Fury of the Storm

The engine stopped and a wisp of smoke wafted past Christopher's face. The man in the boat still had his head tilted downward.

"Spencer?"

The orange hat came up, along with an unfamiliar face. "I'm not Spencer, but you are Christopher Gilbert."

Christopher stumbled backward, tripped over a coil of rope and sprawled to the deck. He scrambled to his feet again a moment later. His face had paled to a sickly pallor, and he stuttered to form his words. "What the hell…" was all that came out of his mouth.

Matthew stepped from the speed boat onto the sailboat, and Christopher stared at the 44 Magnum (be specific about the type of gun…change this is you need to) he held in his hand. "You're the last one." He smiled. "No million dollars for you, either."

"You're the guy?"

"I'm the guy. You cashed my check and promised to give me a good run. You did that, and I thank you."

"Yeah, a run! You're not supposed to kill anybody!"

"Been talking to someone, have you? How do you know the other contestants are dead?"

"Look," Christopher ignored the question, not wanting to reveal Spencer's presence on the mainland if Fox did not already know, "I have a young daughter. Please, think about this…"

"Believe me, I have thought about this. I've thought about this for years."

"I never thought you were going to hunt to the kill," Christopher said as he reached out to grab the main mast for balance. "None of us did."