They followed

Harlan’s eyes searched hers for a long second, then he nodded sharply.

“Crawlspace it is. They’ll buy the lonely-old-man act longer if you’re not standing here dripping sex in borrowed clothes.”

He crossed the room in three strides, shoved aside a threadbare rug, and hauled up a trapdoor in the floorboards. A narrow wooden ladder disappeared into inky blackness below. The air that wafted up was cool, damp, and smelled of salt and old stone.

“Tight fit,” he warned, voice low. “You’ll have to lie flat. Don’t move. Don’t breathe loud.”

Jill glanced down. The space looked barely deep enough for her long frame. She could already imagine the rough planks pressing against her back, the tank top riding up, her breasts squashed against the floor, nipples scraping wood with every shallow breath.

She descended anyway.

The ladder creaked under her weight. As she dropped the last rung, her bare feet hit cold stone. Harlan handed down a small torch, then the .38 revolver—grip first—and two speed-loaders.

“Safety’s off. Six in the cylinder. If it goes bad, you come up shooting.”

He hesitated, eyes raking over her one last time in the moonlight: the thin white tank plastered to her sweat-damp skin, nipples straining obscenely against the fabric; the low-riding shorts that left the lower curve of her ass exposed as she crouched; the faint sheen of arousal still glistening on her inner thighs.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Try not to look like that when you come back up.”

Then the trapdoor thudded shut, plunging her into absolute darkness.

Jill stretched out on her stomach in the narrow crawlspace, the revolver heavy in her hand. The wooden planks above pressed into her back, forcing her breasts flat, the rough grain rasping over her hypersensitive nipples with every breath. The position **** her thighs apart slightly; cool air kissed her bare pussy lips through the thin shorts, reminding her how swollen and wet she still was. She clenched her jaw, hating her body’s stubborn refusal to calm down.

Above, she heard Harlan moving—heavy boots on floorboards, the scrape of the rug being dragged back into place, the soft click of the shotgun being racked.

Minutes crawled by. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

Then—voices. Boots on the metal stairs outside. A fist hammering the door below.

“Open up, old man!”

Harlan’s gruff reply drifted down, muffled. “It’s past midnight, assholes. I’m sleeping.”

“We’re looking for a woman. Tall. Blonde. Naked. Escaped a boat. Seen her?”

A pause. Jill could picture Harlan’s shrug.

“Only naked woman I seen tonight is in my dreams, boys.”

Laughter from the men—three, maybe four voices. Then the unmistakable sound of the door being kicked open.

Boots thundered inside. Furniture scraped. Drawers yanked. They were searching the lower level thoroughly.

Jill lay motionless, every muscle taut, nipples throbbing against the wood as her chest rose and fell. The voices grew closer—directly overhead now.

“Nothing down here, boss.”

“Check the top.”

The trapdoor was right above her. She tightened her grip on the revolver.

But the footsteps moved past. Up the spiral stairs.

More banging. The sea trunk slammed open. The kettle clattered. Harlan’s low protests.

“She ain’t here,” he growled. “I told you.”

A new voice—cold, accented. “You’re sure, Harlan? Would be a shame if we found out you were lying. Lot of money on that English cop’s head.”

Silence stretched. Jill’s heart hammered so hard she was sure they could hear it.

Then Harlan again, steady: “I’m sure.”

A sigh. “Fine. But we’ll be watching this tower. She washes up again, you call it in. Or we come back and burn the whole thing down—with you in it.”

Boots retreated. The door slammed. Engines revved outside, then faded into the night.

Jill waited a full minute—two—before the trapdoor creaked open.

Moonlight spilled down. Harlan’s silhouette appeared.

“Clear,” he whispered.

She climbed out fast, revolver still in hand. The cool air on her skin felt like freedom. Her tank had ridden up completely during the wait, bunched under her arms, leaving her breasts fully exposed, nipples dark and painfully erect from the constant friction. She tugged it down absently, but the fabric only clung tighter.

Harlan’s eyes flicked to her chest, lingered, then met hers.

“They bought it. For now.”

Jill exhaled, adrenaline still singing in her veins. “Good. We’ve got time to—”

The crack of a high-powered rifle shattered the night.

Glass exploded inward. A split-second later, a second shot—then a third.

Harlan jerked backward, red blooming across his chest. He hit the floor hard, shotgun clattering away.

Jill dove sideways as bullets chewed the wall where she’d been standing. Splinters and plaster rained down.

Sniper—on the cliffs. They hadn’t left at all. They’d circled, set up overwatch.

She rolled behind the sea trunk, heart pounding. Harlan lay in the open, blood pooling fast, eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling. One ragged breath—then nothing.

He was gone.

Jill’s jaw clenched. Rage burned hotter than fear.

She checked the revolver—six rounds. Two speed-loaders in her pocket. Narrow stairs below. Open windows all around.

The searchlight from the boat swept the tower again, pinning her in white glare.

They were coming back to finish it.

Jill rose to a crouch, tank top soaked with sweat and plaster dust, nipples straining against wet cotton, shorts riding low on her hips. Her body was a live wire—every curve, every muscle primed.

She gripped the .38 tighter.

“Let them come,” she whispered to the empty room.

Then she moved toward the stairs, ready to make them bleed for every step.