Say the Word(145)

“Good,” I rasped, kicking out with my right foot and landing a sharp blow directly between his legs. He cursed and released me. I landed hard against the deck, further injuring my already sore palms, but knowing it beat the watery alternative. Hauling my aching body into a standing position, I prepared myself for a fight.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to.

Andrew had taken a single step in my direction when a figure burst from the gangplank and tackled the senator to the ground. I watched, stunned, as the two men wrestled on the deck, each movement rolling them a little closer to the edge of the platform. My eyes widened further when I saw they were nearly identical — same height, same build, same hair color. The only difference distinguishing father from son was their age gap.

Bash.

I gasped as punches rained down, their fistfight quickly escalating into an all out battle for bloodshed. Several times, I started forward to intervene but held off, knowing I might make matters worse. My fingernails bit harshly into my injured palms as I watched the senator pin Bash to the ground, his face reddening as his father’s hands tightened around his neck. Seconds ticked by, each feeling like an eternity, and I scrambled into action, retrieving my fallen gun so I could knock Andrew out cold.

I froze several feet away when I saw Bash take back the upper hand. In a move so fast my eyes could barely track it, he swung his legs up abruptly, clipping his father in the chest and pitching the older man onto the hard deck surface.

I watched as Andrew rolled several feet and slipped over the edge of the platform. His legs and torso dangled midair, his fingertips the only tether holding him in place. Should he fall, he’d hit the unforgiving metal cargo deck below and suffer a fate similar to that of the Neanderthal.

“Son!” Andrew called in a desperate voice, his eyes locked on Bash. “Help me!”

Bash gained his feet, wiped his bloodied lip with the sleeve of his suit, and turned to me with worried eyes. I saw his evaluative gaze sweep my form, checking for injuries. His eyes lingered on the slice wound at my breast, the raw rope-burns around my wrists where the bindings had bit into the skin, my swollen right eye, and my bleeding palms.

“I’m fine,” I whispered, stepping closer to him.

He must’ve agreed — not even a second later he was there, wrapping his arms around me so tightly I felt the breath slip from my lungs. His lips pressed against my temple and my head was crushed against his chest, his labored breathing and racing heartbeat pounding beneath my ear.

“Son!” Andrew called again, drawing our attention back. His face was white with the strain of holding on. “Sebastian! Please! Help me!

“Bash, he’s your father,” I whispered. “He’s your family.”

Sebastian turned his face to mine and met my eyes, his expression serious. “No, he’s not. You’re my family.”

He grabbed my hand and walked away, his father’s screams ringing out in the air behind us. Bash didn’t once look back as we made our way to the gangplank and back down onto solid ground.





***


As much as I might’ve wished it, the honorable Senator Andrew Covington didn’t die that day.

But he’d certainly never serve another term in office.

What I hadn’t realized, in the chaos of my time on the freighter, was that the men’s voices I’d heard yelling just before I sent my second flare round into the sky were not members of the crew coming after me. It was Conor and his men — a group of highly trained, covert SWAT team members — coming aboard the ship and systematically wiping out the thugs on board.

As soon as Bash and I disembarked, Conor began firing questions at me.

Who had taken me?

Had I met the Boss?

How many men were on board?

I launched into a quick summary of my abduction and my time on the ship. When I described the hold on the bridge where they’d likely find Judith and Smash-Nose, both Bash and Conor looked at me with stunned expressions.

“Judith Covington?” Conor asked, his eyes wide.

“My mother?” Bash’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“She’s the ringleader. But that’s not important right now. Listen to me — there’s a container, in the middle of the cargo deck. It’s red, and its door should be slightly ajar.” My tone was near-frantic as I stared into Conor’s eyes. “There are girls in there, Conor. They’re sick and they’re scared. They need medical attention. And I didn’t get to search the whole ship – there might be more of them in another container.”

Without another word, Conor nodded and raced away.

For the next hour, Bash and I stood on the dock with our eyes trained on the freighter, as twenty men in black fatigues and bullet proof vests ran along the upper deck and across the bridge. Their sleek black guns gleamed darkly in their hands. I told Bash more details about my ordeal, shivering as a frigid wind blew off the ocean, and he slipped his suit jacket around my shoulders to ward off the chill. He took the news of his mother’s involvement in stride — aside from a few questions about what she’d said to me, he seemed more concerned with making sure I was all right.

“How did you know where to find me?” I whispered, leaning into his sturdy frame as the first wave of exhaustion hit me. Now that the rush of adrenaline was wearing off, my wounds were beginning to ache and I felt nearly dizzy with fatigue.