Page 151 of The Unlikely Spare

“They won’t shoot me,” I say.

“No.”

“Don’t be so stubborn.”

“Stop trying to save me.”

“You started it.”

I don’t know what it says about Eoin and me that it feels rather natural for us to be having a domestic argument while being shot at.

We’re fifty meters from the marina when I spot what I need—a fuel dock with boats rafted three deep, creating a maze of fiberglass and rope. My mind immediately starts calculating angles and momentum like this is some particularly violent physics exam.

“Cut right between those yachts,” I instruct. “Then cut the throttle.”

Eoin executes the maneuver perfectly because, of course, he does. We shoot between two moored vessels, their anchor lines scraping our sides. He cuts the throttle as I grab the boat hook from its clips, the aluminum cold in my grip.

Momentum carries us forward. I lean out, hook extended, and snag a fuel dock piling. Physics does its work, and we pivot hard around the piling like the world’s most dangerous fairground ride. My shoulder screams in protest, but it works.

Our pursuers roar past, but one shooter has a clear line on Eoin for just a moment. Time does that thing where it stretches like taffy, each second an eternity. I see the gunman raise his weapon, see Eoin focused on steering, see the trajectory of what’s about to happen with horrible clarity.

I don’t think. I just move, throwing myself across Eoin as the shot cracks out. The bullet whines past where his head was a heartbeat ago, punching through the fiberglass behind us.

“Jaysus, Nicholas!” Eoin’s already got the engine started again, maneuvering us deeper into the floating maze. “What did I just say about being an eejit?”

“Apparently, I’m a slow learner.”

“You’re a complete header,” he breathes, but there’s something like awe mixed with the exasperation.

“I’m assuming that’s not a compliment?” I manage between breaths.

“Means you’re mental. Absolutely mental.” But his hand briefly squeezes my shoulder before returning to the wheel.

A gap opens—clear water leading toward shore. We have to take it.

We shoot out from the marina’s protection, engine screaming. Behind us, the boats converge. More shots, all aimed at Eoin. One clips the windscreen, showering us with plexiglass.

“Beach it,” I shout, pointing to a small cove ahead and trying not to think about how this is going to hurt.

Eoin yanks the tilt switch an instant before the hull slams onto the stones of the beach. The impact throws me forward, ribs meeting the dashboard in a reunion nobody wanted.

But we’re over the side immediately and across the beach. Eoin grabs my hand.

Behind us, shouts and the sound of boats beaching mix with my harsh breathing and the drum of blood in my ears.

We run. The undergrowth tears at us with thorny fingers, leaving signatures in blood and torn fabric. My lungs burn like I’m breathing fire, but we keep moving through.

We scramble up a ridge, using roots as handholds. My palms are raw, nails torn, and I’m fairly certain I’ve left skin on every third tree. Behind us, people crash through undergrowth.They’re gaining, and why wouldn’t they be? They’re probably used to doing exercise beyond simply lifting champagne flutes at charity galas.

At the top of the ridge, we stumble across a walking track that follows the spine. Steep drops on both sides, nowhere to go but forward. My legs burn, muscles screaming complaints in languages I didn’t know my body spoke. But Eoin urges me on, and I follow because the alternative is unthinkable.

Suddenly, the track descends via rough steps cut into the hillside. We half-fall down them, and then find ourselves at a dead end—a viewing platform on a cliff face, a safety rail the only thing between us and a forty-foot drop to the lake.

“We’re trapped,” I gasp because apparently wasting my limited oxygen supply on stating the obvious is a good idea.

There are footsteps above us. Eoin draws his weapon, pushing me behind him. The gesture is protective and infuriating and makes something twist in my chest.

The first of our pursuers appears. He’s dressed in black. What’s with all the bad guys being dressed in black? Did they all get the same villainous dress code memo?Evil attire: business casual black, no exceptions.