One minute I have the phone in my hand and the next I'm diving at Tyler's cruiser, trying to wrestle the keys out of his hand. Tunnel vision blocks out everything but the result: get to my daughter.

I don't have time for obstacles. Tyler and I have been friends for a long time, I smash my fist into his face when he tackles me to the ground. I feel no pain, but I hear the crack of bone against bone. His mouth is moving, but I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.

We tumble over the scorching blacktop until Tyler manages to pin me down. The asphalt burns the exposed skin on my back and arms, but I ignore it and focus on getting his bulk off of me.

"Calm down, goddammit!" he shouts in my face. "Christ, Gabe, listen to me!"

"I swear to fucking God, Ty, if you don't get off me right now I'll do something we'll both regret."

His meaty arms wrap around my neck and he holds me down in an effective—and irritating—chokehold. "I said, listen."

"Fuck!" My voice is hoarse from the pressure of his forearm against my throat. "All right, say what you're going to say so I can go, but hurry the fuck up about it."

Tyler studies me. "If I let you up are you going to sucker punch me again?"

"I'm not gonna make any promises," I say.

He spits out a mouthful of blood on the concrete next to me. "Fair enough."

He gets to his feet and helps me up. A crowd of officers press in around us, but Tyler waves them away. He pulls me to the open door of his cruiser and shoves me into the driver's seat. "There's a gunman with an estimated ten to fifteen hostages on the ferry, but your daughter is safe."

A wave of welcome relief crashes over me. The allaying of guilt and fear is so monumental, betraying tears sting my eyes. Tyler presses a hand to my shoulder until I suck it up. When I speak, my voice is still hoarse, though not from Tyler's very effective methods of restraint. "Where is she?"

"She's at the hospital with Taylor."

Guilt assaults me again because I didn't even think about her. What kind of fucking man am I? "Is—" my throat closes around the words. "Is Taylor okay?"

Tyler nods. "She's fine. Little bump on the head, possible concussion, but otherwise, she and Emily are very lucky. Get in the car. They'll fly us over so you can see her."

I slide across the bench seat to the passenger side and Tyler follows me. The air inside the car is too cool and I shiver even though it's gotta be a hundred degrees outside. "Explain."

Tyler shifts with ease and backs out of the parking lot, tires squealing. "There isn't much information as the story is still developing. All we know is an armed man boarded the ferry about a half hour ago. There was a struggle and Taylor was thrown off the dock. She hit her head on the way down."

"Jesus Christ," I bite out.

"Two witnesses say another woman shielded Emily from the perp. They say she saved her from becoming a hostage."

We make it across the island in record time. Rockaway isn't big to begin with, but Tyler breaks every speed limit on the way to the small helipad we have for emergencies. He doesn't bother parking in the designated spots and we dash out of the car to the waiting pilot.

"You Gabriel Rossi?" he asks. I nod and he gestures to the back, "Get in."

Tyler follows close behind me, but as soon as we get in, I focus on the space in front of us and he fades to my periphery, im-fucking-patient to get to my daughter.

The beat of the helicopter blades drowns out anything else and then we're lifting up off the ground and moving forward. My stomach drops and once again I'm transported back to the desert where I spent the majority of my time traveling back and forth in the choppy carriage of a helicopter. I have to focus on the cool blue of the water below and the salt in the wind coming in through the open sides to keep from having a bitch of a flashback.

Emily needs me now. She's what matters.

The ride across the channel between the coast of Florida and the island is mercifully short. Soon, we touch down atop the hospital and I jump out running. A pair of officers greet me at the rooftop entrance and lead me down a flight of dark stairs to a bustling hospital floor. I don't even have to ask where to go before they lead me to a bank of elevators.

A police officer puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder before the elevator doors swing open to chaos. I nod to him in thanks before I'm enveloped by a sea of nurses. A young, male doctor leads the pack and rushes to my side.

"Mr. Rossi, this way." He elbows his way through the crowd and leads me down a hall of doors. "Mrs. Rossi is awake, but weak. Her condition is stable."

Thank God. "And my daughter?"

"She's here. Your wife's mother is watching her."

I don't bother correcting him and by the time I think to, we're arriving at a closed door. The doctor pushes it open and reveals a frail-looking Taylor hooked up to monitors and Emily asleep beside her in the hospital bed.

Tears fill Taylor's red-rimmed eyes and trail down her cheeks. "Gabe." When her voice breaks she reaches for tissues and covers her face, her shoulders trembling.

I leave the doctor in the doorway and fall to my knees by her bedside. Even with as much animosity as there's been between us during our divorce, I'm reminded I've been inside this woman. She's been by my side, a friend, for years. We may have our moments of anger, but we married each other for a reason. I loved her then, and still care for her now. The part of me who stood by her side for four years burns to annihilate the man who hurt her.

