Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
The yacht’s engines thrummed, not the music of wind and sails that had always soothed Kenzie, but a constant vibration, mocking her helplessness.
She pressed her palms against the cabin floor, testing the boards for any give. She’d already searched the upright locker and found men’s clothes hanging there.
Men, men everywhere.
Kenzie had grown up with four sisters and a very involved mother. She’d had female friends, female teammates on her field hockey and soccer teams. She had nothing against men—she was pretty fond of the one who’d saved her life a few days before—but she was comfortable with women.
How had she ended up surrounded by testosterone? Her career choice.
She needed to make some life changes, assuming she got out of this mess.
She’d searched the pockets of the men’s garments. Nothing but a handful of change and a couple of receipts.
Now she was trying to reach the bilge—the space between the floor and the bottom of the ship. It would have multiple access points. Unfortunately, none of them was in this room. But if she could find a weak point…
She found a seam near the berth and dug her fingernails into it, pulling until her fingers ached. The board shifted a smidge but wouldn’t lift. Without a crowbar, she couldn’t reach anything useful, couldn’t disconnect the engine or sabotage the steering. Couldn’t hide.
She released the board, and it snapped back into place.
She collapsed on her stomach, frustrated and frightened.
Think, Kenzie. Think.
She’d searched everywhere and found nothing.
She turned toward the berth. Maybe she should give up, crawl onto the mattress.
But there was something under the bed. She’d thought it was a platform before, but now she saw a latch. A storage compartment. She opened it and reached inside, digging past a couple of life jackets and coiled lines to…
A canvas duffel.
It might hold nothing but personal items, but it was small, just the right size for grabbing in an emergency—a ditch bag. She carried one on every voyage, just in case they had to evacuate to a lifeboat.
She unzipped it, heart hammering. Please…
She found a flashlight. She could use it to signal a passing boat if one came close enough. She shoved it into one of the many pockets of her cargo pants and fastened the button so it wouldn’t fall out.
A small sheathed knife, barely three inches, but sharp. A real weapon. She slipped it into her right front pocket.
A whistle joined it. A first aid pouch, useless for escape, but she added it to the pocket with the flashlight. And then—
A VHF radio.
Kenzie’s breath caught.
It was handheld and battery-powered. She pressed the power button, and it beeped. She lowered the volume as the screen glowed to life.
Thank You, Lord.
She automatically tuned to channel sixteen to call for help.
Bad idea. The crew would be monitoring the emergency frequency, wanting to know if anyone was looking for them.
She moved to the window and turned the dial, scanning upward through the channels.
Private conversations usually happened on the higher frequencies.
Static. More static. VHF radios only transmitted a couple of miles. Maybe there was nobody close enough. She could just start maydaying on every channel, but it would be better if she connected with somebody, anybody.
The upper sixties crackled with interference.
Then, on seventy-one, she heard voices.
The conversation was faint, broken by distance and static. Two fishermen, it sounded like, talking about their day’s catch. It didn’t matter who they were, as long as they weren’t with Henry and Magras.
She didn’t see another vessel through the porthole, but this wasn’t exactly a room with a view.
Kenzie pressed the transmit button and kept her voice low, barely above a whisper. “Break, break—vessel on seven-one, I need help. I’m being held against my will on a yacht in your vicinity.”
She released the button. Static hissed back at her. Had they heard? Had anyone—?
“Station calling for help, say again?”
She pressed the button, her hand trembling. “I’m being held against my will on a motor yacht. I need help.”
“Copy that. What’s your position?”
Kenzie hurried to flick off the cabin’s light, then peered into the darkness, thankful for the clear sky. “We left Phillipsburg about an hour ago. I’m looking out the starboard window. I see Orion near the horizon, so we’re headed south. I think.” Felt right, anyway.
“Name of the vessel?”
“Motor yacht, about fifty feet, called La—” What was the name? She squeezed her eyes shut, going back to that moment as they’d approached the swim platform. She’d seen it. “Le Pari. P-A-R-I.”
“Got it. Confirm you’re headed south. Stand by. We’re calling the Coast Guard.”
“Negative.” The word came out too loud, and her gaze snapped to the door. She forced herself to breathe. “Unless you can reach them off sixteen. My captors will be monitoring that channel. Can you call a number for me?”
“State the number.”
She rattled it off from memory, digits burned into her brain since childhood. “Tell the man who answers everything I told you. He’ll know what to do. If he doesn’t answer, then call the authorities in Phillipsburg.”
“Repeat the number?”
She did, slower this time, praying Dad would answer.
He would. By now, he must have learned she was missing. He was searching for her, she was sure of it.
And Jaz.
If he was still alive.
“Stand by,” the man said.
The channel went quiet.
Kenzie stared at the radio, willing it to crackle back to life.
The engines droned beneath her, carrying her farther away with every passing minute. Toward South America. Venezuela.
Where she could be lost and never found.
She tucked the radio into her waistband and pulled her shirt over it, then gripped the knife in her pocket.
It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d had five minutes ago. If she had to fight for her life…
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Lord, let Dad answer. Let them find me.
The yacht rolled on. Through the porthole, she watched Orion disappear below the horizon.
Somewhere out there, help was coming.
Or it wasn’t.
Either way, she wasn’t going down without a fight.