Page 36 of Anchor

A laugh catches in my chest and I glance over at him as I tie off the tourniquet around his leg wound. “I think the knock on the head may have damaged your brain.” Once the cloth is tied, I sit back on my heels. “Okay, it’s not pretty and if you don’t get medical treatment soon, I’m sure you’ll risk infection or worse, but I think it’ll do for now.”

“You did great,” he says.

“Thanks.” I cross to his other side and wedge my shoulder under his arm to help him up. “Now let’s find this guy and get the hell out of here. Where do you think he is?”

Gabe hisses in pain as he gets to his feet. “Well, he knows we’re here, and he hasn’t come to finish us off.”

Without saying a word, we both head to the back of the boat where we heard Jones push the captain overboard. It’s an arduous process. Gabe can only put so much weight on his wounded leg and I’m no match for his sheer bulk.

By the time we reach the back railing, we’re both covered in sweat and panting, but the loading point is blessedly empty. One look at Gabe’s face has me propping him against the railing. I look around and find a barrel for him to sit on and drag it over to him.

“Sit down before you pass out.”

He glares at me, but collapses on the barrel anyway. “I’m fine,” he insists.

“Yeah,” I scoff. “You’re so fine you’re about to pass out where you stand. Just, sit there. The Coast Guard should be here soon. As soon as they get here you can be all macho, but for now, just, don’t.”

I retrieve the gun from where I’d stored it in my cardigan’s pocket and hold it loosely in my hand. The last thing I want to do is be caught off guard. Not knowing where Jones is at is making me jumpy and there’s nothing in the water behind us except the waves. No sign of the captain.

“C’mere,” Gabe says behind me.

I back up toward him, keeping my eyes on the boat in front of us. The shadows and moonlight are playing tricks on my eyes. Every whisper of wind or shifting light has all of my muscles tensing.

When I get close enough, Gabe tugs me back against him. He’s shivering, probably from a combination of cold, fear, and pain. The tattered suit he’s wearing isn’t much of a barrier from the elements.

“They’ll be here soon,” I tell him. As I press my body into his uninjured side, I try not to think about how hard he is—all over, or how good he smells. So not the time.

“I should be the one rescuing you,” he says and it makes me smile a little to hear the petulant tone in his voice.

“Trust me, I’m happy to be your damsel in distress if it’ll get us off of this thing,” I say.

“Definitely no damsel. You’re more like a warrior queen,” he says. His voice is soft. I don’t know if it’s because we’re so close or because he’s in pain. “Don’t tell me you’re a police officer, too.”

The thought teases laughter out and I blush. “No, definitely not. I went to college for business management and I work at a luxury travel company out of Jacksonville.”

“After this,” he says, “I think we both deserve a vacation.”

“Only if it doesn’t involve boats.”

A movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. My body goes rock solid, alerting Gabe, and he straightens. “See something?” he whispers, all playfulness gone from his voice.

I strain to make anything out of the darkness. “Not sure. I thought I did,” I whisper back.

Shadows shift and Jones appears with his hands up, which makes the hand holding the gun pointed at his head sag.

“Oh my God,” I say, once he gets close enough for me to see what had taken him so long.

Jones has his hands held over his head and in them is the control for the bomb collars he’d had the hostages wear. And around his neck is a collar of his own.

Gabriel

At first Ithink I’m imagining things again, but Jones doesn’t fade away like a bad dream. No. He’s one hundred percent, hard to believe reality. He strides unerringly forward with another one of his goddamned bombs strapped to his neck.

“No wonder he took so long.” Chloe shrinks back against me. “He was putting one of those things on. Why would he do that?”

He’s only a few steps away now, close enough for us to see the gray pallor of his face in the spotty lighting. He looks about as good as I feel.

“What the hell are you doing, Jones?” He stops a couple yards away. I may want to throttle the life out of him, but I also have the innate urge to help him.