Net Force--Kill Chain by Jerome Preisler (e book reader txt) 📕

meaning to slide down the muddy bank like a cowboy in an old Western and use her feet to slow her momentum. But the slope was muddy and slippery, and her heels bit deeply into it, and the loose, wet dirt broke away underneath them. Before she could gain control of herself, she went skidding down over the mud onto the rocks below, then down again into the foaming, cascading water, the flashlight tumbling from her hands and sweeping off with the current.

Up the slope, Bryan sat gaping in horror. He didn’t see her. Suddenly couldn’t see anything at all. Natasha was gone, the flashlight was gone. There was nothing but the rain and darkness around him.

“Natasha!” he shouted. Then again, “Tasha!”

No answer. Nothing but the loud roaring of the water. He realized he was still holding the pack, let it go tumbling down the slope, braced himself with his palms.

“Tash, I’m coming!” he screamed.

And was shoving off the bank when a powerful arm locked around his throat from behind. A gloved hand spread over the right side his face, forcing his head to the left.

“Not so fast, ace,” a voice said in his ear.

Chapter Ten

Chacagua Island

April 14, 2024

Natasha tumbled downstream for about three seconds, submerged, the rapidly moving water foaming and churning and barreling around her. Shockingly cold, it jetted into her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Then she grabbed something with one hand, a vegetative mass, branching and ropelike and anchored to the bank. She held on, got her feet under her, and pushed up with her knees.

Her head broke the surface. She blew water from her nostrils and breathed. Rain and sleet smacked her face. She was waist deep in the creek. The current gurgled and coiled around her. It rolled up against her waist and pushed her backward, trying to flip her under again.

Somehow, she resisted it and kept her balance. She’d let go of the mat of roots, or whatever it was, but realized she was still clutching the Maglite in her other hand. It was still on and bright.

She blinked her eyes to clear them of water and stinging sediment. Then stood against the current and looked around, trying to orient herself.

She’d been carried downstream. She couldn’t tell how far or recognize the spot where she’d gone into the water. But she saw a bend in the channel up ahead, and guessed it couldn’t be too far beyond that.

She waded toward it against the defiant current.

“Bry, you there?”

No answer. Her voice seemed small and lost in the mixed roar of the wind, rain, and creek water. She shouted louder.

“Bryan!”

Still no answer.

She splashed farther upstream and raised the flash over her head, hoping he’d see it. She knew it was also a beacon for her stalker but didn’t see any other choice.

“Bryan!”

Nothing.

Increasingly worried, Natasha pushed forward. The current pushed back. The creek water seethed and thundered around her. But she had nearly reached the bend. She pushed harder against the current, one step, another step, another. It shoved back and back and back.

Then, finally, she was nearing the bend. She started to call Bryan’s name again, but stopped herself. She had noticed something...some jerky movement...out the corner of her eye. About ten feet above the creek on the left bank. Right at the spot where she’d slid down into the water.

He was still up there. She saw him at the top.

And he wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t alone.

Her pulse loud in her ears—louder than the seething, thunderous floodwater around her—she plunged desperately upstream against the current.

Bryan’s struggle began just as Natasha approached the bend of the creek. It would end as she rounded it exactly ten seconds later.

His head bent sideways, unable to breathe, he realized his attacker had clamped off his throat with his forearm and brought both hands up to pry it away. But it seemed immovable, its hold unbreakable, its muscles hard as rock. Then he felt something cold and metallic invade his ear and flailed helplessly in the dark, his heels beating against the slope, loose, muddy soil slipping away underneath them. He slid about a couple of inches down the embankment, taking his attacker with him. Whatever was in his ear slipped out, its point tearing across his cheek.

Kai cursed under his breath, keeping him in an iron headlock. Cold rivulets of rain spilled from the bill of his cap onto the lenses of his night vision goggles. His mark had been spared getting his brain scrambled, but not for long. He raised the awl for another stab at his ear.

Bryan gasped for air. Blood oozed down his cheek, mixing with the rain. He couldn’t see anything in the dark but felt the huge body behind him twist slightly to the right, felt it tense against him, and sensed his attacker was bringing the sharp, needle-like object back down at him.

Terrified, he wriggled to the left and more mud gave way, and he slid even farther down the bank, dragging Kai along as he instinctively brought his right hand up to shield his face.

Had he been a heartbeat slower to react, Kai would have jammed the awl into his auditory canal. Instead, he drove it into the back of his hand between the second and third metacarpals. The six-inch shaft pierced cleanly through to the other side, its point punching out the middle of his palm behind a spurt of blood.

Bryan shuddered in agony. Kai held on to him from behind, his arm locked around his throat, still gripping the awl buried in his hand. He did not like being out here in this raging biblical tempest. He did not want to be slipping and sliding in the mud with the boyfriend. He wanted to fuck and kill the ass-shaking, snow-white Russian whore, and he wanted to return to the boat, and get the hell off the island with his brother. As quickly as possible.

He tried to pull the awl free, but it was deep in meat and tendon,