Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Kenzie tried not to look at the dead man slumped against the wall.
Move. You have to move.
Her father couldn’t clean up this mess like he had the first time she’d killed a man.
Jaz wasn’t about to shoot his way to her, like the second time.
She was on her own. She needed to keep herself alive until they found her.
She forced herself off the bed, her legs unsteady beneath her. The knife was still in her hand, dripping blood. She wiped the blade on the blanket, and then her hands, which were sticky with blood that left dark smears across the fabric. She longed for a sink and soap. A shower.
Freedom.
She tucked the blade back into its sheath in her pocket.
The guard’s chin rested on his chest. Blood pooled beneath him, a dark stain spreading slowly across the cabin floor. Right now, it was creeping toward the stern, but with the movement of the ship, it could shift in any direction. It could seep under the door.
Kenzie crouched beside him, fighting revulsion that clawed at her throat. She searched his pockets. No gun—that would be too easy. What had he done with the radio? She found it on the bed and shoved it into one of her pockets.
She had to get out of here. To hide.
But where?
If she could get below the floor into the bilge, where the pumps and hoses lived, she might buy herself time. The guards might not think to look there.
The crew would. Anyone who worked on boats knew the walls and floors hid electrical wires, pipes, all the ugly necessities that kept a vessel like this running. They’d search everywhere eventually.
But she could buy herself time. That was all she needed—time. Nobody knew she had a radio. As long as they didn’t stray from their current course, Dad and Jaz—she had to believe Jaz was with him—would catch up to her.
Did she dare step into the corridor? She could only guess where access points to the bilge might be. She didn’t know how many people were aboard or where they were.
Leaving the berth was a risk. So was staying.
Her gaze swept the cabin. There was no hiding place except the upright locker. They’d look in there, except…
False walls. Removable walls.
She crossed to the yacht’s version of a wardrobe, pulled the door open, and shoved the clothes aside. She pressed her palm against the back panel.
It flexed.
Someone could walk in any second. With trembling fingers, she searched the back wall where it connected with the locker’s sides and found an edge. She pulled, hearing the soft tearing of Velcro.
When the panel was clear, she set it aside and studied the narrow space it had hidden. Maybe ten inches deep, crisscrossed with electrical wires and bundled cables. No hot pipes, thank goodness. The hull curved at the back, the fiberglass smooth and cold.
Not much room. It would be miserable. But she would fit.
She crossed the room, stepped in the pool of blood, then took a few steps toward the door, where she slipped off her shoes and tossed them onto the bed. Anyone who saw the scene would see the trail and the bloody prints and assume she’d tossed them before escaping into the corridor.
Barefoot, she ducked into the locker, past the hanging clothes, then turned and pulled the locker door closed.
The space was tiny and dark. She wedged herself into the narrow space between the locker and the hull.
One shoulder bumped against a line of wires.
She wouldn’t be able to crouch or shift or do anything once the panel was back on. If they found her, they’d have her.
But they’d have to find her first.
She pulled the panel she’d set aside toward her, then reached past it and worked to spread out the clothes again, hoping nobody would think to look behind them.
Now to shimmy the panel into place. It was nearly impossible. The thing wasn’t meant to be maneuvered from this side. There was nothing to grip, just unfinished wood and the sharp staples attaching the fabric lining.
Something slammed—too close.
With no choice, she stabbed the knife into the soft plywood near the top of the panel’s frame, using the blade as a handle to haul the board toward her, praying she wouldn’t snap it.
A shout told her they’d found the guard. They knew she was gone.
They’d look in the locker. She had seconds.
She gripped the edge, pulling with the blade. The panel needed to slide into its groove, but it was resistant, stubborn.
Please. Please.
It moved too slowly.
The knife slipped. She caught it, cutting her hand in the process, but she’d kept it from clanking against the fiberglass.
That would have been it. Her heart was thumping, adrenaline making her tremble.
Voices, men speaking in rapid French.
Focus.
She worked the knife into the same spot and tried again. The panel fought her.
It was a nightmare of physics. She had to keep her fingers clear of the edges while pulling with enough force to engage the Velcro. She braced her shoulders against the cold hull, took a breath of the chemical-thick air, and gave a sharp, desperate tug.
The panel jumped toward her, sealing her in. She doubted the Velcro was aligned correctly and kept hold of the knife to keep the panel from moving. She thought—hoped—it would appear normal from the front, as long as nobody looked too closely.
The darkness was complete.
She would slump if there were room. She exhaled, inhaled, tried to calm herself down, afraid someone would smell her fear over the stench of fiberglass resin and adhesive.
The engine’s noise was amplified by her proximity to the hull. Every throb resonated through her bones, a constant low drone that made it impossible to know what was going on in the berth.
She held onto the knife, afraid if she let go, the panel might shift. She braced her other hand against the hull to keep from bumping and jostling and giving herself away.
They were looking for her now, but she thought they’d left the berth where they’d locked her. They’d fallen for her ruse.
How long before they returned? How long before they found her?
The space was suffocating, the walls pressing in from all sides. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She couldn’t move, couldn’t stretch, couldn’t do anything but wait and pray.