Page 113 of Last Man Standing
Vanessa made a muffled sound of distress and focused on escape.She searched the immediate area for a way out.She couldn’t scream for help with duct tape over her mouth and she didn’t want to roll down the steps.There was a bent nail on the back of the porch railing less than five feet away.She scooted toward it on her backside and lined up her bound wrists flush with the bent head of the nail.Then she twisted and writhed in an attempt to saw herself free.The nail bit into the edge of the tape.She strained with all her might, pulling and grinding and grunting.
Finally, the tape broke away and her hands were free.
Blood returned to her numb fingers in a dizzying rush.She wrenched her arms forward and sat there with her hands in her lap.When she could move again, she removed the adhesive from her mouth.Then she fumbled with the tape at her ankles.Pins and needles danced in her feet as she scrambled upright.She staggered toward her car, opened the door and climbed inside.Her purse was sitting on the passenger seat.
She located her phone and called Jackson.
Emily’s excited chatter filled her ear.“Hi, Mommy!Uncle Jack is making chocolate chip pancakes with bananas and whip cream.He says I can’t eat the chocolate chips all by themselfs.Did you have another sleepover with Mr.Paul?I asked Penelope…”
Vanessa couldn’t process so many words at once, and she couldn’t believe it was still breakfast time.“Put Jackson on,” she said.“It’s an emergency.”
Emily didn’t argue, perhaps because she was more interested in the chocolate chips than whatever difficulty Vanessa was having.“Uncle Jack, come quick!Mommy says it’s a ’mergency.”
“Hello?”
Vanessa sagged against the bucket seat.“I need help,” she said, her voice breaking.
“You got it,” Jackson said.“What’s up?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paul dove sidewaysto avoid the blast.
His motion rocked the boat, and threw off Bennett’s aim.The bullet went wide.The sound of the gunshot echoed in Paul’s ears as water enveloped him.Paul pumped his arms and legs furiously, heading for deeper water.Bennett fired again and missed again.
Paul swam underneath the surface as fast and far as he could manage.His lungs burned with the need for oxygen, and his jeans hampered his movements, as expected.The extra fabric felt like thick reeds, tugging at his legs.When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he returned to the surface.His left hand explored the contours of his chest to make sure he hadn’t been hit.He grabbed fistfuls of his wet cotton T-shirt.There was no wound.No blood.
Dragging air into his lungs, he treaded water.Plumes of smoke rose from the boat’s engine, which was strange.Two more shots rang out, and they didn’t come from Bennett’s .38.Paul watched in trepidation as Bennett tumbled overboard.He fell into the lake with a muted splash.
Paul wiped the water from his eyes to clear his vision.Bennett made no attempt to swim.He lay facedown on the surface, his limbs outstretched.He didn’t lift his head or move his arms.The stolen cowboy hat floated next to him.
Paul searched the shoreline, his gut clenched with fear.The additional shots had come from a long-distance rifle.At this range, only an experienced sharpshooter could perform the task.
Mendez.
An icy hand skated down his spine.Paul continued to gasp and tread water, scanning the area.If the sniper was Aiden Mendez, had he mistaken Bennett for Paul?Bennett had been wearing Paul’s hat.Even a gunman of high caliber could hit the wrong target.
Paul eased closer to the boat because it offered the only cover available.Maybe he could cling to the vessel and float around until someone rescued him.He kept his head low, because any sniper who could pierce a heart at a half-mile could blow apart his skull at the same distance.Paul’s wet scalp tingled with anticipation.
The damaged boat offered little refuge.Gunfire had penetrated the transom, the engine, and the fuel storage container.Gasoline shimmered on the surface of the lake in psychedelic colors.He tried not to gag from the acrid smoke in the air.The vessel wasn’t just inoperable, it was no longer buoyant.Water gushed through the hole in the transom and churned like a bubbling broth inside the cabin.One of his boots spun in the whirlpool.Paul watched, helpless, as the stern tipped downward.
The damned thing was going to sink.
Paul glanced at the shore again, his eyes burning.He had to swim before his shoulder gave out.But if he made it that far, how could he escape the shooter?The man would kill him on arrival.He wondered why Mendez hadn’t fired at him yet.Maybe the man was toying with him on purpose, drawing out his death as a twisted form of entertainment.
Bennett’s corpse bobbed nearby, a macabre reminder of Paul’s fate.The body, like the boat, didn’t stay buoyant.Water filled the lung cavity as easily as it had filled the damaged vessel, and Bennett slipped beneath the surface.Paul’s cowboy hat drifted out of reach and his wet jeans clung to his legs like weights.He imagined a dead hand wrapping around his ankle, pulling him down into the dark deep.
With a hard shudder, he kicked away from the wreckage.He considered going the opposite direction until his shoulder gave out.This death seemed more dignified than presenting himself to a sniper for execution.Then Vanessa’s tear-stained face flashed in his mind.He held on to the image, taking a ragged breath.He focused only on her.Her pretty eyes, her soft mouth, the sweet succor of her body.
Paul didn’t care if she never spoke to him again; she was still the love of his life, and his number-one reason for living.He had to fight to survive, not calmly accept his fate.So he removed his jeans with gritted teeth.The wet denim was as stiff and unmalleable as heavy rope.Houdini would have drowned in these jeans.Paul wrestled with the fabric, fighting to keep his head above water.When he finally kicked free of the material, he was panting from exertion.
His boxer shorts and T-shirt weren’t going to make a difference, so he left them on.He had to travel a half-mile across open water with a shoulder muscle that was sure to spasm, while dodging bullets.
No problem.He started swimming again.
The first stretch wasn’t difficult.He’d always been a good swimmer, and he didn’t mind deep water or long distances.He’d played water polo in high school.He enjoyed pushing his physical limits.Maybe he could do this.
Predictably, his left shoulder began to ache.It wasn’t the sharp stab of a pulled muscle, sudden and debilitating.It was more of a slow, steady burn.The burn increased with every stroke.Soon he was wincing with each rotation of his arm.Paul endured the discomfort and carried on, because he was tough, and he had no choice.This was do or die.Literally sink or swim.
