Page 109 of Power's Fall
She’d been shot.
“Montana,” Vadisk called from the dock.
“Hold on, honey,” he whispered to Dahlia. “Just hold on and I’ll get us the hell out of here.”
Staying low, Montana leaned over the side, grabbed Sinaver under the arms, and hauled him aboard. He forced the older man to stand, facing the shore, hoping no one would shoot at Vadisk as he climbed on since they’d risk shooting Sinaver.
“Down,” Montana snapped at Vadisk once he was on board. Vadisk immediately crouched, and Montana heard his sharp inhale as he caught sight of Dahlia’s injury.
“Dahlia? Dahlia!” Vadisk grabbed their wife, who’d opened her eyes, murmuring that she was fine.
Montana shoved Sinaver into one of the four captain’s chairs in the cockpit and leapt to the helm. The boat had been purring as it idled, and the instant he put it in reverse, the powerful ship eased back out of the slip, the deck rumbling under his feet.
Topside, the only seating was the four captain’s chairs, and the net trampoline strung across the space between the dual hulls. There was a short set of steps and a small door between the helm seat and the front passenger chair.
“There might be something below deck,” Montana shouted as he revved, reversing out of the slip at a speed that would make most boat enthusiasts pass out in horror.
Vadisk crab-walked over, turning sideways to get through the door.
“Not much,” he called up, “but there’s a bench and a sink.”
Montana didn’t answer, his focus entirely on getting them the hell out of there. He spun the wheel and threw the boat into gear. The slick catamaran sliced through the water as shots rang out behind them. Montana flinched each time, knowing his back made a nice broad target, but they were almost to open water and getting farther away each second.
Montana consulted the gyrocompass mounted to the helm. They were headed southwest and would turn south and head for Turkish waters once they’d cleared the shallow bay that formed this part of the coast.
Montana checked on Sinaver, fastening his seat belt more to use it as a restraint than because he was concerned for the other man’s safety. Though it would be a pain in the ass if he fell overboard right now.
He ached to go check on Dahlia but stayed at the helm, pushing the boat to its maximum speed, the pointed tips of the catamaran hulls lifting up off the water, tipping the boat up at an angle.
Almost, almost.
He repeated the word like a mantra.
Almost free.
Almost safe.
ChapterNineteen
Dahlia winced as Vadisk applied pressure to her wound.
“I got shot.” She’d said the same words in her head close to a dozen times already, trying to make them sink in. Shit like this didn’t happen to her. While she lived a fairly adventurous life, she always took precautions, and with the exception of the last week in Crimea, she’d never gone anyplace where she would get shot.
Vadisk looked up at her, sheer anguish in his eyes and she cursed her wayward tongue.
“Not your fault,” she hastened to say, knowing it was wasted breath. There was no way Vadisk wouldn’t blame himself for this.
“Dahlia—” he started.
She waved him off, wincing when Montana gunned the engine, Vadisk’s hand slipping and rubbing her wound. There was a lot of blood. Or at least, it looked like a lot to her.
Vadisk had found a first aid kit tucked inside a bench seat, the one she was now sitting on. He knelt on the floor in front of her, rifling through the kit looking for something.
She felt a bit lightheaded, though she wasn’t sure if she should blame blood loss, shock, carsickness—because holy fuck, Vadisk was never driving her anywhere again—or panic.
“Who the hell taught you how to drive?” she muttered.
Vadisk gave her a quick grin in reply, then turned his attention back to the kit.