Page 36 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

“Obviously,” I drawl, letting annoyance color my tone as I step forward. Alex follows a half-pace behind, his presence solid and reassuring at my back.

As we near the boat, the standing figure steps onto the dock. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from granite. His suit is expensive but practical, designed for movement rather than show.

“Mr. Blackwood?” His voice carries a faint Eastern European accent.

“You're late,” I reply coldly, checking my watch for effect.

His expression doesn't change. “Check them.”

The other guard at his side shifts towards us, patting down Alex first. He removes the gun from inside his coat, tossing it to the side. Satisfied he’s unarmed Alex, he shifts to me, finding nothing.

“They’re clean,” he reports to his partner.

"Identification and proof of purchase."

I don't move, merely flicking my fingers toward Alex without looking back. "Jack, the documents."

Alex steps forward smoothly, producing an envelope from his inner jacket pocket.

The folder contains everything we've prepared—the false ID, banking information, transaction receipts, all bearing the Blackwood name and details.

The forgeries are flawless, indistinguishable from legitimate documents even under close scrutiny.

The man takes the envelope, nodding toward his colleague, who remains on the boat. He doesn't examine the documents himself, instead passing them to the other man, who begins scrutinizing them with unsettling thoroughness. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I keep my expression neutral.

“Authentication protocol requires verification," the man says, his accent thickening slightly. "You will place your hand on this."

He produces a small, black device from his pocket—flat, rectangular, with a glowing blue screen on one side.

“What is that?" I ask, injecting just the right amount of suspicious disdain into my voice.

“Biometric verification,” he replies evenly. “Standard procedure for transactions of this magnitude."

Shit. We didn't anticipate biometric scanning. I can feel Alex tensing behind me, though his face remains impassive.

“I don't recall agreeing to biometric verification when I made my purchase," I say coldly. “My documentation should be sufficient considering my previous investment.”

The man's expression doesn't change. "No scan, no sample. Those are the terms."

A standoff. I can almost hear Alex calculating our odds if this goes sideways—two against two, but they have the advantage of the boat for a quick escape. Plus, we don't know what's in the water around us.

“What exactly does this device scan for?" I demand, buying time.

“Pulse, body temperature, standard identification markers. It ensures you are who you claim to be, Mr. Blackwood.”

A knot forms in my stomach as I weigh our options. If I refuse, we lose our only lead to Luca. If I comply and the scanner detects any anomaly, we're dead men.

“Fine," I snap, extending my hand with an impatient scowl. "But make it quick. I have dinner reservations at eight."

The device feels cool against my palm, a blue light scanning from my wrist to fingertips. I maintain my bored expression, though my pulse hammers so hard that I'm certain the machine can detect it. The man studies the readout, his face betraying nothing.

After what feels like an eternity, he nods once and returns our documents.

"On the boat," he orders, gesturing toward the sleek vessel.

I freeze. "Excuse me?"

“Your purchase is not here. You come with us to complete the transaction."

“That wasn't the arrangement," I reply coldly. “The pickup location was specified as this dock."

“This is the pickup location. For you. Sample is elsewhere.”

“Unacceptable," I declare, channeling every entitled billionaire I've ever met. “I was promised delivery at this location. I don't have time for nautical excursions.”

“Then you don't get what you paid for." His hand shifts subtly toward his jacket.

Alex steps forward, voice low and deferential but with steel underneath. "Sir, perhaps we should consider their terms.”

I hesitate, but the hard gleam in the man's eyes tells me this isn't negotiable. My mind races through the options, none of them good. Refuse and lose our only lead to Luca. Agree, and potentially walk into a trap. But what choice do we really have?

“Fine,” I snap. "But I expect compensation for this inconvenience."

I catch the guard rolling his eyes. He believes I'm just another entitled, rich asshole. Good.

“Your man stays here,” he says, nodding toward Alex.

“Absolutely not,” I counter immediately. “My driver comes with me. I don't travel without security.”

The two men exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them before the one on the boat gives a barely perceptible nod.

“Both of you then,” the guard concedes, stepping aside to allow us passage onto the boat.

