I saw my husband’s hand on another woman before I saw his face.

"You don't want to do this, Harrington," Julian said, stepping deliberately into the line of fire, shielding my body entirely with his own. His voice was terrifyingly calm, the steady voice of a captain facing a rogue wave. "You pull that trigger, and there's no federal prison. It's capital murder. You die in a state penitentiary."

"I'm already dead!" Richard screamed, his finger tightening visibly on the trigger. "She destroyed me! She took everything I built!"

"You destroyed yourself the day you decided your wife was a piece of property you could cheat on and discard!" Julian shouted back, his voice booming over the thunder.

In that split second, lightning struck the transformer outside. The explosion created a deafening crack of thunder and a blinding flash of blue-white light that reflected off the windowpanes.

Richard flinched.

Julian lunged forward with explosive speed.

A gunshot cracked—a deafening, violent roar in the enclosed office. The bullet splintered the wooden doorframe behind me. Julian slammed his full weight into Richard, tackling him through the open railing of the loft.

"Julian!" I shrieked.

The two men crashed down onto the mountain of canvas sails and wood shavings on the workshop floor below. I sprinted down the metal stairs, my heart in my throat, the darkness illuminated only by the violent flashes of lightning from the open bay doors.

On the floor, Richard was scrambling for the gun that had skidded across the concrete toward the open slipway. Julian pinned Richard’s arm, but Richard, driven by blind, psychotic desperation, gouged his fingers into Julian’s injured shoulder from the boat fire.

Julian groaned in agony, his grip slipping.

Richard scrambled forward, his bloody fingers wrapping around the grip of the pistol. He rolled onto his back, raising the weapon toward Julian.

I didn't think. I grabbed a heavy brass boat prop shaft leaning against the tool rack and swung with every ounce of strength, rage, and survival in my body.

The brass bar struck Richard’s wrist with a sickening crack.

The gun flew out of his hand, tumbling over the edge of the dock and splashing into the churning, ten-foot-deep waters of the river slip. Richard screamed in agony, clutching his broken wrist to his chest.

Before he could rise, Julian’s forearm locked across Richard’s throat, pinning him flat against the wet concrete with an immovable, crushing weight.

"Don't move," Julian panted, rain blowing through the open bay door, soaking both men. "Don't even breathe."

Outside, the wail of police sirens pierced through the howling storm. Red and blue lights reflected off the sheets of rain, painting the workshop walls in vibrant, flashing color.

Detective Cole and six tactical officers burst through the doors, assault rifles raised, sweeping the room.

"Down! Drop to the floor!" Cole barked.

Julian slowly raised his hands, stepping back, allowing the officers to swarm Richard. They forced Richard's face into the wet concrete, cuffing his broken hands behind his back. Richard sobbed, a broken, pathetic sound swallowed completely by the roar of the ocean wind.

I dropped the brass bar. It clattered against the stone.

Julian turned to me. Blood trickled down his temple, his knuckles were bruised, and his shirt was torn. But his gray eyes were clear, fierce, and entirely mine.

I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face into his wet collar. He wrapped his arms around my waist, lifting me off my feet, holding me as if I were the only solid thing left on earth.