Page 117 of Dirty Mechanic

Annabelle and Blake stand in the middle of the skiff, each of them with a sack of sand tied to the rope coiling their feet.

My pulse splinters.

Mike steps toward the edge of the boat, shouting over the water. “I want answers! Why did my father leave his land to Skylar Bishop?! Where is that bitch hiding?!”

I freeze. “Misty,” I whisper, barely audible. “Stay quiet.” Then louder: “Let them go, Mike!”

He doesn’t. He laughs, high and cracked, and grabs the ropes.

Misty’s hand shoots out. She yanks the pistol from my belt in one fluid move, drops to one knee, and fires.

The shot echoes like a cannon.

Mike takes the hit and stumbles backward, slamming into the engine housing. The outboard sputters, snarls, then the boat jerks hard sideways, spinning with the current. He loses his footing, slips—and goes over the side.

Gone.

The deck tilts violently and ropes snap taut, the bow yawing. Then, they’re airborne. Bodies lift from the deck like rag dolls caught in a windstorm, arching through the air.

Time fractures.

Annabelle screams—then silence. Water slaps like a body blow.

Blake twists midair, arms outstretched.

“Get Annabelle!” he yells, the wind shredding the words.

Then the river swallows him whole. The splash is deafening—too big. Too final.

I freeze just long enough to burn the image into memory: ropes trailing like tentacles in the wake, sandbags sinking fast like anchors dragging bodies down.

I don't see Mike anywhere. He hasn’t surfaced, but it doesn’t matter. I dive.

The river slams into me with ice-edged violence. My lungs seize, my scalp tightens, panic clawing at my ribs. I kick hard, blinking against silt and shadow, heart hammering. Shapes blur. River weeds wrap around my arms like restraints. Something brushes my leg—a limb, hair, fabric? Panic surges as I reach blindly, feeling rather than seeing. My fingers snag fabric, then her arm.

Annabelle.

Her hair drifts like seaweed, arms flailing helplessly, her white shirt billowing like a ghost as the sandbag tied at her ankles drags her deeper. I reach desperately for the rope, fingers fumbling underwater with the knot. It slips—won’t loosen—won’t give?—

She claws at my shirt. Trusting me and drowning.

I wrench at the rope until it slips loose. Her legs snap upward, and I push up at her elbow, clawing toward the light. Toward air. Toward anything but this hell.

We break the surface in a choking burst, Annabelle gasping and coughing violently, sobbing as she spits water. I grip her waist and turn us toward shore just as Misty’s scream tears through the air, followed by the sharp crack of a gunshot. A rough, familiar voice echoes from the shore—Rick. I twist toward the dock, my vision blurred by rain and river, and see Misty locked in a fierce struggle with a man twice her size, her legs tangled and her braid whipping across her face.

She’s got the gun and he’s snarling something I can’t hear. She kicks his shin and he stumbles. Lightning strikes close. She lifts the rifle, points it at Rick, says something, and pulls the trigger.

Crack.

Rick jerks back, clutches his side, stumbles, and vanishes into the trees.

Misty just stands there.

Frozen.

Then she looks down at the gun like it’s a live wire and hurls it into the river. It arcs into the darkness, and disappears with a final splash. Misty collapses onto the ground.

No—no no no?—