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Heavy footsteps come from behind me, making me spin around. The cops are running, and one appears to be reaching for his weapon.

“Get down!” someone yells.

I have no time to think about why when a shot is fired. I duck, screaming as I search for cover. With nowhere to go and no hope, I leap for the closest yacht. I miss by an inch—my head slams against the yacht’s hull, and I plunge into the water, my scream cut off as I gulp in a mouthful of salt and panic.

Pain screams through my skull, sharp and blinding, but I fight against it—holding my breath, straining to spot the boat’s ladder as my clothes drag like chains around my limbs. My head breaks the surface, and I’m mortified to see the current has pulled me away from the lights of the jetty.

Stupid. So stupid.

I suck in a breath, salt stinging my throat, only to plunge under again. Panic flares. I thrash upward, hands clawing through the freezing dark. Gasping, I break the surface—just long enough for my palms to slap uselessly against the waves.

Pressure builds in my chest, lungs screaming. A voice—familiar, cruel—rises from the pit of memory and sinks its teeth in like a ravenous dog.

You deserve to die. You’re worthless. No one cares. You’re pathetic.

A wave crashes over me. Water floods my mouth, and I choke, spluttering as I try to breathe. My head slips under again. Panic takes over, and I inhale—deeply this time. Saltwater scorches its way into my lungs. I convulse, limbs turning to lead.

The voice gives one last command.

Give up.

And I do.

With no hope and nothing left to fight for, I let myself go. The black swallows me whole.

The cold wraps around me, soft and smothering. The marina’s depths close in, and for a moment—just a moment—it almost feels like a mother’s embrace.

Five

Mick

I’m still on high alert when my brain clocks the sound of a boat launching.

Cursing, I scramble to my feet, gun in my hand and heart thumping against my ribcage as I search for the source of the noise. Sure enough, the yacht in the slip at the end of the jetty is on the move. A quick scan of the jetty lets me know Samantha is gone too.

Growling under my breath, I try to process what just happened. One minute I had her in my sights, then maniacs dressed as law enforcement were firing directly at us.

“US Coast Guard!” I shout, sprinting to the nearest yacht. “Sweep your searchlight across your port side—slow and wide!”

The man fumbles for the switch, and I jump onto the swim deck.

“Keep it steady!” I bark. “I need reflection, movement—anything!”

The beam slices through the dark like a sword, rippling off black water. I scan for the telltale break in the pattern, the shimmer of skin, the splash of panic. A cry. A ripple.

Anything.

I grit my teeth. No flotation, no backup, and the marina’s crawling with people who’ll be dialing 911 any second.

I unbutton my jeans, kick off my shoes, and dive off the side of the yacht. I chop through the waves, using my arms as blades until I reach the patch of blue illuminated by the searchlight.

Nothing.

I take a breath, flip over, and kick downward, descending as quickly as I can. In seconds, I’ll lose the illumination the searchlight provides.

Alternating between praying and running through my training, I catch sight of blond hair trailing like seaweed in the water. I kick harder and grab the pack she’s wearing, jerking her upward until I reach the surface.

Instantly, I press the heel of my hand on her forehead, tilting her head back to open her airways. Taking a breath, I pinch her nostrils closed, turn her body and head toward me and give four quick breaths. Readying myself for her to vomit, I wait then give her another four short breaths.