boats. A journalist looking for a scoop—but out here, at this time of night? Hardly. A shark-finning boat? Dozens of large sharks had glided past the yacht in the last few days.
Whoever they were, she had no escape. By the time she weighed anchor they’d be on her. A mayday call or flare wouldn’t do shit, out here in the middle of nowhere.
She skidded into the cabin, snatched up her pocketknife and stuffed it in her shorts pocket. What else could she use for a weapon? Damn the senator for refusing to let her carry a gun. She eyed the radio, biting her lip. No time for a call—if these guys cornered her down here, there’d be no escape. She sprang back up the ladder. The inflatable drew up to starboard, the men silent. Balaclavas. They wore balaclavas. Shit. She spun around. Come on, come on. Her gaze landed on the winch handle. She wrenched it out of its socket, tested its solid weight. Good old-fashioned heavy metal.
As one man tied up and pulled the boats alongside, another stepped onto the yacht’s stern, wobbling as if he straddled a tightrope. He was burly but perhaps not a sailor. That could work in her favor. She moved the winch handle behind her, out of sight.
“What do you want?” she asked, sounding more confident than she felt.
“We don’t want to hurt you.” The deep voice came from the bow of the inflatable, in thickly accented but precise English.
Her cheeks iced over. In her experience, people who said that usually did the opposite. The burly man advanced, feeling for his balance. Was that seriously an Angry Birds T-shirt?
“Who are you?”
“We are taking you with us.” The guy on the inflatable again. He said something to his crew in a language she couldn’t place. His voice was authoritative but at ease. She chanced a look. He leaned against the console, arms crossed. Confident, but casual with it—like he’d done this a hundred times. He was even bigger than the guy coming for her, but more athletic. Not good.
“You won’t be harmed if you cooperate,” he continued.
Her blood chilled. “You’re pirates? You’ve got to be kidding me.” She was almost halfway through this job, halfway to her new law-abiding life. Not even Blackbeard was going to ruin that.
He laughed, deep and calm. “I wish I was joking, Laura.”
Laura. This was no random heist. What was his accent—Russian? Eastern European? Not one of the notorious Indonesian lanun pirates who patrolled the Strait of Malacca. This archipelago was far enough south of the main shipping lanes that thieves weren’t supposed to consider it profitable. So much for sticking to safer waters.
It was a long time since she’d had to fight a man. She had one advantage—they thought she was a helpless socialite. They weren’t expecting trouble, and if they were kidnapping her for a ransom, they wouldn’t want to kill her—yet. She swallowed. She could play the frightened girl, give them false confidence and try to escape. In what—her tender? That thing wouldn’t win a race with a jellyfish.
She could tell them the truth, but why the hell would they believe her? Even if they did, what then—they’d apologize gracefully and be on their way? Fat chance.
“No, please, you can’t do this to me.” She let her nerves show in her voice. The Angry Birds guy was five feet away. Another few steps... “I’ll scream, I’ll... I’ll... My daddy’s a United States senator, a retired marine. A webcam is broadcasting your every move. He’ll track you down in minutes.” She cringed, inwardly. Too much?
“Nothing to be worried about,” said the man on the inflatable. “We’ll take you somewhere comfortable for a few days, your father will pay a ransom, you will be freed.”
“No. Please...”
Angry Birds jumped down onto the deck. Holly sprang backward, onto the bow. She slid her legs apart for stability, her bare feet compensating for the yacht’s movement. The man on the boat growled something. Angry Birds shouted back. One word was clear: Capitaine. He approached gingerly, his palms up, placating her. She cowered, as if bracing for the moment of contact, her pulse pummeling in her ears.
He inched closer. Patience. She tightened her grip on the winch handle. Her days of being someone’s punching bag were long dead. She waited until he was within a yard of her, then pivoted her torso, letting her hand whip with the momentum, and bashed the handle into his face with a dull, meaty crack. He wobbled, forced to prioritize regaining his balance over capturing her. Yelling from deep in her chest, she drove her heel into the side of his knee, buckling it. As he collapsed, she shoved him backward. The boat tilted with his weight and he slid into the water, one hand clutching the grab line. Her leg muscles clenched, finding equilibrium, her soles clinging to the deck like limpets. Gasping for breath, she cracked the handle onto his fingers. He splashed into the inky water with a howl.
The boat rocked, and she jumped backward to avoid following him in. Hands grabbed her biceps, from behind. Damn. When had a second man come aboard? She bent her knee and rammed a heel into his groin. Awkward, but effective—he grunted and eased his grip, just enough for her to swivel out of it. It wasn’t the capitaine, just the other goon, now bent double and panting. Before he could straighten, she clutched his head and rammed her knee into his face. Bones crackled, he yelped. She sprang back.
Instinctively, he brought both hands up to his face. Holy crap, she’d broken his nose? She wasn’t as out of practice as she’d thought. She launched a flying kick into his stomach, but it glanced off. Damn. He flailed but regained his balance, shook himself and fixed his hooded eyes on her. She retreated, panting. What now—the knife? She didn’t want to risk getting close enough to use it—and bloodshed wasn’t her thing. Angry Birds splashed about below, no doubt fighting the pull of his heavy boots.
Stern instructions came from the boat. The capitaine sounded frustrated with his men but bored, like he knew capturing her was just a matter of time.
Not if she could help it. She sprang behind the boom, her free hand fumbling to loosen the mainsheet. The pirate inched forward, a dark stain spreading across his gray balaclava. She swept the boom toward him. He stumbled and shot out his hands to catch it. Before he could recover she hurled the handle. It clocked his broken nose. Bingo. He roared and reeled back, but righted himself. He spat indecipherable words, blood and saliva dripping from his mask, his arms spread out for balance, hands clawed.
Damn. She should have thrown the knife—who knew her aim would be that good? She didn’t trust her chances now. She zipped her pocket, spun and plunged into the sea. Once the cool water swallowed her, she jackknifed and propelled herself under the yacht, kicking and pulling against the tug of the swell, feeling her way around the keel’s smooth curve. Her chest ached for air. She surfaced silently on the port side, in the moon’s shadow, and devoured oxygen as quietly as she could.
Urgent voices sounded above her. How long could she tread water and wait for rescue? Could she fool them into thinking she’d drowned? Laura’s website must be getting a million hits with this on the live stream. The woman’s craziest fans watched 24/7, keeping up a constant social media commentary. When Holly had sunbathed on the deck in Laura’s bikini she’d nearly broken the internet, even though the images were kept low-res to cover for the body switch. Help could already be on its way.
“Laura, you can’t stay down there forever. We will find you.” The capitaine switched languages and spoke sharply to the other men, his voice ringing out from the deck of the yacht. Two men on the yacht and one in the water equaled none in the inflatable. What were her chances of slipping away in it? Better than her other options.
She
