Page 11 of Risky Passion

That was my one lifeline. If I stayed near the wreck, someone would come. Someonehadto come.

But movement on the horizon turned my stomach into ice. A sleek, dark shape cut through the water like a shark’s fin. A boat was heading this way.

“Oh fuck.” Panic gripped me.

Those bastards are coming to finish me off.

My breaths were ragged gasps as I stared at the jagged shoreline where I’d gone down, and my brain struggled to catch up. Eight years of flying, and I’d actually fucking crashed.

Panic burned in my chest. My body begged for rest, but if I didn’t get moving now, I was dead. That speedboat knifing throughthe water was closing the distance fast, and if they had binoculars, they already knew I’d survived.

“Move,” I growled to myself.

The sticky mud clung to me as I rolled onto my hands and knees. As I pushed my fingers into the sludge, blinding pain ripped through my left hand. Howling with agony, I yanked it free from the mud and nearly gagged. My left pinky was bent sideways like a damn coat hanger.

Fuck!

My finger’s dislocated.Perfect. Just what I need.

Still, I was alive. That was more than I could say for my parents after their crash.

A pang hit me in the chest, but I shoved it down.

I’m alive.And I need to move.

I let out a shaky breath, resisting the urge to snap my pinky back into place. Every muscle protested, but I clutched my injured hand to my chest, gritted my teeth, and plunged my right hand into the mangrove muck to pull myself forward. The mud made a loud schlurp as I freed my knees, and the sound would be hilarious if I wasn’t so terrified.

Ahead of me, a patch of dense mangroves promised cover. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. I forced my legs to move, ignoring the burn in my thighs and the sharp sting of cuts on my hands. Twisted mangrove roots snaked through the black mud like gnarled fingers, forming a dense maze at the water's edge. The mud was deep, almost to my elbows, and every movement was like the sludge was trying to swallow me whole.

Behind me, the boat loomed close enough that I could make out the shapes of four men crowded on the rubber raft. The one at the front peered through binoculars. The other three gripped rifles. Ice shot through my veins.

“Fuck!”

The mangrove trees loomed over me and thankfully, their twisted branches wove a dense canopy that swallowed the sunlight and draped everything in shadows. The air was thick with the stench of rot and brine, and the mud stuck to me like a second skin, warm and heavy.

Thank God I’d chosen my dark blue uniform today. If I’d worn thewhite one, I would stand out like a beacon. My blonde hair was another story. I grabbed a fistful of the sticky muck and smeared the slimy weight over my hair.

The low growl of the boat engine cut through the humid air, drowning out the faint, rhythmic lapping of the waves against the muddy shore. My pulse hammered in my ears.

They’re close. Too close. And I’m still too exposed.

Clawing forward with my good hand, I fought the greedy pull of the mud. Each time I grabbed a gnarly root, the cuts on my palms stung like a bitch. The finger-like roots jutting up through the sludge stabbed my palm and scraped my knees, and my mind screamed at me to move faster. The mud had other plans. It sucked at my limbs, pulling me down, sapping what little strength I had left. Every inch was a battle I was losing.

The stench of decay and brine filled my lungs. I paused, chest heaving, and dared a glance behind me. The boat had shifted course, angling away from me.

Yes! They haven’t seen me. Yet!

The bastard at the bow stood motionless with his binoculars raised and his long black hair whipping behind him like a war banner. His presence commanded the others, and there was no doubt he was their leader. He swept the shoreline with mechanical precision like a predator hunting wounded prey.

Me.

I grabbed a handful of mud and pasted it over my cheeks and chin, hoping like hell it was enough camouflage. My grotesquely bent pinky screamed in agony and was already swelling and turning blue. I forced my eyes away from the mangled finger and risked another glance at the boat.

The leader's binoculars swung toward my position with uncanny accuracy as if he could smell my fear. For one heart-stopping moment, those black lenses seemed to pierce straight through my pathetic camouflage and pin me like an insect to a board. His arm jerked upward and his shout echoed across the water to me.

Oh shit!

I threw myself forward, clawing at the mud as panic surged throughme. The roar of the engine drowned out everything but my own ragged breaths and my blood pounding in my ears.

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