Chapter 8 - THE FLARE GUN
The heavy smell of gasoline choked the air in the master stateroom.
“Get back, Hannah!” Eric screamed, his hand trembling as he aimed the bright orange flare gun at me. “I swear to God, I’ll pull the trigger! The phosphorus will ignite the whole cabin in three seconds!”
Poppy was wailing, terrified by the shouting and the tight, bruising grip her father had on her small waist.
“Eric, look at me,” I said. I didn't stop moving forward. I took another slow, deliberate step, forcing him to keep his eyes on my face.
I knew Eric. I had survived his psychological warfare for five years. I knew his deepest, darkest weakness wasn't fear of prison. It was his vanity. His desperate need to be perceived as the smartest, most powerful man in the room.
“You aren't going to pull that trigger, Eric,” I said, my voice dripping with absolute, mocking pity. “Because if you burn this boat, you burn with it. And you love yourself way too much to die like a cornered rat.”
Eric flinched. The insult hit him exactly where I intended.
“You think you’re so smart,” Eric spat, his arrogant sneer fighting through the panic. “You think a single ledger is enough to bring me down? I have lawyers who will tie the FBI up for a decade. I’ll walk away from this.”
“Not if you hurt her,” I said, pointing at Poppy. “If you hurt my daughter, you won’t need lawyers. Because Commander Callahan will throw you into the propellers of that Coast Guard cutter before you even make it to the deck.”
Eric’s eyes darted nervously to Luke, who stood coiled like a spring, his cold, lethal gaze fixed entirely on Eric’s weapon.
“Hand me the ledger, Hannah,” Eric demanded, his ego convincing him he could still negotiate a victory. “Hand me the ledger, and I’ll let her go. I’ll take the dinghy and disappear. You can have your precious daughter back.”
I reached into my wet coat pocket.
I didn't have the ledger. I had left it in the car with Beth’s neighbor before we boarded the interceptor.
But I pulled out the manila envelope that had held the life insurance policy, holding it up in the dim light of the cabin.
“Here it is, Eric,” I lied, keeping my voice perfectly steady. “Take it.”
I held the envelope out, closing the distance between us to less than three feet.
Eric’s greed overrode his caution. He saw his salvation wrapped in brown paper. He loosened his grip on Poppy, reaching his right hand forward to snatch the envelope, inadvertently lowering the barrel of the flare gun for a fraction of a second.
It was all Luke needed.
Luke moved with terrifying, explosive speed. He didn't lunge for the gun. He lunged for Eric’s throat.
Luke hit Eric like a freight train, driving the arrogant underwriter violently backward into the mahogany bulkhead.
The impact knocked the breath out of Eric. The flare gun went off with a deafening, echoing CRACK.
A blinding ball of burning phosphorus shot across the room, narrowly missing the open gasoline jug and shattering the thick glass of the porthole window before plunging harmlessly into the stormy ocean outside.
I didn't watch the fight. I dove onto the carpet, grabbing Poppy as she tumbled from Eric’s arms. I wrapped my body completely around her, shielding her from the flying glass, pressing my face into her soft, tear-stained cheek.
“I’ve got you, baby,” I sobbed, holding her impossibly tight. “Mommy’s got you.”
Above me, the fight was brutally short. Eric threw a desperate, wild punch, but Luke blocked it effortlessly, sweeping Eric’s legs out from under him and driving him face-first into the plush carpet.
Luke pinned Eric’s arms behind his back, pressing his knee heavily between Eric’s shoulder blades.
“Eric Dalton,” Luke growled, his voice vibrating with absolute disgust. “You are under arrest.”
Eric thrashed wildly, screaming curses into the floorboard. “You can’t do this! I own half the politicians in this state! You’re dead, Callahan! You’re both dead!”
Suddenly, heavy boots pounded down the spiral staircase.
Three heavily armed Coast Guard boarding officers burst into the stateroom, their weapons drawn.
“Secure him,” Luke ordered, stepping back as the officers hauled a bleeding, screaming Eric to his feet and slapped heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists.
I sat on the floor, rocking Poppy, tears of pure, overwhelming relief streaming down my face.
Luke knelt beside me. The cold, tactical commander was gone, replaced by a profound, gentle warmth. He reached out, his large hand resting comfortingly on my trembling shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning me and Poppy for injuries.
“We’re okay,” I whispered, looking up at the man who had risked his career, and his life, to save us. “Because of you. Thank you.”
“You’re the one who stared down a loaded gun, Hannah,” Luke smiled gently, wiping a streak of soot from my cheek. “You saved her.”
They dragged Eric up the stairs, his arrogant threats turning into pathetic, desperate begging as the reality of his future finally settled in.
I stood up, holding my daughter securely on my hip. We walked up to the main deck.
The storm had broken. The heavy clouds were parting, revealing the bright, silver light of a full moon reflecting off the calming waters of the Chesapeake Bay.
May you like
I looked at the Coast Guard interceptor idling alongside the yacht, its blue lights flashing like a beacon of absolute safety.
I wasn't a victim anymore. I wasn't the weak, transient woman Eric had tried to convince the world I was. I was a mother who had walked through fire, and I had won.
