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His chest burned from the exertion, his legs felt numb, and his eyes stung from the saltwater; he was breathing hard and had no weapon.
And none of that mattered. Lancelot may have come from humble beginnings, but he was former SAS, with over thirty confirmed mission kills. This bitch was going down.
Rising, he realized two things.
Alicia was no longer at the wheel, even though the boat was still traveling at a high rate of speed, the throttle locked in place. And the small covered cabin was empty.
Skirting slowly along the side of the boat, he sent up a prayer that Alicia didn’t have a gun. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been shot, but it was irritating every time.
Lancelot prepared himself for what would happen next, running scenarios of what Alicia might be doing, so no matter what happened when he found her, he’d have a plan for a quick—if not painless—non-lethal takedown.
When he managed to make it to the bow, his heart stopped.
This was one scenario he hadn’t prepared for.
Sylvia was unconscious, slumped over the starboard railing, her hands tied behind her back. Alicia was lifting Sylvia’s legs, preparing to tip her into the ocean.
Time moved in fast-forward, everything happening in the blink of an eye.
“Stop!” Lancelot lunged for Alicia, but he was too late to prevent her from dumping Sylvia overboard.
He acted without thought, diving into the water after Sylvia.
The chill of the ocean water had jolted her awake, though without the use of her arms, she began to sink fast. He could see her terrified expression even through the painful haze of the saltwater.
Lancelot swam deeper, reaching out to grasp her. He managed to close his fist around a handful of her shirt, then her upper arm. Mercifully, Alicia hadn’t bound her legs, and as Sylvia felt his grip, she began to kick, the motion helping him draw her back to the surface.
Both of them sucked in huge gasps of air, Sylvia choking and sputtering. A swell washed over them, knocking them back beneath the gray water. They kicked back up, Lancelot fighting to keep a grip on her, to hold them both above the surface. He caught a glimpse of the fishing boat just briefly before another swell tossed them under.
The boat was speeding toward the horizon, far out of reach.
Alicia had escaped.
Sylvia gasped, taking in as much water as air. He shifted his hold so she was facing up, her back to his chest. That allowed him to keep her head above the glassy surface and swim the two of them back to shore. He’d only managed a few awkward strokes when Oscar reached them. Between the three of them, they were able to make it to shore. Though Sylvia was still coughing, he sensed she was struggling to remain conscious.
Hugo had waded chest deep and was waiting for them. He took Sylvia from Lancelot and Oscar, lifting her in his arms. She was coughing deeply, water spurting from her lips, which were tinged blue from the cold. Her eyes were open, but not focusing. Whatever drug Alicia had used was clearly very potent.
Hugo’s face said it all. He’d been terrified they had lost her.
Lancelot hadn’t had a chance to feel that same horror until the second she was safe. Now it crashed in on him, and all he could think was “please God, don’t let her die.”
One look at her told him they weren’t out of the woods yet.
* * *
Hugo untied Sylvia’s hands, then cradled her against his chest and thighs as he knelt in the sand. She was wet and freezing cold. Though her eyes were open, she was blinking and staring into middle distance, not wholly aware. Whatever she’d been drugged with was still in her system, but being tossed overboard into the cold Atlantic had shocked her partially awake. She moaned something about her hand when Hugo pulled her against his body.
Her right hand looked…wrong. The middle finger looked like it had one too many knuckles. Hugo gently took her wrist, praying it wasn’t hurting her, and folded her arm so her hand rested against her chest.
Oscar had backed up a few steps. He’d gone to the truck and retrieved his phone, his worried gaze on his sister. He was talking too quietly for Hugo to hear what he was saying.
Hugo pushed her damp hair back from her face. When it was wet, it was so much darker. Without the emotion and intelligence of her personality lighting her too-pale face, it seemed like the life was drained from her.
Lancelot was knee-deep in the ocean, staring out at the retreating form of the boat, which had almost disappeared. Lancelot had his back to Hugo, but he could tell the other man was upset from the set of his shoulders.
Strange that they’d known each other for such a seemingly short amount of time, yet he knew how Lancelot felt. Finally, the knight gave up, turning his back to the ocean and trudging across the sand to where Hugo held Sylvia. About the time Lancelot arrived, Oscar ended his phone call.
Hugo hugged Sylvia tighter, adjusting her so that she could rest her head on his shoulder. He felt her sigh and, for a moment, his heart stopped in sheer terror. Then she inhaled, and Hugo went light-headed with relief.
