Inside the cottage, Antonia knew what to do. Hank didn’t like it, but they’d agreed that Prancer would go on the attack—he wouldn’t remain outside in the hurricane. He’d risk everything, and he’d kill them this time. His little cat-and-mouse game was over. All he needed was the right opening.

Hank had the half a kayak paddle he’d appropriated in one hand and a kitchen knife, not as good as the one Prancer still had, in the other. If he got close enough to Prancer, it’d be a fight, at least.

He heard a shot out back.

It didn’t startle him or concern him, because he was confident Antonia had done her part and poked open the back door with a broom handle. Prancer, as they’d predicted, had responded to the provocation by firing, instead of waiting until he saw an actual person. If nothing else, it meant he wasn’t worried about running out of ammunition.

As backup, Antonia also had a pan of water boiling on the tiny cottage stove. If Hank failed in doing his part and Prancer got into the cottage, she’d throw it on him. She was a doctor. She’d know how and where she could do the most damage, should she be required to act in self-defense. But she wouldn’t unless she had no other choice. She treated the results of violence. She didn’t cause violence.

Pushing aside his misgivings, Hank focused on the task at hand, letting his years of training and combat missions kick in, take over. He stepped into the swirling water and sand at the bottom of the porch steps. Rain lashed at him, and the roar of the ocean and wind surrounded him—he meant to use all of it to his advantage. The noise, the lack of visibility, the sense of urgency. Robert Prancer couldn’t be in a good place right now, mentally or physically.

Hank edged around to the back of the cottage, using the lilacs and the weather for concealment.

“Antonia! Bitch doctor!” Prancer had definitely moved down from the trees toward the cottage, but Hank couldn’t see him. “Come outside. I want my gun at your head. I want the wannabe senator to see you cower and hear you beg for your life.”

Hank gritted his teeth and kept a tight hold on the kayak paddle and the knife.

“I’m afraid,” Antonia said. “Not of you—of the storm.”

That’s it, keep him talking. Hank peered through the dripping lilac leaves and the gray rain and spotted a bright blue tarp about five yards behind the cottage. It moved, and he realized it was Prancer, the tarp half off him, more hindrance than help.

“Come out where I can see you,” he screamed. “Now. I have lots of bullets. You can’t win.”

“All right—”