Page 101 of Archer

And outside, the music blared. Harper’s voice declared devotion while someone used her own words to terrorize her.

I threw the deadbolts on the front door and burst outside wearing only my jeans and rage.

Icy night air hit my skin like a punch. From this vantage, the strobe lights illuminated the dunes in faint bursts. I followed the sound and light around one side of the cottage at a run.

There. A large old-school boombox sat in the sand beyond the rear deck. The emergency strobe flashed from the top of it, probably a security feature for roadside assistance or something thirty years ago.

I reached the device in seconds, fumbling for the power button. The music cut off. The lights died. And I was left alone in darkness.

Silence gonged in my head, leaving only the crash of waves and my own ragged breathing.

I turned in a small circle, scanning the areas near and far, searching for the bastard responsible. Aching to feel the crack of his jaw against my fist.

Then, maybe fifty yards down the beach, a retreating figure caught my eyes. A small silhouette racing toward the water.

My muscles launched me into motion before I’d made the decision to leave Harper and do my best to capture this guy.

Sand flew beneath my feet as I worked to close the distance. My lungs burned. My muscles ached. Every step into the thick, soft sand near the yard’s edge and along the path toward the beach was impossible and slow. Then I reached the beach, and my feet pounded against wet, packed sand.

The figure glanced back once, and even in the darkness I could see the camera in his hand.

He’d been photographing the cottage.

Rage propelled me forward, closing the distance. Twenty yards. Fifteen.

He hit the waterline at a jog and kept going, splashing into the surf.

It took my mind a moment to make sense of the action, and the bigger picture. Then a jet ski materialized in the darkness. He wasn’t just dressed in black. He wore a wetsuit.

The high-pitched whine of a revving engine carried him away from shore.

“Fuck!” I shouted, pointless and desperate. “Dammit!”

But he was already gone. The jet ski’s engine screamed as it disappeared across the dark water. No running lights. No way to follow on foot.

I stopped, belatedly realizing I’d stormed into waist-deep water, watching my chance slip away.

He’d been here. Right here. Close enough to bust up Harper’s windows and photograph her through the glass.

And I’d let him escape.

I waded back to shore, breathing hard and pissed as hell. Cold water dripped from my body and boxer briefs as I slogged my way back toward the cottage. My feet were sore and cut from the glass and the run over broken shells. My thoughts switched gears as the little house came into view. Harper was still in there, alone and scared.

I began to run once more. I circled to the front, avoiding the bulk of broken glass until I had shoes, and entered with her name on my lips. The door hadn’t been locked behind me.

“Harper!”

Only silence returned.

My chest constricted. “Harper!”

“Here.” Her voice came from the bedroom, small and shaking.

I raced to meet her, grabbing her into a brief hug. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, and I realized she’d already gotten dressed. A good idea considering the cottage would be flooded by my team and local law enforcement soon.

Four messages waited on my phone screen. I scrolled with one hand while holding tight to Harper with the other. My body was wet and cold. I should’ve given her the space to remain dry, but the adrenaline still coursing through my system demanded I hold her close. Given the grip she had on me, Harper didn’t mind the decision.