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The last glimpse Cora received was of a startled face peering over the console as she fell out of reach. Two bullets. Even as the grenade exploded, even as he was blasted to pieces, the killer managed to get off an accurate shot.
Cora felt the bullet bury into her shoulder near where the first shot had hit her in the meat of her arm.
But she didn’t even have time for pain. She held on for dear life to the woman’s leg as the two of them crashed into the water.
Cora held her breath, plummeting into the water. She didn’t fight it at first—no point in fighting against the suction of a yacht. It was simply too much to combat.
But limpet mine training back in the Navy had taught more than one way to escape a sinking vessel. She allowed the water to toss her about, hanging on desperately to the woman’s leg. Then maneuvering to grab her arm. She hadn’t had time to warn the woman to hold her breath, so every second was precious.
Once the force of the plummeting ship lessened, Cora began to kick out and away. The first thing was to distance herself from the vessel and any potential suction. It was a myth that a ship might completely yank someone under by simple force of falling, but when water was sucked into cabins, open areas and other spaces, the chances of getting pulled into a vacuum of liquid was always possible.
Now, holding her breath, Cora kicked towards the surface, holding tightly to the woman at her side. She used a few bubbles, allowing them to leak from her lips, to guide her up.
Following the trail of bubbles, she kicked. Faster.
Her lungs ached.
She grit her teeth, pressing forward.
And then, at the final moment, her head broke the surface of the water, and she emerged with a desperate gasp.
The woman next to her bobbed to the surface a second later.
“Come on,” Cora gasped, spitting water. “Come on—hey, can you hear me?”
No answer. Cora cursed, glancing up, wincing as more smoke billowed over the water. But in the distance, she heard sirens. The sound of boats rapidly approaching. The FBI had finally arrived.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Over here—hey! Hey, we need help! She needs help!”
Cora swallowed water while screaming and ended up spitting, nearly choking.
She held tightly onto the sodden form of the woman, the hood having fallen off in the chaos. The woman’s eyes were closed. She rested motionless against Cora as the two of them bobbed in the surf.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Cora sat in the front seat of the truck, wincing as she pressed fingers against the bandage around her shoulder. She glanced through the window at the hospital.
Jane Doe.
For two days, she’d spent time living it up with cafeteria food and friendly doctors. Jane Doe.
And that’s when the FBI had started asking questions. And so, she’d made her getaway.
Cora sighed, winced again, then settled back in the seat of herborrowedcar. She turned up the radio, cranking some country tunes and smiling faintly as they crooned over the radio.
She shot another look towards the hospital and sighed. She pulled out of the parking lot, turned up the street, and put the place in her rearview mirror.
Her phone began to ring.
Even after all that, thanks to the waterproof casing and some quick thinking in the bridge, she’d managed to keep the thing alive.
“Hey,” she said when she recognized the caller-ID. “You calling to pay me or what?”
A snort. “Sounds like you had some fun,” Johnny chuckled.
Cora wasn’t sure if this was how she’d say it, but she continued to drive, turning onto a highway. She glanced for exits, then looked down at where she’d programmed her GPS for West Virginia.
Heading home, she supposed.
