Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Knife throwing was not something I had been particularly skilled in, in the past, but it didn’t stop my blade from burying itself into the leader’s throat.
I ran to him first, stripping him of his AK-47 as well as several knives, his Glock, and a rope.
It would have been easy and cost me nothing to shoot him in the head, but he didn’t deserve a quick death.
I turned my back on him, letting him choke on his own blood while I tried to move to Charlotte.
“Back the fuck up,” I shouted at everyone crowding around her. “Get off of her now.”
They didn’t move.
Each one of these rich pricks thought that the threat was gone.
They had no idea who the threat really was.
I tried to push my way through the crowd when a woman wrapped her manicured claw-like hand around my bicep and tried to pull me away.
“That was really brave. I wish there was a way I could repay you,” she said in a breathy voice. It was supposed to sound sexy, and at one time I would have taken her up on the thinly veiled offer and had her bent over the railing in moments.
I did not have time for that shit, and I had no interest in the over-plucked sack of silicone.
I forcibly pushed her away so hard that she tripped on her ridiculous shoes and fell flat on her flat ass.
Her male companion screamed and then tried to get into my face, saying that was assault and they were going to sue, and did I know who the fuck they were.
I didn’t know, I didn’t care.
As far as I was concerned, she was an obstacle between me and what was mine.
I grabbed the cheap piece-of-shit, high-point semi-automatic handgun that I had pulled off the assailant and stuck it in his face.
“Back the fuck off,” I said between gritted teeth and watched as the blood drained from his face. He stumbled back and fell over her still prone form.
I lifted the piece-of-shit pistol straight into the air, angling it over the open ocean, and fired three shots, getting everyone’s attention.
“Move away from the injured girl now,” I demanded and watched as everyone stared at me, eyes wide and mouths open.
Slowly, they backed away.
The only one who wasn’t fucking smart enough to move was her goddamned fiancé.
“Oh, Charlotte, my love.” He was weeping over her like he gave a fuck about her.
“You too,” I said, pointing the gun straight at his face.
“She’s going to be my wife.”
“No,” I said. “She’s not.”
“Yes, we…” His words trailed off as he looked at me and recognized me.
“Over my dead body.” I shoved him away, and someone was smart enough to grab him before he could come back and get shot in the face.
I didn’t care what it took.
As long as I lived, he would never fucking lay another goddamned finger on my girl again.
Finally, I was at Charlotte’s side.
She had two wounds that were bleeding far too quickly, her beautiful pale blue dress now soaked in her dark red blood.
One shot was in her stomach, the other a little higher in her ribs. Reaching under her, I couldn’t feel exit wounds. But that didn’t make me feel better.
She was losing so much blood, her face was already pale.
Her beautiful, natural pink lips were almost as white as death. I ripped a few layers of the soft material on her skirt, balled it up, and put pressure on the wounds.
She made a painful groaning sound, and her eyes flickered open.
“I know, baby,” I said. “I know it hurts, and I’m sorry. But I have to put pressure.”
She didn’t say anything.
She just nodded.
One hand slowly came up to touch my cheek.
Her fingers were ice cold.
She needed a doctor, and she needed one now.
“Is there a doctor on board?”
A man raised his hand. “I’m a dermatologist.”
“Is there a real doctor on board?”
No one raised their hand. Of course there wasn’t a single medical professional here. Working on anything other than world domination was beneath most of the people here.
God forbid any of these people ever did something useful with their lives.
I held the pressure on her wound as tightly as I dared while fishing my cell phone out of one of my pockets.
Immediately, I called 911. When the dispatch answered, I didn’t let them get through their little speech. I just started shouting into the line.
“This is Sergeant Reid Taylor, US Marine. I’m on the Fortune, a luxury cruising yacht about two miles from New York harbor. There was an attack. Two people are down. One civilian with two GSWs, bleeding out quickly. I have another Marine down with two gunshot wounds. He is stable. I need emergency medical choppers here immediately.”
The dispatcher started to say something in a dismissive tone, like this was a prank call.