Page 115 of Dirty Mechanic
“Mike—please?—”
“Shut up.”
Blake stirs as Mike kicks him, forcing him upright. He groans, eyes fluttering like torn wings. My chest constricts so hard, it’s like the bones might snap.
Mike drags us toward the skiff—rickety, half-swamped, its gunwales cracked and leaking. Rainwater sloshes around our feet as he hoists us in, one at a time, grunting with effort.
Two sandbags lie in place, ropes coiled beside them like sleeping vipers—waiting to strike.
He crouches at my feet first, his fingers curling around the coarse rope. The hiss it makes as he uncoils it against the wet boards sends a bolt of cold through my spine.
I try to jerk my leg back, but the boat rocks dangerously under the shift. Blake groans behind me—still alive, still bleeding. Mike growls and slams his palm into my shin.
“Don’t make me knock you out again.”
He loops the rope once, twice, around my ankles with jerky, practiced movements, then threads it through the sandbag’s handle. The weight drags at my foot immediately. There’s no slack. No mercy.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, throat raw.
Mike’s lip curls. “Sanity doesn’t win the land.”
He shifts to Blake next. My body screams to move, to stop him, but there’s nothing I can do—nothing but watch as he binds the second rope. Blake doesn’t even flinch.
Mike ties the final knot tight and stands, breathing hard. Rain drips from his chin. He looks almost satisfied, like a man admiring his handiwork.
“You don’t get it,” he says, voice low and breathless. “This is justice.”
The ropes sit still, thick and quiet—but the vipers are awake now. And we’re the ones about to disappear.
He moves to the rear of the skiff, muttering to himself as he yanks the outboard’s cord. The engine sputters, then catches with a low growl.
The skiff jerks forward, dragging us away from shore, and pushing us through the black, churning water.
The wind lashes my skin. The bow bucks beneath us, slicing through the swollen river, water sloshing into the boat with every dip and surge.
I can barely breathe.
“Where’s Skylar?” he growls.
“I don’t know.”
His hand cracks across my cheek. Not hard. Just enough to humiliate.
“Where. Is. She.”
“I don’t know!” I shout, voice strangled.
He laughs again—quietly this time. Almost mournful. “You should’ve played along, Belle. Could’ve been part of the winning team.”
I close my eyes. Swallow hard. Bite the tears before they fall.
The boat rocks, shifting our balance as he turns. Lightning splits the sky, casting our reflections like ghosts across the surface.
Then he cuts the engine.
Silence swells, except for the hiss of rain and the rush of river.
I lift my head. Across the water, a blur of two figures stands on the shoreline.
