Page 129 of Secret Mission

Fighting the whipping sting of my hair, I put my head down, racing across the lawn to the stairs.

Keep going.

The staircase is steep, requiring all my attention as I move as quickly as I can. A fall here could be deadly. I have to get this right.

Below, frothed by the wind, white caps reach toward the far edges of the private cove that my father’s always been so proud of.

Truck’s boots land heavily behind me, sending shockwaves through the rungs below me with his impacts.

When I look up, my eyes go right to a camera mounted on a high pole.

Oh no.

I knew my father wasn’t big on indoor cameras, but I forgot about the exterior ones.

This could be disastrous. I don’t want my father getting a text notice about movement on the dock.

Upset, I almost miss the last step, but I manage to hit the wooden decking and continue to run.

Breath sawing, I tap the ring they gave me. “Guys. Uh. This is Goldilocks. There’s a camera…Over.”

There’s a rumble in my ear—no, not my ear—inside my head. The super high-tech communications system uses bone conduction. The sensation is weird.

“This is Beast. Taken care of. Tech guy scrambled them remotely. Over.”

“Oh. Okay. Oh, my god!” I stumble, having caught my toe on a board. “Sorry, didn’t mean to yell in your ear. I almost fell into the water. Over.”

Fumbling to keep running, I stay in the center of the long dock. My heart nearly exploding from my ribs.

Some operative, I am. I’m a rolling trainwreck.

If I fall in the water, it will cost us precious minutes we don’t have.

Keep it together, Allison.

The yacht gleams in the darkening storm. The white hull is obscenely large, almost too large to be tucked in the corner of the private dock. Next to it is a low, open-bow boat that I’ve never seen.

It has a tactical look like Agile’s trucks. Gray and black with a tower, antennas. It has a very coast guard-like look.

Unease makes all of my skin goosebump.

Something’s definitely going on.

Plowing ahead, I leap onto the rear deck of High Dollar and screech to a stop.

The door to the salon is open.

But before I have time to react, to step back or do anything, a huge man lunges out from behind a pillar.

“Gotcha.”

His arm lashes around me, and the nick of a blade under my chin causes a startled cry to rip out of my throat.

But it’s what I can see from that bruising hold that makes me truly panic.

Truck’s folded into a crouch on the dock. His left hand braced on the deck. The right palm is cupped against his temple.

“No!” I scream.