THE MAID WHO CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD

"They're coming around the front!" Nathan hissed, peeking through a crack in the heavy wooden shutters.

I shoved the birth certificate and the bank statements deep inside my jacket, zipping it up tight. I left the empty lockbox on the bed as a decoy.

"The back door leads to the cliff path," Nathan said, grabbing a heavy iron fire poker from the hearth. "Stay right behind me."

We moved quickly through the kitchen, the floorboards groaning beneath our feet. We reached the heavy back door. Nathan slowly turned the deadbolt, trying not to make a sound.

BAM.

The front door of the cabin shattered inward with the force of a battering ram.

"Find them!" Richard’s voice roared through the house. "I want the girl alive until she tells us what she found!"

"Go!" Nathan shoved the back door open and pushed me out into the biting coastal wind.

We sprinted across the overgrown backyard, the tall grass whipping against my legs. The cliff edge was only fifty yards away, but it felt like miles.

"Hey! They’re out back!" a voice yelled from the cabin window.

A suppressed gunshot pffft echoed, and a bullet kicked up dirt two feet to my left.

I screamed, instinctively ducking, but Nathan grabbed my jacket and hauled me forward.

We reached the edge of the cliff. A steep, rickety set of wooden stairs zig-zagged down the rocky face to a small, enclosed boat house resting on the churning gray water below.

We practically threw ourselves down the stairs, our boots slipping on the slick, moss-covered wood.

"Don't look down!" Nathan yelled over the roar of the crashing waves.

I didn't have to look down to know that a fall would kill us. The jagged rocks below were unforgiving.

We reached the bottom landing and burst through the boat house doors.

It was dark inside, smelling of gasoline and stagnant water. Floating in the slip was an old, sleek wooden speedboat. It looked like a relic from the eighties, covered in a thick layer of dust.

"Get in!" Nathan ordered, jumping onto the deck and scrambling toward the helm.

I clambered into the passenger seat, my hands shaking violently.

Nathan ripped the cover off the ignition. There were no keys.

"Can you hot-wire a boat?" I panicked, looking back up the stairs. Two of Richard’s men were already starting their descent.

"I spent my teenage years stealing this exact boat to go drinking in town," Nathan grunted, ripping the wires from beneath the dashboard. "Give me ten seconds."

I watched the stairs through the boat house window. The men were moving fast, their weapons drawn.

"Nathan, they're halfway down!"

"Come on, you piece of junk," Nathan muttered, striking two wires together.

The engine whined, sputtered, and died.

"Five seconds!" I screamed.

Nathan struck the wires again.

With a deep, guttural roar, the massive twin engines roared to life, churning the water in the slip into white foam.

"Hold on!" Nathan yelled.

He didn't wait for the boat house doors to open. He threw the throttle forward.

The heavy wooden boat surged forward, smashing through the rotten wooden doors of the boat house, exploding out into the open water just as the two gunmen reached the bottom of the stairs.

They raised their weapons and fired.

Bullets ripped through the wooden hull and shattered the windshield, raining safety glass down on us. I curled into a ball on the floorboards, clutching the documents to my chest.

Nathan kept his head low, steering the boat violently to the left, putting a massive rock formation between us and the shooters on the dock.

The gunfire stopped.

We were out of range, speeding across the choppy, freezing waters of Carmel Cove.

I slowly sat up, brushing glass from my hair. My heart was beating so fast I felt dizzy.

"Are you hit?" Nathan yelled over the roaring engine.

"No," I gasped. "You?"

"I’m good." Nathan looked back toward the cliff.

Richard was standing on the ruined dock, flanked by his men, watching us speed away. Even from this distance, I could feel the absolute fury radiating from him.

"We made it," I breathed, slumping against the leather seat.

"Not yet," Nathan said, his eyes scanning the horizon. "We're on an island, Maya. Carmel Cove is cut off from the mainland. The only way back to civilization is a two-hour boat ride to Portland, and this tank is almost empty."

