Chapter 7 - The Ice and the Fire
The shock of the North Atlantic water was like hitting a concrete wall.
The cold stole the air from Claire’s lungs in an instant, a freezing vice that
crushed her chest, turning every nerve ending into white-hot glass. The surface
above her was a raging inferno of burning diesel fuel and sinking debris,
glowing an apocalyptic orange through the black swells.
Claire kicked frantically, her heavy tactical boots dragging her down toward the
bottom of the bay.
Her lungs screamed for oxygen. She reached upward, her fingers clawing toward
the burning light, but the drag of her wet Kevlar vest was too heavy.
Suddenly, a massive, powerful hand locked around the collar of her tactical
harness.
Damian.
Even in the freezing black depths, even with a bullet wound in his back and torn
stitches bleeding into the saltwater, Damian Cross refused to die. With
powerful, rhythmic kicks, he hauled them both toward the surface, bursting
through the waves fifty feet away from the flaming wreckage of the yacht.
Claire gasped, coughing up salt water, retching as she sucked in the
smoke-choked air.
“I have you,” Damian’s voice was ragged, his lips blue, his teeth chattering
violently as his left arm kept her head above the churning waves. “I have you,
Bennett. Don’t stop kicking.”
A beam of blinding white halogen light cut through the smoke.
The low roar of twin Mercury outboard engines surged toward them. The black
rubber pontoon of the Zodiac boat slid alongside, Marcus leaning over the side
with an outstretched arm.
“Boss! Grab the line!”
Damian seized the tow line, but instead of pulling himself up, he used his last
ounce of strength to heave Claire upward into Marcus’s grip.
Marcus and another operator hauled Claire over the pontoon. She collapsed onto
the floor of the boat, coughing and shivering violently, immediately crawling
toward the stern where Rebecca was wrapped in an emergency thermal blanket,
sobbing hysterically.
“Claire! Claire!” Rebecca threw her arms around her sister, clinging to her like
a child.
“I’ve got you, Becca. I’ve got you,” Claire choked out, kissing her sister’s wet
forehead before spinning back toward the water. “Damian! Get him in! Get him
in!”
Damian was struggling against the heavy swell. His left arm hung uselessly at
his side, the salt water having drained the last reserves of his physical
strength.
Marcus and Claire grabbed his combat harness together, their muscles screaming
as they hauled Damian’s massive frame over the gunwale. He crashed onto the
aluminum deck floor, gasping for air, his chest heaving, his skin as pale as
marble.
Marcus slammed the throttles forward. The Zodiac leaped across the black swells,
leaving the burning funeral pyre of Dominic Mercer’s flagship behind them as
they raced toward the dark coastline of Boston Harbor.
Claire immediately dropped to her knees beside Damian, peeling back his sodden
shirt.
The wound was catastrophic. The surgical sutures she had so carefully placed two
hours ago had completely torn through the tissue under the strain of the jump.
The bullet hole was bleeding freely, the sea water having stripped away any
clotting factors.
“Hypothermia and acute blood loss,” Claire said, her teeth chattering so hard
she could barely articulate the words. She ripped open Marcus’s tactical trauma
kit, grabbing packets of Celox hemostatic gauze. “Marcus! How long to the
shore?”
“Ten minutes to the private slipway at Long Wharf,” Marcus yelled over the
engine roar. “We have an armored medical transport waiting. But Boss... we have
a massive problem.”
Damian coughed, a thin line of pink foam flecking his lips. He forced his eyes
open, staring at Marcus. “Report.”
“The gala,” Marcus said, his voice grim beneath his tactical headset. “The
attack at the Harbor Crown wasn’t just Mercer’s street muscle. While we were in
the air, District Attorney Richard Hayes held an emergency press conference on
the courthouse steps.”
Claire paused, her bloody hands hovering over Damian’s wound. “What?”
“Hayes is Mercer’s pocket politician,” Damian rasped, his voice weak but
razor-sharp. “What did he do, Marcus?”
“He unsealed a federal grand jury indictment against you, Boss,” Marcus said,
his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Murder one. Racketeering. Terrorism.
They’re claiming you staged the gala shooting to eliminate your rivals, and that
you blew up Mercer’s yacht in an act of gang warfare. State Police and FBI
tactical units have locked down Crosswell Tower, your penthouse, and the clinic.
There are warrants out for your arrest... and for Claire Bennett as an active
accomplice.”
Claire felt a cold fist clamp down on her throat. “An accomplice? I’m a nurse!”
“You’re on the penthouse security tapes holding a firearm and escaping with
Boston’s most wanted man, Claire,” Marcus said grimly. “To the world outside
this boat, you aren’t a hostage. You’re Damian Cross’s gun moll.”
Claire looked down at Damian.
His dark eyes were fixed on hers. Despite the freezing cold, despite the sirens
beginning to wail along the distant Boston waterfront like an approaching storm,
Damian reached up with trembling, icy fingers and touched her cheek.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” he whispered, genuine remorse bleeding into his voice for
the first time. “I tried to keep you out of the dark. Now I’ve dragged you
straight into the fire.”
Claire stared at him, feeling the heavy rhythm of his fading pulse beneath her
palm. The innocent, quiet life she had built for two years—the scrubs, the
modest apartment, the safe anonymity—was dead. Burned away in the wreckage of
the Atlantic.
May you like
She grabbed the Celox gauze, jammed it directly into his torn flesh with
uncompromising force, and leaned down until her lips were an inch from his ear.
“Stop apologizing, Damian Cross,” she whispered fiercely. “You saved my sister’s
life tonight. Now shut up, stay alive, and tell Marcus where our safe house is.
Because if they want a war with us... they’re going to get one.”
