Page 54 of Every Last Breath

Arresting pain ripped through his bicep. Growling, he forced himself to clutch the wrist of his injured arm and support his hold on her throat. Enough fun and games, playtime was over. He applied pressure up from his elbow under her chin, shutting off her oxygen. Her body weakened and went limp.

Heavy footsteps thundered into the room, glass crunching under heels. One man running.

Aleksander released her and leapt for the gun. Scooping it from the floor, he rolled, spun up onto his knees, and fired. Scarface dove behind a sofa, taking cover. Aleksander jumped to his feet, seized the case with the bioweapon, and whirled to lay down suppressive fire.

But there was no need.

As suspected, Scarface was maneuvering between the furniture. Not to sneak up on Aleksander but to reach the woman. His woman.

Oh yes, Scarface cared more about her than chasing him or retrieving a deadly bioagent. Still, he fired, slowing Scarface’s attempts to see if she was dead or alive.

Aleksander ran over the carpet of glass and rushed up the stairs.

The ping of ricocheting bullets swept closer. A helicopter was setting down to land on the bow, ropes dangling. More agents. Probably crawling over the yacht like cockroaches.

He glimpsed the bomb Val had set on the helm. Small, but the impact would be huge.

Holding the case, he dashed to the helicopter. Van Helden was already inside. Aleksander climbed in and Val handed him the detonator. As they lifted off, he spotted two men wearing protective tactical gear and carrying guns. They cleared the port side of the yacht, noticed Aleksander’s helicopter, and opened fire.

“Three. Two. One.” He hit the button. The bomb exploded, tearing through the helm, spraying metal and fire faster than the speed of sound.

As the flames spread, so did Aleksander’s smile. He leaned back in the plush seat, exhilarated, bolstered. For there was no greater high, no better drug than winning.

Chapter 16

International Waters, Atlantic Ocean

8:13 p.m. EDT

Dust and smoke clogged the air. Maddox’s eyes stung, and her throat burned.

She clambered to her feet. The spinning room came into focus. Shattered glass covered the floor to her right. Flaming pieces of metal and smoldering debris littered the deck. Black smoke wafted from the upper level. Unbearable heat pressed down through the doorway.

I’m alive.

A wave of dizziness bowled her over, and she stumbled. Her bare feet sank into the thick, soft carpet. She shook off the disorientation and found her bearings.

“Maddox!” Cole rushed to her from the other side of the room. Ash dusted his hair and clothing. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Minutes ago, she’d been at the fingertips of death, but now she was…fine. Nausea churned in her gut. Her head swam in a dense pool of muck and her legs wobbled, knees threatening to buckle.

Cole roped her into a hug.

“Are you hurt?” She pulled back, inspecting him.

“The explosion knocked me against the wall, but nothing serious.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I lost Kassar.”

Shaking her head, she lowered her gaze and turned away. “Not Kassar—he’s a hitman named Aleksander Novak. Shit. Van Helden got away too.”

She scanned the room. Reinhart lay on the floor, his head in a puddle of sticky, dark blood, his bodyguard beside him. “Castle? Reece? Where are you guys?”

Her chest tightened in a cold clench, then she grabbed her throat. Her necklace was gone. They couldn’t hear her.

The bomb. What if they’d been close to the helm during the explosion? Or worse, on it?

“Cole—”

“Let’s go.” He was right behind her as she pushed through the other set of glass doors out toward the bow of the yacht, where the Gray Box helo sat on the second helipad.