Daniel pulled up opposite the boat and flattened himself into the recess of the final loading door. Hannah and I tucked in beside him. He signaled Poppy to stay put. The guys above hadn’t noticed her yet, and I prayed the thin layer of exhaust gathered around Zephyr’s stern wouldn’t tip them off. Poppy flashed her machete at us, nodding toward the tie lines, front and back. Stupid me hadn’t thought to undo one at least when I’d had the chance. Daniel returned her nod and raised his arm, readying the go-ahead.

“She’ll need cover, H.”

“We all will.”

“Glim, you’re driving.”

Of course. At least he hadn’t asked if I was up to it.

It was a short sprint to Zephyr, maybe twenty feet, every inch potential death. Our best bet was speed and surprise, and each of us doing our job. I was so stoked on flight adrenaline, working out my path to the wheelhouse and the controls, counting the steps, I barely noticed the brap-brap of the semi-automatics continuing to spray the water and the other end of the loading dock. But we all heard the sharper crack of the sniper’s rifle when it came, like a high note rising above a chorus.

“Shit.” Daniel glanced upward, his arm still raised.

“Hope he’s as drunk as the rest of them,” said Hannah.

“Here comes the infantry!” Daniel dropped his arm. “Run!”

I bolted for Zephyr’s mids. Poppy vaulted out of the wheelhouse and onto the dock, slicing the nearby stern tie line in practically the same motion. I heard Hannah’s bow thunk behind me as the first wave of Adders boiled out of the loading door, then halted in confusion when a few went down in friendly fire from above. I was over the gunwale and at the wheelhouse door when Poppy flashed by, heading for the bow line.

Crack!

She spun and went down. I started toward her, but Daniel reached from the dock to shove me back. “Drive!”

Crack!

Wood spat at me from the roof of the wheelhouse.

I whirled to the controls, feeling Zephyr shiver as Hannah dropped into the stern. Under the console, huddled at my feet, the last of the Macys stared up in terror. Through an empty window frame, I saw Daniel snatch up Poppy’s machete and cut through the bow line. He scooped her up by the waist, rolled her onto the bow deck, and dropped down beside her, using the wheelhouse as cover. Zephyr was already moving.

Crack!

More wood chips flying.

Crack! Clang! A ricochet off Poppy’s machete, lying abandoned on the dock.

I shoved the stick forward hard as I dared, told the old boat she better be up to some serious abuse. The sniper kept at us, but he must have been seeing double, and the confusion on the dock thinned out the threat from the ground.