Page 51 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

Sprinting full tilt, I cross the street, Caleb tight on my flank. Jake swings the van into position just as I hit the grass, diving for cover a heartbeat before lightning splits the sky.

The decoy’s right on cue—Verity and Reese’s rental barrels down the street, engine roaring as it swerves toward the van. That was the plan: Verity draws eyes to the front, sows confusion, Delilah kills the power, and the rest of us move in.

Static charges the air. Rain slicks my skin. Even with goggles, the grass could be hiding anything.

Caleb skids in beside me, eyes locked on the side window. Brooke’s inside. I see her silhouette—she’s by the door, wrists bound but still standing.

I tap my side pocket. Glass cutter’s there. We’re seconds from breach.

A woman’s scream punches the air.

Not Brooke.

The scream came from outside.

Confused, I jerk my head toward the sound, heart lurching.

Before I can move, Caleb grabs my shoulder—two fingers, sharp and quick. Military hand signal. Check it out.

He doesn’t have to say a word. He’s staying here. He’ll get Brooke out.

I have to go.

Even if every instinct screams to stay.

I shift low and break left, pulse pounding in my ears like war drums.

Through the rain, I spot movement at the side of the house.

Samantha.

The same man who assaulted her earlier has his fist knotted in her hair, dragging her back across the porch. She barely made it down the steps.

So close.

If she’d made it into the open, Luke would’ve taken him out.

But she’s still under the porch overhang—too close to the structure. From the roof, Luke has no visual.

He doesn’t even know she’s out here.

She struggles—kicking, twisting, trying to break free—but he yanks her upright and throws her down. She lands hard, skidding across the slick grass, arms raised to shield herself.

His boot lifts.

Fury turns my veins to ice, and I step out from cover—just as lightning rips across the sky.

The flash overloads my goggles. Vision flares white, and I blink hard—too late.

Across the clearing, the man jerks upright. His posture shifts—locked on.

He’s seen me.

“Look out!”

Samantha shouts.

He raises a pistol.

The shot cracks.

Air snaps past my ear.

I drop, slam into the mud. It erupts beneath me—slick and foul, stinking of rot. My goggles twist from the impact. I rip them off, blink against grit and rain, heart hammering.

Everything’s a blur—shapes and movement bleeding together.

But one figure’s closer than the rest—too close.

My shoulder drives into his chest, full force. We slam to the ground in a brutal tangle, limbs slipping in the mud. He grunts—sharp and surprised—as we hit, rolling hard. Something cracks. Maybe a rib. Maybe a root.

I swing.

Once. My fist smashes into his jaw, bone against bone.

Twice. Blood sprays, blending with the rain.

Third time—his body goes slack beneath me.

But I don’t stop.

Not after what he did to Samantha. Like he enjoyed it.

I keep swinging until he stops twitching. Until the only sound left is the rain and the rasp of my breath.

By the time I stagger back, his face is a ruin of blood and sludge. My hands are trembling. My pulse roars in my ears like surf in a cave.

He’s not getting up again.

Above me, Luke opens fire—his first clear shots, tight and deliberate, cracking through the storm like nails through tin. I spin toward the sound just as lightning flashes again, splitting the sky wide open in a blaze of white.

Samantha—staggering near the waterline, wild-eyed, backing away from El-Maati.

He yells something in Arabic, gun in his hand as he gestures hard toward the airboat.

She shakes her head, slips—arms flailing—and hits the slick rocks. For a second, she scrambles, trying to find her footing.

Then she falls sideways into the water. Not deep—just enough to vanish into shadow.

El-Maati swears and vaults onto the airboat, one hand gripping the motor housing as he scans the surface.

Luke’s rifle fires again—not at him.

Past him.

“Contact in the water—right behind her!” he yells.

My blood turns to ice.

Two flat, unblinking eyes break the surface—gliding, steady, locked on a flailing Samantha.

“Cover me!”

I yell back at him.

Behind me, gunfire erupts—tight bursts from inside the house. Silas and Reese are clearing room by room, pressing forward.

I sprint toward the water.

Mud grabs at my boots, sucking and pulling with every step. The rain is blinding now, pelting sideways in sharp, stinging sheets. Branches whip at my arms. The cold sinks into my bones.

I hit the water at a run.

It’s worse than I expect. Freezing. Thick. Alive. Something brushes my leg, rough and slick. I kick it off and push forward. There’s no bottom—just the shifting, sucking drag of swamp beneath me.

Samantha’s up ahead, thrashing wildly. Her arms slap the water. She’s screaming, gasping, slowing herself with every movement.

“Don’t fight!”

I shout, swallowing water. “Float!”

She doesn’t hear me. She’s going under.

I reach her. My hand clamps around her arm. Her skin is slick, cold, trembling.

She turns and strikes out—panicked—her elbow catching my jaw, teeth clacking hard enough to sting.

“It’s me!”

I yell again, voice hoarse.

She freezes.

Then she clings—arms locked around my neck, nails digging in, breath shuddering against my ear. I hold her tight, turning her away from whatever’s behind us.

Luke’s rifle cracks again—sharp and steady.

Up ahead, the airboat veers and slams into the far bank with a metallic roar—fiberglass grinding against mud and brush.

A shot cracks. El-Maati’s silhouette jolts—then crumples in the spill of lightning.

I don’t stop to check.

Samantha’s shaking in my arms, too weak to swim, too terrified to let go. Something’s still in the water with us. I feel it. Hear it.

I kick.

Hard.

Every stroke is a prayer. My legs burn. My shoulder screams. Rain fills my ears, my mouth, my eyes.

My boot hits sand.

I haul her up the bank, dragging her over roots and soaked grass, past thorny brush that rips at our clothes. Her breathing is shallow, erratic. She’s coughing now—gut-deep, wet.

Shaking.

But alive.

I drop beside her, chest on fire, every inch of me soaked and raw. Adrenaline still courses through my blood, but it’s starting to burn out. I lean over her, bracing myself on one arm.

A flash of lightning rips across the sky. For one brief second, I see him—El-Maati sprawled beside the wrecked airboat, a dark pool blooming beneath his head. He’s not moving. Not breathing.

Behind us, the porch light flares to life, casting a pale yellow glow over the mud and scattered leaves.

Caleb steps into view, a shadow in the porch light, moving like he’s still mid-op—quiet, precise, all muscle and intent. Brooke’s beside him, wrists still tied, but upright and steady.

He’s already cutting her free with the blade in his hand, holding her firm with the other.

Relief slams into me—so fierce it nearly folds me. She’s alive. My sister. The one I dragged into this.

Caleb warned me not to involve her. Told me to leave her out of it. She should’ve been safe in Arizona, not here—bleeding and bruised because I didn’t listen.

I blink hard, jaw clenched, gut twisting with guilt—and gratitude that Hightower got involved when they did.

The glow from the porch spills across the mud, casting just enough light to see Samantha’s face. Her lips are parted like she’s trying to speak but can’t.

I slide a hand beneath her head and lift her gently into my arms. Her hair is plastered to her scalp, skin clammy, soaked to the bone.

“It’s okay,”

I murmur. My voice breaks around the words.

“They can’t hurt you now.”

Her fingers fist in my shirt, holding on like she’ll drown if she lets go.

“I… I can’t swim,”

she chokes, voice ragged.

I press my lips to her forehead and close my eyes.

“I know, honey,”

I whisper. “I know.”