"I'm here." I don't know what to do with my hands. The side of her face is black and blue where it must have connected with the dock. There's a bandage taped from her temple to her chin. "I'm here. I'm sorry."

Her hand comes to my cheek, and I lean into it. Wires trail down from a clip on her finger to a beeping machine. "Shh. Don't be sorry."

"I should have been there." I kiss her palm and then take it between my hands. "I'm sorry I was late. You were right. You're always right. I shouldn't put other people in front of my family. I should have been there," I repeat, this time with a trace of anger.

She shakes her head, winces, then licks her chapped lips. "Don't say that." I press my head over our clasped hands and will the waves of emotions back. "Don't ever say that. I didn't realize before what it meant to you to rescue everyone." At her words, my eyes lift to hers. "I didn't realize how important people like you are. That if you weren't rescuing people, no one would. I wish I'd never given you such a hard time."

"You don't have to apologize," I tell her. "You should rest."

"Let me get this out before they come back with more drugs and I'm too tired to finish it." She wipes away a tear with her free hand. "The woman who saved Emily, there won't be any way for me to repay her. And I realized when I woke up she reminds me of you. If you were there, you would have done the same thing. You would have put yourself in front of a man with a gun without a second thought." Taylor cups my cheek and lifts my eyes to hers. "Our daughter is lucky to have a man like you for a father. And I'm lucky to have you for a friend."

My shoulders heave and I have to suck in hot, humid gulps of air as emotions assail me. Taylor's hands sift through my hair until I can control myself.

By the time I stand, straight-faced, Emily is stirring awake. I lean a hip on the side of the bed and hold Taylor's hand in mine. When her eyes open, Emily finds me and smiles.

"Daddy, you're here!" She climbs across her mother's legs and launches herself into my arms. "I'm so glad to see you."

"I'm so glad to see you, too." If I were standing my knees would have buckled. I close my eyes and press my face into her hair until the emotion causing my arms to tremble diminishes. When I let her go, I say, "What do you say we break out of here and get your mom a milkshake?" To Taylor, I say, "Is chocolate still your favorite?"

They both look at me with identical frowns.

A crease forms between my eyebrows. "What? Don't tell me you like vanilla now."

"You can't mean to say you're planning to stay here?" Taylor purses her lips in a familiar expression.

"Yeah, Daddy, you have to go save her."

"Uh, save who?" I narrow my eyes at the pair of them.

Emily scoffs and waves an arm. "That lady."

I look at Taylor for backup, but she's giving me a look identical to Emily's, a mix of frustration and confusion.

"What?" I rub the back of my neck and wonder where the hell all the nurses are.

"The woman who helped Emily, Gabe," Taylor explains finally. "You can't just leave her after what she did."

"Yea, Daddy. You told me you saved people from bad things."

"There are other policemen and a lot of other trained professionals who will help the people on the ferry," I explain with measured patience.

"But Mommy said you're the best." Emily's blue eyes shine up at me, and they are filled with a pride and admiration I'm not sure I live up to.

Taylor smiles at me when I glance at her. Then I look at my daughter and say "I don't think it's a good idea for me to leave you now."

"Daddy," Emily says, then presses her lips into a firm line like I'm the child and she's the adult. "I'm fine. But the lady isn't."

"My mom's with us," Taylor says and at the mention of her name, her mother comes to stand by her side. We'd gotten along, barely, when Taylor and I were married, but for the first time, she looks at me without disgust. "You should be there," Taylor is saying. "You know you want to be."

Emily grins and squeezes my hand. "Go, Daddy."

I cup her cheek and kiss her forehead. "You're sure about this?" My eyes meet Taylor's over our daughter's head.

"More than anything. She risked her life for Emily. The least you can do is try to save hers."

There are thirteen other people on this boat, heading God-knows-where, including the captain still driving the ferry and the attendants who are huddled in their blue button-up uniforms. The man with the guns strapped to his chest and back like a vest full of bombs—and just as lethal—has said nothing to anyone other than giving the captain vague directions.

From what I can see, we're going at a low speed, based on the distance between us and the shore. I can still see miniature people at the dock where I'd saved the little girl, except now there are scores of policemen, paramedics, and journalists. Their lights flicker like a funhouse ride and I can hear the occasional whir of a helicopter overhead.

So far, no one has tried to contact us via the onboard radio, and the man hasn't attempted to open a line of communication.

But what's worse than his threatening presence is the tension between the hostages.

Beside me, a woman huddles with her two children, her husband hovers nearby, his face angry with a combination of indignation and fear. Every few minutes he mutters something under his breath about doing something about this shit and I want to slap my hand over his mouth—not that I have much room to talk.

