Page 141 of Wyatt

They were going to cure Mikka, get married, and live happily ever after.

“Stop him!” Wyatt knew his shouts died in the cacophony of screams, but it didn’t keep him from shouting as he raced after Kobie.

The terrorist had headed for the outskirts of the assembly area, behind the bleachers, along the pier’s edge.

Wyatt felt like he was bodychecking his way through the line of the Boston Bruins, trying and failing to bodily move people. But he was running out of time. He’d apologize later to the woman he’d sent flying into the press risers.

Kobie disappeared behind the crowd.

Wyatt kicked up his speed. “Make a hole!”

The shooting had stopped, but the screaming hadn’t, people running over each other, some hiding under the tiered risers, more simply lying on the pavement, their hands over their heads. Sirens screamed in the distance.

Wyatt spotted Tate in front of him, emerging from the press area. “Get the phone!”

Kobie was fast. He ran down the side of the pier, pushing away obstructions, looking back over his shoulder.

One minute. The clock ticked in Wyatt’s head and he caught up to Tate. Passed him. Kobie was ten feet away.

“Stop! Kobie—stop!”

Kobie slammed into a man with a camera, sent him sprawling, but it slowed him down enough for Wyatt to close the distance. Five feet, nearly a hand-reach away—

Another gunshot.

Before Wyatt’s eyes, Kobie jerked, tripped.

Fell.

The phone careened out of his hand.

Wyatt had spent years honing his reflexes, his ability to follow a small black object, to nab it out of the air.

He became a goal tender and launched himself toward the phone as it flew across the pier toward the water.

He didn’t have his padding, but he cared nothing for his landing as his hand wrapped around the device.

Gotcha.

His body slammed onto the metal lip that lined the pier’s edge, the spiny blade ripping through his body. He bit back a noise, the pain exploding through him.

He might have shattered something.

Then he was falling, his body’s momentum peeling him over the side of the pier.

No!

He acted on reflex again, the same kind that slapped shots out of the goal to his defensemen. “Tate! Hang up!”

He tossed the phone onto the pier, toward his brother.

The water engulfed him, took him under, the cold like knives to his skin. The suddenness of it stole his breath and he couldn’t move, sinking into the briny sea.

The current slammed him against a piling. Jolted him.

He gasped.

Pulled in a lungful of water.

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