Hitched(63)

“And you don’t get to decide—”

“Hand him over!’ she shouts.

“Get the hell off my boat, you crazy bi—” Dean’s words end in a yelp as Hope jabs him with a trembling finger.

“Let. My. Alpaca. Go,” she growls.

He rears back, but there’s nowhere to go, and instead, he bangs his head on the corner of the filing cabinet. “Ow!”

Blood gushes from his head as a series of mini-explosions on the boat’s control board sends an acrid smell through the room, and I conclude that letting Hope loose might not have been the smartest move.

Not while we’re on a boat over water, anyway.

“Hope. We need to go.” I ease past her, making meaningful eye contact with Dean as I mutter, “Hand him over, okay, man? Before we’re all in a watery grave at the bottom of the Chattahoochee?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he slowly releases Chewy, who dashes straight to Hope, licking her face and humming in relief as she hugs his neck.

“Oh, baby,” she coos into his fur. “I’ve missed you too. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“No time for snuggles, folks,” a familiar voice booms from the doorway. Suddenly a dripping wet Clint is at my side. “Get Hope and the llama off the boat. Stat.”

“He’s not a llama!” Hope says indignantly for at least the hundredth time.

Clint grins as more sparks sizzle from the control board. “I know. Just wanted to test a theory. Now get. This deathtrap is off-limits to civilians and non-criminals. Even of the superhero variety.”

“I’m n-not a superhero,” she stammers.

Clint and I both look pointedly at the smoke oozing from several corners of the room.

“That was an accident,” she says sheepishly. “Mostly…”

“And I’m mostly ready to get out of here.” I hook an arm around her as Clint stalks toward the rapidly shrinking Dean, who’s cowering into himself and covering his blood-spattered head.

I don’t know what my brother’s going to do to the man, and I don’t care.

I just need to get Hope and Chewpaca off this boat.

Unfortunately, as we hustle outside the wheelhouse with Chewpaca humming along beside us, it becomes clear that we’re too far from shore to leap back onto dry land, and the current is carrying us swiftly downstream.

“Can he swim?” I ask, studying the churning surface of the water, not liking the looks of the current.

“I think so. If he has to, but isn’t there another way?”

The river isn’t wide—but it’s still a river, and it would be easy for both Chewy and the pair of us to get into trouble. We could wait and hope we drift closer to shore, but the smells coming from the wheelhouse behind us are ominous.

As is the smoke.

“Is there a lifeboat, maybe?” Hope dashes around the edge of the tugboat, inspecting the boxes and looking over the edges while Chewpaca trots along behind her, clearly unwilling to let his savior out of his sight.

I spot a rope, but I’m not exactly the cowboy type who can lasso a tree and pull us to shore. Which means we need to steer this boat.

I head back into the wheelhouse, but before I make it through the door, Clint strides out in a puff of smoke.

“Boat’s on fire,” he says. “Faulty wiring. Gotta get off. Now.”

He’s dragging Dean, who looks like he’s had the fear of god, the devil, and my aunt Marlene put in him, which is only funny if you know Marlene. She’s sweet as pie until you insult her fried okra, and then watch the hell out.

Ryan and Jace still won’t go to her house alone.

“Agreed,” I say. “But we need to get closer to shore first. We’re not sure how Chewy is going to do in the water. Can you steer this thing?”

He shoves Dean at me. “Of course I can. Hold this criminal.”

Hope gasps as Clint heads back into the smoking wheelhouse. “No! Clint, come back.” She grabs my arm. “He’s going to pass out from smoke inhalation.”

“He won’t,” I assure her. “Marines don’t pass out. It’s biologically impossible.”

“That’s ridiculous. We have to get him out of there, and we have to jump,” she says. “If the boat explodes, it won’t matter that I love you and we saved Chewpaca because we’ll all be dead!”

“She’s got a point,” Dean says.

“Shut it.” I cut a hard look his way. “We’re going to be fine.”

“Not if we’re dead,” Dean says.

Chewpaca’s ears go back, and he spits at Dean.

“Good boy,” Hope says. “Now let’s see about—”

The boat changes direction suddenly. I bend my knees and widen my stance to maintain my footing, then look to Hope to see if she needs help. My gaze has just connected with hers when pain explodes in my left temple.

She screams.

Dean shouts something about every man for himself.

And while the world spins, he knocks into me from behind, pushing me off the boat.





Twenty-Six





Hope





* * *



“Oh my god, you killed my husband!”