Just a short while ago, I myself did something about it and wound up as a hostage on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic with a gun pointed at my face. So I'm content to sit in my little corner with my head down and my lips zipped unless I have to do otherwise. The others around me, however, don't feel the same.

"You might want to sit down," I whisper through the corner of my mouth. So much for keeping your lips zipped.

The mother's eyes dart in my direction, harden. "If it weren't for you, we wouldn't be in this position," she hisses.

I jerk back and suck in an involuntary gasp. "Lady, he was gonna take you with or without my help."

She doesn't say anything. Just glowers in return.

The ferry is a monstrous two-story structure with an underfloor compartment where the engines are housed. On the main level are the benches for passengers and two rows along the outside full of cars, their drivers peer through with wide-eyes. They don't get out and they don't unlock their doors. I wouldn't either. A pane of glass and a door panel might not be much, but it at least provides them a shred of protection from the destructive path of a bullet.

The top level features an observation deck and the small squat room where the captain maneuvers the boat. Because there's nowhere else for us to go, the man with the gun paces up there with his eyes on the horizon.

I don't know what he's waiting for and I'm not sure if I want to find out.

The sun is sinking in the distance, and more than anything, I don't want to be stranded on this boat with a madman as we drift on the ocean through the dark nothingness.

As soon as the coast of Jacksonville is but a sliver in the distance and the refuge of the island still far away, the gunman appears at the top of the stairs. His dark, beady eyes sift through the hostages until they land on me and recognition flairs. Ice solidifies in my stomach.

"You there," he says and points the handgun at me. "C'mere."

I could look around to see if he is talking to someone else, but I don't have the bravado in me anymore to play stupid. Once the little girl was safe and the promise of refuge and rescue diminished, all the nerve propelling me to leap at an armed man leached away.

Now I'm just cold all over. Even though it's a humid Florida evening, the slight chill coming off the water wracks me from the inside out. The shivers get worse as I get to my feet and cross the lower level to the gray stairs leading to the top. The man waits for me with the gun pointed right at my head the whole time.

He twitches the gun to the side where the captain is steering the ferry with hands white-knuckled on the wheel. "Take the wheel," he says.

The captain glances over and opens his mouth to object, then closes it when he realizes this is not the time. Without a word, I do as he says.

The wheel is still warm from the captain's hands. My own grip the heated plastic and I struggle to keep hold with limp fingers. I don't want to touch the things he's touched. Bile rises in my throat and my toes curl in my shoes to drive the thoughts from my brain. I've never driven a boat before, especially not one even half this size, but when there's a gun in your face, you'll do pretty much whatever the person holding it asks you to.

There's a strangled cry behind me and when I glance back, the gunman has the captain on his knees.

"Hey," I shout, when he twists the captain's arms behind his back.

The gunman looks up at me, his eyes narrow slits. "You're gonna wanna keep those hands on the wheel, little lady. Wouldn't want you to run aground and have all these lives on your conscience."

Reminding myself it's best to keep my mouth shut, I press my lips together and focus on the empty sea in front of me. The pained gasps and grunts from behind me are so hard to listen to, I try to block them out. I can't cover my ears because I need my hands to drive and I'm too afraid to hum, so I try to picture something, anything, to take me out of this moment. As much as I try to draw the image of my family to mind, it doesn't work.

I have to knot my fingers around the wheel to keep from interfering. To think I was the type of person who couldn't confront an ex-boyfriend just a few short hours ago and now I'm jumping at each opportunity to throw myself in front of danger.

The next time I look back, I find the gunman has restrained the captain with his arms behind his back and then affixed a necklace of sorts around his neck. Then I realize, it's not a necklace at all.

It's a collar filled with explosives.

The captain is physically fit for an older guy of around sixty. His full head of white hair reminds me of Santa Claus along with his red cheeks.

He shouldn't be here. None of us should be here.

"Hand me the radio, darlin'," the gunman gestures to the handheld microphone dangling from a hook up and to my right. When he's not shouting orders, he sounds like such a normal guy. Not someone I should be terrified of and yet I'm terrified all the same.

I give over the radio, and he flicks the channel to the announcement system so his next words are broadcast to everyone onboard.

"Everyone needs to line up by the benches on the lower deck on their knees with their hands behind their backs. If you're in a vehicle, please exit the vehicle at this time. I repeat, line up on the lower deck on your knees with your hands behind your back."

Almost immediately, I hear the people below rushing about to do as he instructs.

Then, I sense his presence draw near. His fingers lift the long length of my hair and drape it over my shoulder. Detached from the situation, I observe the distinct scent of mint chewing gum as he wraps a length of cord around my neck.

When he's done, he closes a lock around the ends at the back, and I know this day just went from bad—to worse.