I looked at the fuel gauge. The needle was hovering dangerously close to the red E.

"What do we do?" I asked.

"We need a phone," Nathan said. "My father had an old caretaker who lived on the other side of the island. If he's still alive, he might have a landline. We can call the state police, tell them we have proof of corporate embezzlement and attempted murder, and demand an armed escort."

It was a desperate plan, but it was all we had.

Nathan steered the boat along the jagged coastline, hugging the cliffs to stay out of sight. The wind was brutal, biting through my thin uniform. I was freezing, exhausted, and terrified, but as I pressed my hand against the documents zipped inside my jacket, a fierce determination burned inside me.

I was not going to let Richard win.

Ten minutes later, the boat engine sputtered. It coughed twice, then died completely.

We drifted in silence.

"Out of gas," Nathan sighed, slamming his hand against the steering wheel.

We were drifting about fifty yards from a rocky beach. Hidden in the trees above the beach was a small, dilapidated cabin with smoke curling from a stone chimney.

"That’s the caretaker's place," Nathan pointed. "We have to swim for it."

"Swim?" I stared at the freezing, gray water. "Nathan, it has to be forty degrees in there. We'll get hypothermia in minutes."

"We don't have a choice," Nathan said, kicking off his boots. "Put the documents in something waterproof."

I looked around the boat frantically. I found a heavy, plastic dry-bag tucked under the passenger seat. I shoved the birth certificate and the bank statements inside, rolling the top tight to seal it.

I kicked off my shoes.

"On three," Nathan said, standing on the edge of the boat. "One. Two. Three!"

We plunged into the water.

The cold hit me like a physical blow, instantly driving the breath from my lungs. It felt like thousands of icy needles piercing my skin. Panic set in immediately as my heavy uniform dragged me down.

Kick, I told myself. Just kick.

I fought my way to the surface, gasping for air. Nathan was a few feet ahead of me, swimming powerfully toward the rocky shore.

I followed him, my muscles screaming in protest. Every stroke was agony. The cold was seeping into my bones, slowing my movements, making my vision blur.

By the time my knees scraped against the rocky beach, I couldn't feel my hands or feet.

Nathan dragged me out of the surf, pulling me up onto the dry rocks. I collapsed, violently shivering, my teeth chattering so hard they ached.

"Come on," Nathan urged, hauling me to my feet. "We have to get to the fire."

We stumbled up the steep path toward the caretaker’s cabin.

Nathan pounded on the heavy wooden door. "Elias! Elias, it's Nathan Whitmore! Open the door!"

Footsteps echoed inside. The door creaked open.

Standing in the doorway was an old man with a thick, gray beard, wearing a heavy flannel shirt and holding a double-barreled shotgun.

He stared at Nathan in shock. "Mr. Nathan? Good god, boy, you're freezing to death."

"We need your phone, Elias," Nathan said, pushing past him into the warmth of the cabin. "It’s an emergency."

Elias lowered the shotgun, shaking his head. "I don't have a phone, son. The lines went down in the storm three days ago. Haven't had a signal since."

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

We were cut off. No phone. No boat. And Richard’s men were undoubtedly sweeping the island right now.

"Do you have a car?" Nathan asked desperately.

"An old truck," Elias said, pointing to the window. "But the bridge to the mainland is closed for repairs. Only way off the island is the ferry, and it doesn't run until tomorrow morning."

Answer one, open two. We had the proof, but we had absolutely no way to deliver it before Richard found us.

Suddenly, a massive explosion shook the ground beneath our feet.

I screamed, covering my ears as the windows rattled violently.

We rushed to the window and looked out toward the beach.

The speedboat we had abandoned fifty yards offshore was engulfed in a massive fireball, thick black smoke billowing into the gray sky.

And standing on the beach, lowering a high-powered flare gun, was Richard Whitmore.