The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 202

The yacht sliced through the waves, closing the distance to the lighthouse. On deck, a couple of guys stood watch outside the cabin, guns in hand, their eyes never leaving Harris and Petty.

“Keep your eyes open. Don’t mess this up,” barked a gruff, older man. He directed the order at a kid who didn’t look older than twenty.

The younger one couldn’t help but grumble quietly, “Seriously, what do they think those two can do? Out here, in the middle of the ocean, while we’ve got guns. If they make a move, I’ll take care of it. Easy.”

“Better safe than sorry,” the older man replied, shooting him a stern look before heading upstairs.

The kid rolled his eyes, muttering curses under his breath as soon as he saw the man disappear. Stuff like this always got dumped on him so the others could take it easy. Leaning against the cabin door, he settled in, lazily hugging his gun and fighting off a yawn. He was convinced Harris and Petty wouldn’t dare cause trouble. Not surrounded by water, not when nobody could hear them scream.

They were less than twenty nautical miles from coastal waters now. Abbot’s turf. Once they handed Petty over, there would be plenty in it for all of them. He’d already started picturing life after this job—money pouring in, women whenever he wanted. Just thinking about it made him yawn again.

Inside, Harris placed his injured right hand gently on Petty’s shoulder, guiding her toward the softest spot he could find for her to rest. The second he shifted, Petty caught his sleeve, holding tight. She kept her voice down, just shaking her head at him, her eyes wide and anxious.

He gave her hand a gentle pat, lips moving in a silent, soothing promise. Don’t be afraid.

Harris was a surgeon by trade. He knew just where to strike. One quick, clean move, and the young man folded to the ground, body limp and then still.

Upstairs, the others checked in from time to time, never on a pattern. Harris glanced at the clock. It had been at least ten minutes since the older man had gone up. Time was running out.

Carefully, Harris caught the gun before it could thud to the deck. He slid a bullet into the chamber. Gripping the weapon, he crept up the stairs, footsteps perfectly masked by the rumble of the engine and the rush of waves.

Above, three men were swapping crude jokes, laughter echoing as they fantasized about what they’d do to Petty. Harris’s face was ice cold. He did the math in his head and reckoned, if he moved fast—three shots in quick succession—he’d have about a fifty-fifty chance of stopping them all before the guy in the cockpit realized what was happening and got to Petty.