Page 108 of Power's Fall
Vadisk grunted in approval. “How close can I get the car to the boat?”
Montana slid the map to the coast, finding the small private marina. There were only four boats docked there, and Montana easily spotted Sinaver’s.
“Pretty close, assuming there isn’t a wall or fence I can’t see from this angle,” he said.
“Good.” Vadisk cleared his throat. “This is going to be messy.”
Once or twice, one of the police cars behind them tried to push the van off the road, but Vadisk handled it beautifully, at one point slamming on the brakes so the cop cars whipped passed, then sped up, tapping their quarter panels in a perfect PIT maneuver that spun them off the road.
“Dahlia out first,” Vadisk said as they turned a corner and saw the water spread out before them.
“Yep,” Montana agreed.
“Then you and Sinaver, I’ll cover you.”
“Nope. Then you, you provide cover, and Sinaver and I come last,” Montana insisted.
Vadisk shook his head. “You need to drive the boat.”
“Shit, that’s right. Then you take Sinaver, and I’ll take Dahlia. Turn right.”
Vadisk whipped the wheel, and the van tilted alarmingly as they turned into the small marina parking lot.
“Maybe slow down just a little…” Montana braced his palms on the dash, sure they were about to end up in the water.
“Which way?”
“There. Just go over that curb. Oof, yes, okay.” Montana scrambled into the back, hauling Sinaver out of the laundry bin and briefly hugging Dahlia, who looked a little green. “Ready to run?” he whispered against her temple.
She nodded. It was shaky, but she nodded. It would take more than impending doom and a high-speed car chase to rattle his wife.
The van rocked to a halt on the wooden dock that hugged the shore. A longer dock stuck out perpendicularly, and branching from that were the narrow wooden paths that sectioned off each slip. The long dock was too narrow for the van, which meant, they’d have to run for the boat.
Montana threw open the back doors and jumped out, holding tightly to Dahlia’s hand. Together, they raced toward the moored boats, their footsteps pounding on the wood. Montana risked a glance behind—Vadisk had Sinaver, and he was running, though not fast as Sinaver was more stumbling than running. Up on the shore, the first of the cop cars—which might have been military police or whatever the equivalent was, based on the markings on the cars—pulled into the parking area.
They passed the first vessel, a party boat that had delusions of being a yacht. It was also one of Sinaver’s but not the one they were taking.
Montana turned onto the narrow jetty between the pleasure boat and the sleek sport catamaran, the yacht providing cover.
He released Dahlia’s hand, took a running start, and leapt up onto the bow of the catamaran. A few steps more and he dropped down into the cockpit. He wanted to make sure the boat worked before he got Dahlia on board.
The key chain was looped over the gear shaft, and Montana grinned as he started the ignition, then went to the side.
“Unwind that line,” he said, pointing.
Dahlia shoved her gun into her pocket and handled the rope with quick, if unsure, movements, as he flipped the ladder over the side.
Montana hauled the mooring line on board, then held out his hand for Dahlia as Vadisk rounded the corner. The sick tightness in Montana’s gut eased.
She’d just cleared the side and was standing on the deck, about to drop down into the cockpit with him, when a shot rang out.
Dahlia fell against him, Montana staggering back as he cradled her in his arms. He dropped low, trying to shelter both of them. Sliding his own gun free, he peeked over the edge, spotting an officer with a gun standing on top of one of the police vehicles. Coupled with the elevation of the parking lot, that gave him a clear line of sight over the yacht.
Montana rose, firing off four shots. The man on the car jumped down, and Montana turned to Dahlia.
Her eyes were screwed shut, her teeth clenched.
Blood was soaking her white pant leg.