Eleventh Hour

place, just what I needed. Come along, Nicola, don’t hang back like that. Pull yourself together. I expected more from you. Even Cleo didn’t carry on the way you are.”
    But Nick was crying harder now, completely out of control. She dropped to her knees and crawled to Dwight. She clutched at his feet, his ankles, sobbing, “Please, Dwight, let us go. I swear I’ll never say a word. I’ll run and never come back. Don’t kill me.”
    “God, you’re pathetic. Get up!”
    But she didn’t, just kept pleading, trying to grab his knees.
    He leaned down to grab her and pull her upright when Nick suddenly wrapped her arms around his knees and jerked him forward. He yelled, off-balance, and tried to hit her with the gun. Sherlock, who had been waiting, straightened and turned, smoothly sending her foot hard into his left kidney. He went stiff in agony, then yelled. He turned the gun on her, but Nick was hitting his knees, trying to jerk him down again. He struck Nick’s cheek with his fist, then whirled on Sherlock. He tried to back up, but her leg was up and she kicked him in the ribs. He didn’t dive away, ran straight at her and managed to grab a fistful of her hair. He twisted, pulled. Sherlock yelled in pain and rage, and first slammed her fist into his gut, then her foot into his crotch. He yelled, bent over, his finger pulling the trigger of his gun. Two shots went wild. Nick threw herself at his knees, shoved him backward with all her strength. As he fell, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard. He dropped the gun to the deck and fell on his face. Sherlock scooped it up.
    Nick dove on top of him, hitting his face, his neck, yelling, “I’m not pathetic, you murdering jerk! I wouldn’t beg you for anything, you murdering son of a bitch! We got you and you’re going to rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life.”
    Sherlock stood over them, the feeling returning to her hands and feet. “That was quite an act, Nick. Well done.”
    “It was, wasn’t it?” Nick said, and grinned up at Sherlock.
    Then, suddenly, Dwight moved, lurched up, knocking Nick backward.
    Sherlock said, “Thank you, Dwight,” and she kicked him in the head.
    He crumbled back onto the deck.
    Nick scrambled to her feet, yelling, “You bastard,” and hit him in the belly, then rose and kicked him hard in the ribs.
    She looked over at Sherlock, grinned until she thought her mouth would split, and dusted off her hands.
    “We’re good.”
    Sherlock hugged her close, then leaned back. “We are good, Nick. We’re very good.”
    “No one to match us,” Nick said.
    “Let me get Dillon,” Sherlock said and went to the boat radio. She got the Coast Guard, which was just fine.
    Twenty minutes later, when the Coast Guard launch pulled up to the Crane Island dock, with both Savich and Dane ready to leap onto Rothman’s boat, it was to see both Sherlock and Nick leaning over the side, waving to them.
    “Why am I surprised?” Savich asked to no one in particular. “Thank God.”
    “I’ve got to start breathing again,” Dane said. “Damn, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Just look at them, grinning from ear to ear. Is that Rothman lying facedown on the deck?”
    “Oh no,” Nick said. “It wasn’t Senator Rothman. You guys were right all the time. It was Albia, and this is the man who tried to kill me three times.”
    “Four times,” Sherlock said.
    Dwight groaned, then slumped back on the deck.
    “Hey, Dwight,” Nick shouted to him. “Am I lucky, or what?”
    Dwight didn’t answer. With a scream of rage, he jerked upright, grabbed a knife out of his boot, and went after Nick. She froze. That knife was up, coming toward her, arching downward to her heart, and suddenly she was thrown to the deck onto her back. Dane was on him, both hands locked around his wrist, shaking, tightening.
    Dwight screamed in his face, “You’re the Fed cop. Hey, I nearly got you once, I’ll do it again.”
    “Oh no,” Dane said, let Dwight draw him in closer, then he drove his knee up into Dwight’s groin. He screamed, fell back. Dane slammed his fist into his belly, shoved him down. He was on top of him, slamming his head on the deck. Vaguely, he heard Savich call out. He saw the blur of the knife, realized he’d let his own rage get the better of him. He rolled off Dwight, came up, and when the man came at him again, crouched over, still in bad pain, Dane kicked him in the jaw. He went down like a rock.
    This