Page 142 of Brutal
A figure is watching us.
Just watching.
Until—
Whoever it is begins to run toward us.
Samson’s already moving.
Fast.
Gone from my side.
The wind surges around me.
The dock creaks under the sudden absence.
And just like that…we’re not alone anymore.
37
SAMSON
The second the figure runs, I move.
Gravel tears under my boots as I cut across the area, the cold air slicing into my lungs. The bastard is fast, but not fast enough. Hood up. Dark jacket. Lean build. He knows the marina well enough to take the narrow path between the stacked pallets and the maintenance shed without breaking stride.
He’s been here before.
That matters.
I hear Delaney behind me for half a second.
Then I don’t.
Good.
She’s safer back at the dock.
The runner cuts left toward the fenced service lane and then slips through the gap at the far end where the chain link never got fixed right. I clear it a second later, my shoulder clipping metal hard enough to rip into the leather of my jacket.
He glances back.
That’s his mistake.
I see enough.
Male. Mid-thirties maybe. Beard or shadow. Eyes wide.
He knows exactly who’s chasing him.
I put on speed.
He darts toward the rear of the marina office, tries to angle for the road, but then changes his mind when he realizes I’m going to cut him off.
He veers right instead, toward the rows of dry-stacked boats and the narrow spaces between them. Plenty of places to hide if I were farther back.
I’m not.
