“Hey!” Fletcher shouted, becauseyes. A boat cut through the choppy waters. Far enough out to be wholly unconcerned with Lydell, but a boat nonetheless. The most magnificent boat she’d ever seen. “Over here!”
Waylon tipped the pistol into the air and sent a bullet soaring. “This way!”
They screamed and screamed until their voices went hoarse. The boat floated on. Their one remaining chance at getting off this island without major bodily harm…and it didn’t even slow down.
It was over. She couldn’t stand the thought of looking intoWaylon’s eyes and finding the same desperation reflected back at her, so Fletcher settled for leaning her head against the railing and waiting for death to take her.
A sound rumbled in the distance.
Faint, like an alarm clock fighting its way into REM sleep.
Then, again. A horn blasting in the distance.
Someone was coming to rescue them.
27
Celebrating didn’t last long.
An elbow crashed against Waylon’s shoulder. Melv stripped the gun out of his hands and grabbed Waylon by the arm, spinning him around so he could slam the pistol against the chest of the only living Cartwright.
“Enough,” Waylon said. Blood dribbled from his nose, new bruises forming over every patch of skin, but his shoulders straightened with determination. “It’s over, Melv.”
An oily laugh seeped out. “For you.”
A steady thumping pulsed across the waves as their rescuers sailed nearer. Morse code? No. It almost sounded like…trap music. They were coming, but not fast enough. Fletcher had to do something before Melv did.
She tapped on Melv’s shoulder. “Say cheese!”
Her camera shutter clicked, capturing the moment in perfect clarity—Melv with a fistful of Waylon’s shirt and ramming the guninto his sternum, Waylon with his hands spread wide on either side of his face in innocence.
Melv’s interest in Waylon immediately waned. He twisted, arms extended with incredible form and his finger hovering over the trigger. Ready to kill. “You want to go first? That’s fine.”
Through the viewfinder of her camera, Fletcher centered the barrel of the gun. A twist of the lens, and Melv’s face came into focus behind it. She set the aperture, shortened the depth of field. The kind of photo that belonged on front pages.
Melv’s trigger sank.
A flashbulb popped.
The moment stretched, infinite almost, in that postflash haze as the gun still smoked from its last desperate shot. There was nothing but brine and gunpowder, iron and salt. There was nothing at all.
Then, a scream as Lil Jon’s voice tore through the moment.
The rescue boat drifted toward the dock with eachthumpof an 808. Crunk had never sounded so good.
Fletcher lowered her camera. Smiled. “Great work, Melv. Has anyone ever told you how photogenic you are?”
A roar tore up Melv’s throat. He pulled the trigger again and again. The gun exhaled soot and little else.
“You’re all out of bullets.” Waylon dragged Melv away from Fletcher and wrapped him in mooring line. “I’d say your plan backfired, but I guess it didn’t actually fire at all.”
Fletcher tied the last knot. “Stranding us with two bullets? Diabolical. Great for the theatrics, but a truthfully poor execution.”
Melv tried to respond, but Waylon gagged him with a twist of rope. Wedged between the two of them and forced to listen to the worst performance review of his life, Melv floundered against his holds, likely trying to decide which of them to pummel first once he freed himself.
“Your complete disinterest in basic human decency served you well. You really nailed the comic book supervillain vibe,” Fletcher ribbed. “I feel like you had us there for a minute. Those sharks gotprettyclose. Ultimately, your downfall was all your own. You had to have the last word.”
“But now we get to have it,” Waylon added, triumphant. “And the word I’d like to go with is ‘goodbye.’ ”
