Chapter 38 Twenty Meters to Death
The rifle was sleek. Dark. Deadly. It lay in a bed of foam padding, surrounded by magazines and scope attachments.
Dorian knelt. His hands moved over the rifle with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice. He checked the action. Loaded a magazine. Attached the scope.
His movements were fluid. Unhurried. Like he had done this a thousand times.
Li Wei’s face was gray. "Sir, the angle—"
"I know the angle."
"The distance is over two hundred meters. In the dark. With the wind coming off the lake."
"I know the distance."
"Sir, if you miss—" Li Wei swallowed. His throat bobbed. "If you miss, she’s dead. He’ll cut her throat before you can take a second shot."
Dorian looked at him.
Just once.
His gray eyes were cold. Calm. Certain.
Li Wei’s mouth snapped shut. He stepped back. He did not say another word.
Dorian picked up the rifle. He stood. He moved toward the tree line, crouching low, his eyes scanning the terrain.
He was looking for a position. Somewhere with a clear line of sight. Somewhere stable. Somewhere he could take the shot without being seen.
Veyra watched him disappear behind a fallen log.
She knew what he was going to do.
He was going to kill the kidnapper.
And if he missed—
She could not think about that.
Veyra’s hand moved to her bag.
Her fingers found the pistol. Cold. Heavy. The metal was slick with moisture from the lake.
She had been hiding behind the willow tree for too long. Watching. Waiting. Letting other people take risks while she stayed safe.
But she was not safe. Lily was not safe. And time was running out.
Dorian was going to take the shot. But the angle was bad. The distance was long. The wind was unpredictable. Too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong.
She needed to get closer.
She looked at the lake. The water was dark. Still. It ran along the side of the clearing, separating the kidnapper’s position from the trees.
If she could get into the water. Swim close. Close enough to take a shot. A clear shot. The kidnapper would not see her coming. He was focused on Dorian. On the bodyguards. On the lights and the noise.
He would not be looking at the lake.
She slipped out from behind the willow tree. Her legs were stiff from crouching. Her feet were numb from the cold. She ignored the discomfort.
She crouched low and moved toward the water’s edge. The grass was wet. The mud was soft. Her shoes sank into it with each step.
She reached the lake.
The water was shockingly cold. It hit her ankles like needles. Her breath caught in her throat. She bit her lip to keep from gasping.
She stepped deeper. The water rose to her knees. Her hips. Her waist.
She held the pistol above her head. Her bag was cinched tight across her chest. She kicked off from the bottom and started swimming.
The water was dark. She could not see her hands. She could barely see the shore. But she could hear them. The kidnapper’s voice. Dorian’s silence. Lily’s steady breathing.
She swam toward the sound.
Her arms cut through the water. Quiet. Smooth. She had always been a strong swimmer. Her mother had made sure of that. You never know when you’ll need to save yourself, her mother used to say.
She was not saving herself tonight.
She was saving Lily.
The cold seeped into her bones. Her muscles ached. Her teeth wanted to chatter. She clamped her jaw shut and kept swimming.
Closer. Closer.
She could see them now. The kidnapper’s silhouette against the moonlight. Lily’s small form pressed against his chest. The knife at her throat.
Veyra’s hand tightened around the pistol.
She was close. Close enough to take the shot.
But not yet. Not while Lily was so close to him. The bullet could go through him and hit her. She needed a clean angle. A clear line of sight.
She stopped swimming. Treaded water and watched.
Dorian was crouched behind a fallen log.
He had the rifle braced against the wood. His eye was to the scope. His finger was on the trigger.
He was calculating. The wind. The distance. The trajectory. The way the moonlight reflected off the water.
He adjusted his position. Shifted the rifle a fraction of an inch. His breathing was slow and steady. Controlled.
He looked up for just a second. To check the angle. To make sure the tree branches were not in his line of sight.
And then he saw her.
A head emerging from the water. Dark hair plastered to a pale face. Eyes wide. Determined.
Veyra.
She was treading water twenty meters from the kidnapper’s position. Her face was half-hidden in the shadows. But he recognized her. He would recognize her anywhere.
For a moment, Dorian did not move.
He stared at her. His gray eyes were wide. Astonished. He had never expected to see her here. Not here. Not now. Not swimming through a dark lake toward a man with a knife to his niece’s throat.
How had she found this place? How had she gotten past his bodyguards? How had she made it into the water without anyone seeing her?
His mind raced with questions. But there was no time for answers.
Their eyes met across the moonlit water.
Veyra did not look away.
She raised the pistol.