Chapter 30
THIRTY
The guard’s hand stayed clamped around Kenzie’s upper arm as he shoved her onto the speedboat—a sleek Riva, all polished mahogany and chrome, the kind of vessel that cost more than most people’s houses.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d spent years transporting luxury—and illegal cargo—for wealthy clients, and now she was on another luxury vessel, but this time, she was the cargo.
She got her bearings as the guard followed her aboard. He hadn’t let up his grip since they’d reached the marina, when he’d dug his fingers into her arm. “You try to warn anybody, I kill them. You understand?”
She’d agreed, as he’d known she would. She stayed silent and prayed someone, anyone, would see the scene and know something was wrong.
But it was evening now. Those who were out and about were thinking about dinner and frozen drinks with little umbrellas. The one group that had passed them as they’d made their way to this dock—two young couples in perfect island-wear outfits—hadn’t spared her a glance.
The second guard hopped aboard the small vessel, nearly falling as it wobbled. He plopped into the seat across from them, met her eyes with a little gleam in his, and pulled a gun from his pocket. He didn’t point it at her. He didn’t have to.
The man who’d driven them there untied the ropes and tossed them onto the boat. He was younger than the others and was careful not to look at her, as if by not acknowledging her presence, he was somehow innocent of her kidnapping. He stepped aboard and took the helm.
The boat eased out of the slip, navigating the no-wake zone at a crawl.
The marina was settling into evening, boats rocking gently in their slips, halyards clinking against masts like wind chimes. The sound was familiar, a sound that usually signaled freedom to Kenzie.
She’d never hear it the same way again.
They motored past a yacht where someone was hosting a party. People sipped wine and mingled while Jimmy Buffett sang about cheeseburgers and paradise.
Normal people living normal lives, oblivious to the woman being held at gunpoint on the little boat passing by.
Tears filled Kenzie’s eyes. She didn’t fight them, just let them fall.
She had no phone—the guard had taken that from her and tossed it out the window seconds after they’d pulled into traffic. She had no weapon. She had no way to protect herself or alert anyone as to where she was.
Let these men see her cry. Let them think she was broken, terrified, useless. She was terrified, but they’d have to do a lot worse to break her, and as long as she had a brain, she wouldn’t be useless.
The guard beside her saw her tears and shifted, uncomfortable with her display. Good. People underestimated weeping women. Maybe he would too.
Jaz.
She could hardly think about him. If El Fantasma had sent men for her, then he knew they’d discovered his secret. He knew Jaz had lied to him. Which meant…
She couldn’t finish the thought, but an image came anyway, Jaz’s gray eyes lifeless, his body lying on the deck of a ship somewhere. Or worse, sinking to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found.
And Dad… Had Henry gone after him too? Was Dad fighting right now, using all those skills he’d honed during his years with the CIA? Or was he already—
Stop it. Stop.
Kenzie had no facts. Just fear spiraling into terror. She forced herself to breathe, to observe, to think like the captain she was.
The Riva slid past rows of docked vessels—sailboats with furled canvas, fishing charters, a few smaller yachts. The sky had deepened to purple, the first stars pricking through. Dock lights flickered on, casting yellow pools across the water.
She let her shoulders slump, made herself seem smaller. Weak. Harmless. Just a frightened woman who couldn’t possibly pose a threat.
Maybe they were right.
Three men. Three guns, she assumed. She hadn’t been restrained. If she got a chance to escape or fight, she would take it. She didn’t know what she could do against armed men, but she couldn’t do nothing.
The harbor was filled with moored vessels. The driver navigated past the ones closest to the marina, then aimed toward one a bit farther out. It was a motorized yacht, maybe fifty feet long—classified as small, but most yachts were. She made out the name on the side. Le Pari. Whatever that meant.
The smaller boat bumped gently against the swim platform floating off the back of the larger vessel. Someone aboard threw down a line, and the driver grabbed it.
“Move.” The guard yanked her to her feet. “You try anything, you get shot.” He tipped his head to the other guard, whose gun was aimed at her.
She could try to jump, hope the guard missed. But he was only a couple of feet away. Even she could hit a target from that close. If she got hit before she went in the water, she’d have no chance.
Lord, I don’t know if Jaz is alive. I don’t know if Dad is alive. I don’t know what’s waiting for me on that boat. But You know. You see everything. If there’s a chance—any chance at all—help me see it. Help me take it.
For now, she did the only thing she could. She climbed onto the swim platform. The vessel loomed above, all sleek lines and dark glass. Somewhere inside, someone was waiting. El Fantasma himself? One of his lieutenants? Did it matter?
The guard prodded her forward.
And please, she added silently, let them be okay. Jaz and Dad. Please let them be alive.
She climbed a short, steep staircase and stepped aboard.