Page 150 of The Unlikely Spare
But the math is simple. They’ll have to go through me first.
I push the throttle of our boat, causing it to leap ahead as I angle us toward the deepest part of the lake.
Behind us, our pursuers match our speed, and I know with cold certainty that their boats are faster, their engines more powerful.
We’re going to run out of water. Out of time. Out of options.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nicholas
The lake that seemed so vast when we saw it from a distance now feels like a bathtub with three sharks circling the drain. Our stolen runabout bounces across the water, the engine screaming a protest that matches the hammering in my chest.
“They’re herding us,” Eoin shouts over the wind, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Trying to box us in against the Eastern Shore.”
I twist to look behind us. The three boats move in practiced formation. Two are flanking wide while the third hangs back, ready to cut off any escape attempt. It’s professional. Coordinated.
“Pierce’s people?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“Probably.” Eoin’s jaw clenches in that way that usually means someone’s about to have a very bad day.
Unfortunately, that someone appears to be us.
“They know exactly what they’re doing.”
I watch the three boats’ coordination with the sort of detached admiration one might feel for a well-executed ballet, if ballet involved high-powered engines and the implicit promise of violence. The flanking boats maintain perfect spacing,adjusting to every move Eoin makes before he’s even finished making it.
They’re forcing us toward the shore. And unless the boat has wheels that magically come out and mean it can venture onto land, we’re going to run out of places to go very fast.
The lead boat is close enough now that I can make out details. Two men, both dressed in black tactical vests.
A crack splits the air, followed by a splash inches from Eoin’s side of the boat. My blood doesn’t so much freeze as turn into something thick and sluggish, like treacle in January.
It’s a bullet
The sound is oddly delicate for something so lethal, like an angry wasp, if it were made of lead and homicidal intent.
My stomach drops. I turn to see one of the men on the lead boat holding a rifle, his legs spread wide for balance, tracking us with a scope.
They’re not shooting at me. They need me alive for whatever delightful purpose they have in mind. But Eoin…
“They’re trying to take you out,” I shout.
“Noticed that,” he replies grimly, hunching lower as another shot whines past. “Makes sense. Easier to grab you if I’m not in the picture.”
The knowledge that they’re actively trying to kill Eoin adds a sick twist to this chase. Ice crystallizes in my chest, sharp and cutting.
But I can’t panic now.
Instead, I force my mind to focus, taking inventory of our surroundings.
“That marina.” I point toward a cluster of moored boats about two hundred meters ahead. “Can you make it?”
Eoin doesn’t question, just floors it. The engine coughs like a lifelong smoker attempting opera, whines pitifully, then somehow surges forward.
Another shot—closer this time, still seeming to be aimed at Eoin. I instinctively lean toward him, trying to shield him, but he shoves me back with his elbow.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he growls.
