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Terror as she had never experienced, not even when she’d unexpectedly stumbled upon the gang, careered through her.
Yet, even with the indignity of being carried like a naughty child and the pain in her stomach as it jostled against his shoulder, when the first gun shots rang out she squeezed her eyes shut and thanked God for Gabriele’s strength, and prayed for the shots to fire wide.
She had no idea how long he ran with her thrown over his shoulder. It could have been one minute, it could have been an hour. All she knew was that the men were chasing and firing at them.
And then he was no longer running with her on the sand but wading through the sea. An engine ran close by. She hardly had time to register that a jet ski had appeared from nowhere before Gabriele had climbed onto it and shouted, ‘Go!’
Whoever was driving didn’t need telling twice. The jet ski shot off over the still waters.
Somehow Gabriele manipulated her body so she was no longer draped over his shoulder but secured on his lap, sandwiched between him and the man riding the jet ski.
Within minutes they approached an enormous yacht. To Elena’s amazement, they steered straight into an opened hatch on the side and parked, exactly as if they were parking a car in a garage.
Gabriele and the man who’d ridden the jet ski helped her off.
‘Are you all right?’ Gabriele asked, looking at her closely.
She opened her mouth to retort defiantly that of course she was all right when the magnitude of everything she’d gone through that evening and the exhaustion that had brought her to Nutmeg Island hit her.
A hot fog formed in her brain, perspiration breaking out all over, her hands suddenly clammy.
And then it all went black.
