Jason Frost - The cutthroat

From the deck of The Argo, Blackjack watched the dinghy land on the narrow strip of beach. Eric hopped out, standing waist-deep in the water. He slipped into his backpack, handed Tracy his crossbow and her cane, and cradled her in his arms. His feet kicked up waves of water as he carried her to the shore.

Slowly, meticulously, they climbed the cliff, Eric helping Tracy when necessary, keeping an eye on her while pretending not to. Blackjack smiled. He had treated her wounds. Except for the hip, the rest were superficial. The cuts and gouges she'd received from Angel would heal in four to six weeks. They both were pretty battered up. Yet somehow they looked stronger than he'd ever seen them. Tougher.

"Brad's back," one of his crew shouted as the dinghy was raised back into place. "Should he weigh anchor?"

"Not just yet," Blackjack said, leaning over the railing, still watching.

It took another half hour for them to struggle up the face of the cliff. They rested for a moment. Eric said something. Tracy playfully swatted at him with her cane. They kissed.

Eric pulled Tracy to her feet. They marched into the thick brush, Tracy limping next to Eric. For a moment, he thought he saw them pause and wave at him. He wasn't sure, it could have been the rustling of the trees, a frightened bird. But he waved back, just in case.