“Get behind the crates, Clara,” Vincent ordered.

His voice was still steady, but I could hear the tension in it.

“Now.”

I did not argue.

I ran toward a stack of wooden shipping crates near the edge of the estate wall.

My boots slipped on the wet moss.

I fell to my hands and knees.

The rough gravel scraped my palms.

I ignored the pain and crawled behind the heavy pine wood.

From there, I could see the entire dock.

Derek was trying to run toward his black car.

But the speedboats were already too close.

The first boat slammed against the wooden bumper of the dock.

The impact shook the entire structure.

Three men jumped onto the planks.

They did not look at Derek.

They looked directly at Vincent.

One of them raised his rifle.

“Moretti!” the man shouted.

“Your time is up.”

Vincent did not move.

He stood in the center of the dock, his hands at his sides.

“Who sent you?” Vincent asked.

“You know who,” the man replied.

The man raised the barrel of the gun.