us,” he said quietly. “Or maybe they’re here for me. Either way, they’re not bringing roses. Wait until the plane docks before making a move.”
“How do you know they’re here?” she said under her breath. “How did they know the plane was coming?”
A sudden wave of panic hit her. Did he call them? He was holding Jonathan. Was this a trap? She wanted to grab her son and fade back into the woods, gathering the sheltering green around her the way Jonathan had hidden under the blanket.
For a split second, Mark studied her from behind the dark glasses, somber and silent. As if sensing her uneasiness, he handed her Jonathan. The boy settled on her hip, and the doctor tucked the blanket around him with practiced efficiency. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he’d ever had a child of his own.
Holding Jonathan calmed her instantly. The next moment, Mark had drawn the Browning from under his jacket and was checking to make sure it was loaded. She clutched her son closer, glad that the walk had lulled him back into a doze.
The plane glided closer, turning to one side before the pilot cut the motor and drifted in next to the pier. Bree watched as a tiny arched door opened just behind the wing. A man jumped out, using one pontoon as a stepping stone before hopping onto the pier and grabbing a mooring rope. Using one foot to stop the drift of the seaplane, he anchored the craft securely to the pier.
Mark stepped from the tree line, motioning Bree to stay put. A bullet slammed into the rocks at his feet. Bree gave a startled cry that woke Jonathan. She clutched him, backing into the trees as he started sobbing in her ear.
Mark dropped to one knee, returning fire. He was angling the shot upward and to the right. Whoever was shooting was higher up on the rise. Bree saw the pilot of the floatplane draw a gun, scanning the land behind and above her. Even from this distance, she could tell he was hesitating, not sure what to do.
Bree’s heart sped, suddenly thumping double time. A jumble of thoughts raced through her brain, most of them focused on the open stretch of beach between her and the plane. How was she going to get Jonathan across without both of them getting killed? How did the gunmen know we’d be right here?
Another shot came from Bree’s left. The pilot fumbled with the gun a moment and finally returned fire.
Bullets were coming from the right and left. Two shooters! Bree’s breath stopped. She was no strategist, but to her it looked like the gunmen had them caught between pincers. And even if they got across the beach, a stray bullet in the plane’s fuel tank could cause an explosion.
Jonathan’s sobs were escalating to a hoarse, breathy wail. Bree cursed herself. He was frightened by the noise, but even more by her terror. She had to calm down. She took a gulp of air, forcing herself to breathe.
Mark wheeled. “When I start firing again, run for the plane.”
“Are you crazy?” Her voice was high and thin, choked with panic.
“Larson and I will keep them busy.”
“But—”
His mouth was a grim line. “It’s your one chance. Now, go!”
He started firing a deadly, insistent barrage of bullets. Blam! Blam! Blam! She understood what he meant by keeping the enemy busy. They’d either be ducking or aiming at him—and too busy to worry about her.
“Go!” he repeated, his voice on the edge of a snarl.
She ran, covering as much of Jonathan with her body as she could. It felt like a crazy game show, or a terrible episode from some thriller movie. It just didn’t seem real. Her. Bree. Bullets. She tried to pretend she was just running for the bus. It was about the right distance, half a long city block, maybe.
A bullet whizzed by her ear. She stumbled, Jonathan’s weight dragging her down. Somehow she got her feet under her and kept moving. Go, go, go! If she thought about what she was doing, she’d be too terrified to move. Only a few yards now.
Larson went down with a scream. Blood bloomed on his leg, staining his khaki pant leg crimson. Jonathan was wailing in her ear, a steady tearing sound that made her want to scream herself, to snarl at him to just shut up so she could think. She was so terrified, her breath was coming in wheezing gasps because her body was too tight to function.
Her feet hit the wooden pier, the pounding echo of her footfalls adding to the din. A black haze was clouding the edges of her vision, but whether it was fear or lack of oxygen was hard to tell. Another bullet skimmed her elbow, a lick of heat telling her it had grazed her skin.
She stumbled up to the plane. The pilot was on the pier, one hand pressing on his wound, the other still holding his gun. She crouched next to him.
“Get inside,” he ordered. “Fast.”
Bree looked for stairs, or a ladder, and then remembered he’d used the pontoon. A strip of ocean gaped between the plane and the pier, wavelets making the pontoon a moving foothold. She might be able to climb over the watery gap, but not her son. Fresh panic engulfed her.
“Go!” Larson barked, then let off another volley of shots.
“I’ll go first.” Mark was suddenly behind her.
Bree jumped as he touched her, her nerves wound too tight for surprises. But she was insanely glad he was there and in one piece. He jumped onto the pontoon, his movements quick and sure. Then he grabbed the handhold by the door and made the long step inside without hesitation. He turned. “Pass me the boy.”
Apprehensive, Bree rose from her crouch, still cradling her son. The pier was only a few feet from the edge of the plane, but it seemed miles. She put one foot on the bobbing pontoon and angled her body to shorten the distance between Jonathan and Mark’s outstretched arms. Her son protested, digging his fingers into the cloth of her coat and catching a handful of her hair into the bargain.
A bullet rammed into the plane, inches from Mark’s head. She jerked in fear, but he had Jonathan firmly in his hands. For a moment, she thought everything would be fine.
And then her foot slipped off the pontoon. Bree’s hands clawed for the handgrip, the edge of the door, anything, but she was falling. Another bullet smacked into the plane, just above her groping hand. Her knee hit something, and she was deafened by a loud, shrieking sound.
Her shoulder jerked in its socket, stopping her in middrop. The noise stopped, and she realized it had been her. As her mind cleared, she realized Mark had caught her under the armpit and was keeping her out of the water with the strength of one hand. Frantically, her feet scrabbled to find the pontoon again. Then, with both hands, Mark lifted her through the door.
“Are you all right?” The words were brusque.
“Yes,” she answered automatically. She didn’t actually know yet, but he was out the door again before she could reply.
She shoved the pain aside. She could still use her arm, so her own injuries were the least of their problems. The shooters were finding the plane a much easier target than humans running around the beach. It was only a matter of time before they hit something important.
There were four seats behind the cockpit, two rows of two, and some space for cargo. She put Jonathan in one of the seats and helped Mark pull the pilot inside. Larson was white-faced and sweating,
