving me toward the side of the boat.

“Not an option." His eyes meet mine, something like acceptance in them. “This boat's dead in the water. We both know it. But I can buy you time.”

The realization of what he plans hits me like another bullet. “No. Alex, don't?—"

“Tell her I kept my promise," he demands, and then his hands are on my chest, shoving me hard. My body tips backward, suspended in air for one sickening moment before I hit the water with a painful slap.

The cold shock steals my breath, saltwater filling my mouth as I plunge beneath the surface. My wounded shoulder screams in protest as I kick desperately upward, lungs burning. When I crest the surface, gasping and sputtering, I see Alex swinging the boat around, heading straight for our pursuers.

“Alex!” I scream, but my voice is swallowed by the roar of engines and the crash of water.

He’s on a collision course with the nearest vessel, our dying speedboat lunging forward in one last desperate burst of power. The men on the other boat react too late. I catch the shouts, the flicker of gunfire—and then, the explosion.

The blast hits like a punch to the chest, the shockwave slamming into me even from this distance. A wall of water surges outward, lifting me briefly before dropping me back into the churning sea. Burning debris rains down around me, hissing as it hits the surface.

“ALEX!” I scream again, panic cracking my voice as I search for any trace of him in the wreckage. Flames lick across twisted metal. Nothing moves.

The second boat has pulled back, hovering at a safer distance, its spotlight sweeping methodically across the water—looking for survivors or confirming kills.

Pain pulses through my shoulder again, sharp and radiating. I bite back a groan. Salt burns the wound, but the cold numbs it slightly. My suit clings to me like dead weight, dragging me down with every stroke, every breath.

I need to move. The shore seems impossibly far away. But staying here means capture or death. With one last desperate look at the burning wreckage, I turn and begin swimming toward land, using my good arm to pull myself through the water.

“I'm sorry.”

Though there's no one left to hear it.

VESPER

The clockon the wall is a traitorous bastard, each tick hammering another nail into my fraying composure. Almost two hours since their last check-in. Two hours of silence stretching between us like a chasm that grows wider with each passing minute.

“They should have called by now.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too high and tight. I pace the length of our living room for the hundredth time, my bare feet wearing an invisible path in the hardwood. “Something's wrong. I can feel it.”

“Vesper, please sit down.” Oz's voice is steady, measured, the voice of reason I usually find comforting. Right now, it makes me want to scream. “There could be a dozen explanations for the delay.”

“Name one,” I challenge, whirling to face him. “One explanation that doesn't end with them dead or captured.”

Z approaches slowly, palms raised like he's trying to calm a wild animal. In some ways, he's not wrong. “Poor reception. Equipment malfunction. They could be maintaining radio silence for security reasons.”

“For two hours?” I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots until the pain gives me something to focus on besides the panic clawing at my chest. “No. They would have found a way to contact us by now. Alex always has contingencies for his contingencies.”

Oz rises from the couch, crossing to the bank of monitors Alex set up before they left. His reflection in the screens reveals the tension he's trying to hide from me. He's worried too.

“Z, try the secondary protocol again,” Oz orders, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Vesper's right, they should have checked in by now.”

Z nods, already pulling out another burner phone. His usual cocky demeanor has evaporated, replaced by a precision that somehow scares me more than any outburst would. These men don't panic, but they're concerned, and that knowledge sits like ice in my veins.

“Nothing,” he reports after a moment, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. “Straight to voicemail, just like the last three times.”