when it crashed into the waves. The impact almost tossed him overboard. Clinging tight, he fought his legs to the back and gripped the sides of the seat with his knees. It was the best he could manage with his ankles still bound. He fumbled the key in place, thumbed the red ignition button, and the jet motor growled.
That’ll do.
Staying low, he reached to the handlebars and squeezed the throttle. The ski nosed up and shot across the dark sea—and not a second too soon.
The waves behind him shredded with gunfire.
A bright searchlight ignited from the stern deck and chased after him. He scooted up, sitting on his bound ankles, squeezing with his knees. The loose flotation vest flew away, flapping in the wind, threatening to tug out the imbedded key, which would conk out the engine.
No, you don’t.
He snatched the vest back and stuffed it under his butt.
By then, the bright beam found him, blinding him. He leaned and yanked the handlebars to the one side and darted back into darkness. More gunfire peppered the water. A few pinged off the back of the ski.
Behind him, a loud whine cut through the chatter.
Then another.
And another.
More jet-skis in pursuit.
Kowalski ducked lower, intending to keep his lead. He raced toward the shore, now a half mile off. He spotted bonfires burning along a beach. Closer at hand, a buoy field was crowded with moored boats, several with lights.
I can make it.
Then the engine coughed, caught again—and died.
He stared at the illuminated display, where the icon of a tiny fuel pump blinked.
He groaned at his luck, realizing he’d picked a ski with a near-empty tank.
Out of gas.
10:32 P.M.
Elena stood teary-eyed on the stern deck of the yacht. Kadir had a fist still snarled at the base of her ponytail. He had never released his grip after capturing her, dragging her along like a toy doll up from the lower decks. The back of her scalp burned—but the tears that threatened were not due to the pain.
She stared out to the dark sea.
A searchlight swept the waters. But at least the trio of men with assault rifles had stopped firing into the waves. Kowalski must’ve made it beyond the range of their weapons. Still, he was far from safe. The scream of pursuit echoed over the water, ready to run him down.
Her eyes strained to pierce the darkness, to know what was happening.
She prayed he reached shore.
Godspeed, Joe.
10:33 P.M.
Kowalski perched at the back of the ski’s seat. He used his considerable bulk and heavy chains to weigh down the craft’s stern. He stared over toward the field of buoys and boats, so tantalizingly close.
Behind him, the whine of skis trebled in volume. It sounded like they were coming from everywhere, spreading a wide net in the darkness.
Running out of time . . .
He fought the waves, doing his best to keep the stern low and the nose high. Balanced in the back, he reached a long arm to the ignition button. He prayed there was a little gas left in the tank. By weighting down the back of the ski, he hoped to shift the remaining gas to the fuel line at the rear of the gas tank.
Is that asking too much?
He grimaced and pushed the ignition.
The engine sputtered—then caught with a growl.
He heaved out a breath and squeezed the throttle. The jet-ski bolted forward again. As it cut through the waves, he struggled to keep the bow high. If he let it fall, the last dregs of gas would slosh away from the fuel line, and he’d be dead in the water again.
Unfortunately, that meant going slow, judging the best course through the chop.
He tried to ignore the scream of the engines behind him. He clenched his jaws, focusing on his goal. Ahead, the lights of the buoy field grew. But it now sounded like the hunters were at his heels. The spread of their whines had narrowed to an arrow pointed at him.
Or maybe it was just his paranoia.
Still, he reached the edge of the buoys and entered the field of boats. He angled into them, trying his best to keep out of sight. He shied away from any vessels with mooring lights and kept to the darkest path.
Just need to get through here.
The beach and its line of bonfires was only fifty yards past the last row of buoys.
But halfway across the field, the ski’s engine coughed and died.
He swore.
So close.
The momentum of the ski drifted him against the side