I step forward with feigned reluctance, making a show of checking my watch and sighing dramatically. Alex follows, his presence at my back the only thing keeping my nerves steady. The boat rocks gently beneath our feet as we board, the sleek vessel lower in the water than it appeared from shore.

“How far are we going?” I demand as the guard gestures for us to sit on the leather bench that runs along one side of the boat.

“Not far," is all he says before nodding to his partner.

The engine roars to life, and we surge away from the dock. I grip the leather bench, while mentally mapping our position relative to shore. The dock shrinks rapidly behind us, and within minutes, the coastline disappears.

“Where exactly are we headed?” I demand, letting impatience edge into my voice.

“Just a little further," the driver calls over his shoulder.

Alex catches my eye, a microscopic head tilt directing my attention to the starboard side. A black speck appears on the horizon, growing larger by the second. Then another appears portside.

Fuck.

“I believe we've gone far enough,” I announce, rising to my feet with all the entitlement Charles Blackwood can muster. “I insist we complete this transaction immediately or return to shore."

“Sit down, Mr. Blackwood.”

“I will not,” I snap, channeling righteous indignation while subtly adjusting my stance for balance. “This is completely unprofessional. I demand to speak with your superior.”

The approaching vessels are close enough now to make out their shapes. Fuck. They’re twins to this boat and each likely carrying additional personnel. This was never about authentication. It was about isolation.

I look over at Alex, who gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

Alex moves like lightning. One second he’s next to me, the next he’s on the move.

The guard registers the movement a split second too late, already drawing his own weapon as Alex collides into him.

His momentum throws him backwards while Alex disarms him.

“Down!” Alex shouts, and I drop instinctively as the first shot cracks through the air.

The guard jerks backward, red blooming across his pristine white shirt. The driver whirls, gun already drawn, but Alex is faster—two shots in rapid succession, and the man crumples over the controls. His gun falling to the deck.

The boat lurches violently as the throttle engages, sending us careening across the choppy water. I scramble for purchase on the slick deck, my expensive shoes sliding uselessly as I lunge for the controls.

“Company!” I yell over the roaring engine, nodding toward the approaching vessels now closing in fast.

“Can you drive this thing?” he shouts, tossing me the weapon from the deck.

I shove the dead driver aside, taking the wheel with one hand while checking the magazine with the other. “I've driven worse!”

The sleek vessel responds to my touch, slicing through the water as I open the throttle fully.

We surge forward, putting distance between us and the two boats chasing hard behind.

The throttle jerks under my palm as gunfire erupts, bullets slicing past my ear and tearing into the control panel.

Sparks fly as the dashboard explodes in a shower of plastic and metal, the GPS screen shattering inches from my fingers.

“Shit!” I duck lower, still gripping the wheel as the speedboat bucks violently across the chop. “Alex!”

He’s already returning fire, body twisted toward the stern, weapon steady despite the boat’s wild motion. The sharp crack of his gun cuts through the roar of the engine and the relentless slap of water against the hull.

"Keep driving!" he shouts, squeezing off three more rounds. I hear a distant cry and glance back to see one of the pursuing boats swerve sharply, its pilot clutching his shoulder.

Another volley of bullets rips through the air around us. One pings off the metal railing by my head, another tears through the leather seat where I'd been sitting just moments before. The control panel takes another hit, and suddenly the engine sputters, the RPMs dropping fast.

“We're losing power!” I yell, frantically trying to adjust the controls that are no longer responding. The speedometer begins to fall, our lead evaporating with every passing second. “They hit something vital.”

Alex slides down beside me, ejecting his spent magazine and slamming a fresh one home. “How long can you keep us moving?”

“Minutes, maybe.”

“Fuck!” he roars, he checks the magazine. “Running low on ammo.”

Another shot cracks through the air just as a bullet tears into my shoulder—white-hot agony detonating like a flashbang inside me.

I bite back a scream, staggering as blood pours down my arm, soaking through my suit.

The boat jerks and slows, the engine whining as water churns violently around us.

Spray lashes my face, and the roar of our pursuers grows louder, closing in fast.

“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.