Page 5 of The Bachelor Spy
On purpose.
His attention flew back to the door.
Well. Perhaps not such a disappointing way to die after all.
She’d given him a chance.
Blake moved despite the burning pain, scanning the room for anything Montgomery might have left behind. Nothing. But at least someone had left clothes in the closet.
Convenient.
In no time at all, Blake had stripped off his shirt—not without a bit of remorse for the shirt’s sake—and wrapped it as a bandage around his bloody shoulder. Then he donned a cheap soft shirt of far less excellent quality. The fabric was subpar, the stitching mediocre, and the fit entirely wrong. Adding insult to literal injury.
Checking the corridor, he made his way toward the upper floors as fast as he could, while attempting to keep his heart steady. No need to speed up the loss of blood.
He had just reached the stairs when some sort of explosion rocked the entire ship. The blast threw Blake against the bulkhead, his wounded shoulder screaming in protest. Lights flickered.
What had just happened?
Cries from above echoed down the stairwell.
The terrible wrenching of metal groaned underneath him.
This could not be good.
He looked up the stairs just as a door opened up above and a man rushed toward him, muttering something about a life vest.
“What’s happened?”
The man turned as he passed, calling over his shoulder, “Torpedo!” The one word ripped a chill through Blake. “We’ve been hit!”
A torpedo. Good God.
Blake’s training kicked in even as his mind reeled. The ship was going down, and he was three decks below the waterline with a bullet wound and vital information that could save countless lives.
Ifhe survived.
With a deep breath, he clung to the railing, mounting the steps. He’d barely reached the top when another, even larger eruption tore through the vessel, nearly sending Blake tumbling back down the stairs. The lights wavered once, twice, then died completely.
Had they been hit again? Surely there was no way a vessel, even this size, could withstandtwotorpedoes.
He regained his footing, but something wasn’t right.
The ground seemed unsteady. Slightly tilted?
When he reached the promenade deck, he registered the problem and his stomach knotted. The ship hadalreadybegun listing to starboard, a shift felt in the way the floor tilted beneath his feet, in the way doors swung on their hinges at odd angles, slamming against the ship’s walls.
They were going down fast.
Too fast.
He raised his gaze to the horizon. In the distance was the coast of Ireland.
So close. His shoulders dropped.
But not close enough.
The massive vessel was taking a nosedive at an impossible pace.
