Page 183 of Wallflower

The belt unlatches with a click, snagging on a pocket of my tactical vest. It’s less cumbersome than a bulletproof one, with some light armour to protect my vital organs from sharp-force trauma.

Carefully, I move around the cramped space, anchoring the rope ladder to mounts Kyle installed himself. I’d much prefer to slide down a singular rope, moving this whole process along faster. But without another person here, Kyle won’t be able to swap out the rope for the ladder in the event I need extraction with Rose. So this is it, one rung at a time.

His gaze is cutting when it catches mine. “You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on?”

I swing open the door, and the ladder unfurls from my grip. “Nope,” I say, curt and final, pulling the neck gaiter up and over my nose.

“Rip…” Kyle lets my name hang in a threatening tone, but I’m not scared of the fucker. However, he doesn’t need to know my bat-shit crazy idea hinges on hope that a dream-turned-nightmare was somehow real.

I shut him out as I maneuver my body slowly out of the helicopter, securing my foothold and grip before lifting my eyes to his terrified ones. “Is Maximus on that boat?” he asks, trying to remain calm.

I shrug, lip pulling up into a smirk beneath the mask.

“Rip!” Kyle bellows, as I start my nerve-racking downward climb. “Is he on that fucking ship?” My best friend’s voice echoes out into the evening sky, and I pick up my pace before hechanges his mind, and turns us toward home before I reach my destination.

I tense as thunder booms in the distance, the threat of a tropical storm looming. The sound may aid my wish of being undetected, but as I approach the rear deck, a flank of masked men dressed as tourists await my arrival. They may have thought their boss was dropping by unannounced, but one look at my form would wipe that from their minds.

There’s only four of them, so the odds are in my favour as long as no one raises an alarm.

The light in the Captain’s perch shines brightly, and I send a silent prayer to whoever could be listening that the glare on the glass obstructs what’s about to happen.

My boots touch down, and a man to my right lunges forward.

Not even going to bother with pleasantries?

Rude.

His moves are sloppy in his haste to apprehend me, giving me ample opportunity to sidestep and take hold of his wrist as I drive my knee into his gut.

The man doubles over, and I waste no time flipping his heaving body over the guardrail at my back. His terrified scream is quickly drowned out by the low-frequency hum of the ship.

The other three move as a unit, corralling me. The centre one unclips a sheath at his side, pulling free a machete with an audible metallic rasp. The steel glints in the twilight, as the other two men step forward, ready to grab me.

Is this supposed to be intimidating?

I’ve faced worse for less.

Nothing and no one will block my path to Rose.

Twitching the fingers of my left hand draws all their gaze as my other hand reaches for a kunai throwing knife in the holder strapped to my thigh. Faster than any of them can register the movement, I send a blade slicing through the air. It hits its mark,securely buried in the jugular of the threat to my right. His hand shoots up, pulling the projectile free.

Well, that’s going to make a mess.

He drops to the deck, quickly leaking a river of viscous crimson. The centre one finally speaks, “You’re going to regret that.”

“Doubtful,” I reply.

“What do you want?”

I shake my head. They don’t need to know my business, and won’t live long enough to relay it to anyone. Adjusting my stance, I raise my hand, extending it palm up. I curl my fingers, beckoning him tobring it on.

He cracks his neck from side to side, distracting me as the other man plows into my side. The athletic fuck knocks me off balance, and I grab onto the railing to steady myself. His shoulder connects with my face, driving into me repeatedly in an attempt to dislodge my grip and daze me.

The machete-wielding lunatic lets loose a war cry, flying at me, blade swinging. I can’t move. The fucker banded around me drops his grip to my middle. Like an anaconda, he keeps me constricted, immobile and rooted in place.

I shove my body against him, getting as close as possible in hopes the knife stabs him instead.

At the last second, the machete’s trajectory changes. It slices through the pocket of my vest, sharpened steel imbedding into the armour plate beneath the fabric. The blade sticks momentarily, and I grip the assailant tight to my chest with my free hand.