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Or survivable.
But an unfortunate flash of clarity cuts through the simmering heat brain.
They don’t plan on me surviving.
Gripping the rail, I creep around the deck. I have no yardstick for boat size, but it feels pretty freaking huge.
We’re moving, too.
Not anchored.
So there should be a cockpit.
A captain?
My shambles take me to the ass end, where the engine’s hum drowns out my despair, and I finally find my sliver of hope.
A private submarine pod, hanging half over the water like it’s just been out.
Freaking rich people.
The control panel’s surprisingly easy to work. Just have to mash the arrow buttons and the pod’s pushed farther out over the water.
But the mechanical whirrrr has my blood pumping faster.
I wrench open the hatch, but this is a two person job, because I can’t hit the button to lower it from inside.
Shit knows how I’m going to pilot a submarine, but I’d rather roll those dice than mess with Dominik’s snake eyes.
Mashing buttons for my life, I will the crane to drop faster.
Smacking footsteps break my focus.
“She’s here!” Noelle screeches, tearing around the corner, flying toward me with zero clothes and zero fear.
I practiced for this fight.
In my fantasies, I’m armed with twenty knives and kick her ass until she weeps.
Now I can barely stand.
But I set my jaw and brace myself.
Can’t afford to lose.
Noelle comes at me like she’s never taken a combat class, lifting her hand for a catty, flat-palmed slap.
I dodge, just too slow.
Her momentum carries the swat to my shoulder, but it works.
I’m not fucking playing.
I drop my weight, hug her waist for a rugby takedown, and heave.
Noelle squawks, losing her balance.
I throw myself, digging my heels into the deck.
