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Ethan glanced that way and saw the driver’s right arm was heavily bandaged. He turned back to Piper. “Put her down on the ground gently.” He used the tone he’d learned out in the desert when he wasn’t sure what language was needed. It was the commanding tone that didn’t really need translation. The person would intuitively know what was required, and when all went well, there would be compliance.
That was what usually happened with untrained laypeople. This man was neither untrained nor a layperson. He wasn’t only strong; he was tactical and ruthless, and he definitely had the upper hand.
“Call off your dog.” He repeated his buddy’s directive. His voice was controlled and commanding.
She was going in.
The man was holding about a hundred and fifty pounds out from his body. A feat only possible while adrenaline was surging. Piper’s weight was to the guy’s left side —probably his weaker side—and that weight was out over the water.
Even if he wanted to, that guy couldn’t get Piper neatly to the walkway.
The guy on the ground was keening.
“Call off your dog,” the man’s voice rose a hair. It was a threat.
Ethan was gaming this out. If he called Tango off the man, the wounded man would crawl into the van. The man with Piper would drop her. All attention would be directed to Piper, screaming as she fell. The attacker would use that time to leap into the van. They’d pull the door shut as the driver peeled out.
He felt Gator slide up behind him and whisper. “Nope.”
Ethan agreed.
“Put her down on her feet.” Ethan was careful not to ratchet up his voice. Calm was deadly, and anyone trained would know that.
Survival in a fight was strategy. Thinking. Keeping a cool head to calculate. And Ethan knew the man was gaming this out, too.
She was going in.
The knife guy was still balled up protectively, under Tango’s control.
Ethan had to protect Tango from being kicked off the guy’s buddy.
As Piper’s captor opened his arms, Ethan called out, “Tango, release. To me.”
Piper dropped into the water.
Her assailant sprang toward the van.
As Tango rounded to Ethan’s side, Gator reached for the handle on her tactical vest.
The screech of tires filled Ethan’s ears as he folded over the rail, scanning for a bobbing head, a flash of bright pink.
Piper hadn’t screamed.
Had she hit her head? Was she unconscious?
People lining the riverbank pointed and yelled, trying to direct him.
Ethan was too far away to run the bridge, drop down the slope, dive into the water, and swim the hundred yards to the center in time to save her.
That was ludicrous.
The only possible way to help was to go in himself.
He fished his wallet and phone from his pocket as he toed off his boots, climbed over the rail, and looked over his shoulder.
“Wiz, I’ve got Tango,” Gator shouted. “Go. Go. Go.”
Ethan took a deep breath and plunged.
