The boat roared and launched forward, Harwood ducking down low, trying to figure out where the widow was shooting from. He guessed to his right, on the rocks that curled out from the little bay, but he couldn’t be sure, wasn’t going to risk his life. He knew they had to move or she would pick them off one by one.

“Find her,” he hollered back at Sweeney and Whitmer. “Get off your asses and take the bitch out.”

The boys were still rolling around back there, fumbling for their rifles, and Joy had pulled himself up into a sitting position, keeping pressure on the big fucking hole in his shoulder, still saying something that Harwood couldn’t decipher.

Harwood had bigger questions to answer anyway. Like how the hell he was going to get the boat through the shoals and to shore under heavy fire and on a huge, breaking swell. Even now, as the boat rocketed forward, Harwood could see white water in his path, washing over the jagged reefs that guarded the little bay, just waiting to tear the bottom out of his boat.

If they went in the water, they were dead, Harwood knew. The surf would smash them to bloody pieces on the rocks, and if they somehow survived the trip, Jess Winslow would be waiting to cut their balls off on the beach. He had to dodge the rocks somehow and get the boat to shore. And he was only going to get a single shot to try it.

Harwood pulled back on the throttle as much as he dared, felt the swell pick up the boat and carry it in toward the bay, the waiting rocks. He knew he couldn’t slow down too much, not with the waves carrying them; he needed to keep the propellers churning water if he wanted to maintain any kind of control. But damn if those rocks weren’t coming at him fast.

Harwood dodged a nasty patch of black rock, skirting to the right as another wave caught them and hurtled them forward, the wave exploding against the rocks and soaking Sweeney and Whitmer with salt spray. But the Grady-White was clear of that first shoal, and Harwood didn’t look back. He kept the little boat moving, kept his eyes on the rocks, looking for a way through. The bay was a maze, choked with half-submerged hazards, but Harwood knew his boat, and he knew his own ability. He had ample faith in both.

So long as that bitch doesn’t start shooting again, he thought, we might just be all right.

As soon as he had the thought, though, he heard another shot ring out from shore—and this one caught Whitmer in the chest. The deputy swore and toppled overboard, disappeared in the wash, and Harwood called his name and turned around to look for him. He didn’t see Dale, but he damn sure saw the breaker.