Chapter Two #2
“That’s right. Have faith.” Isabella’s mother held out her hand.
Isabella returned to the bed and took it, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. Annalise huddled into Janet’s other side, singing a quiet lullaby to the baby as he drifted off to sleep.
They stayed like that as the boat continued to its unknown destination and the sun drifted across the sky. Overhead, Isabella heard the rapid thrum of an approaching helicopter.
She lifted her head, her heartbeat accelerating. Maybe the Greek authorities were closing in on the yacht.
The drone of the rotor blades faded away, taking her brief spurt of optimism with it.
It was then she noticed the boat had stopped moving. The anchor dropped with a clang.
“Move, Isabella.”
Isabella took one look at the determination in her mother’s eyes and shifted aside to let her off the bed.
Janet Strickland’s fists pounded on the stateroom door. “I want to see my husband.”
No response.
The door wouldn’t budge. The terrorist had secured it somehow from the outside.
“Mom—”
More pounding.
This time footsteps clattered down the steps leading from the main deck, and the same captor who’d locked them in shoved open the door and raised his gun to her mother’s face.
“Shut up!” His finger slipped around the trigger. “You are expendable. If you don’t be quiet, I’ll shoot you.”
His slimy gaze roved over Annalise and Isabella, stopping to linger on Isabella’s shorts and tank top with a look that made her stomach knot.
She dropped her gaze and resisted the urge to curl her knees up to her chest.
Annalise whimpered as she curled her body over her child.
Janet paled but didn’t back down. “I’d like to pray with my husband before…” Her composure slipped.
The terrorist eyed her. Finally, he said, “You’ll have the chance to say prayers with him before his sentence is carried out.”
He turned, yanking the door shut behind him.
“Oh, God,” Annalise moaned. “Rory…”
“What do we do?” Isabella asked.
Her mother returned to sit next to them on the bed. “We pray.”
Thirty minutes later, more footsteps thumped down the stairs. The door flew open, and the man gestured with his gun.
“Come.” He’d changed from the jeans and long-sleeved shirt he’d been wearing earlier to black trousers and a black linen shirt.
Isabella’s stomach bottomed out.
This is it.
She locked trembling knees and stood, along with her mother.
Annalise followed, still clutching Brooks, who’d mercifully dropped off to sleep.
Each thud of her captor’s boots on the polished wooden steps echoed like a death knell.
Heart tripping, blood pounding in her ears, Isabella gripped the handrail as memories from the past bullied their way forward.
The oppressive daytime heat.
The frigid nights.
Every sound a promise of rescue.
Or death.
A cool ocean breeze brushed her bare skin, yanking her back from her childhood nightmare to her present one.
They’d reached the main deck, the sun sitting low in the western sky, the lengthening shadows bathing the white surfaces of the deck in a soft golden light.
In the distance, the jagged peak of Mount Zeus reached for the heavens, and from the direction of Paros, where they’d come from, Mount Prophet Elias. The air was crisp, with a hint of brine.
Her mother ran to where her father and brother stood at the bow of the ship in their golf shirts and shorts, their hands tied behind their backs. Annalise went over to Rory.
Isabella joined her parents.
All five of the terrorists had changed into black pants and long-sleeved black shirts. They spoke in what sounded like Arabic, their faces covered with black scarves.
All armed.
The one in charge slung some sort of rifle over his shoulder and began to assemble a tripod and video camera.
“Stay strong,” her father said in hushed tones. “Someone will find you.”
Isabella gave him a weak nod, her gaze shying away from the apology and regret swamping his brown eyes.
“It is time,” one of the masked men spoke.
“No.” Her mother clung to her father.
Isabella’s expression mirrored her mother’s as tears streamed down her face, blurring the world around her. Annalise wailed as Rory spoke to her in a low, urgent tone.
With a gentle but firm grip, her father tugged his wife’s hands from around his shoulders. “Take care of each other.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “Don’t watch.”
Their escort from below deck herded Isabella, her mother, and Annalise to the padded benches on the left side of the bow. “Sit.”
He leveled his weapon at them and stood, his attention divided between them and the terrorist leader, now standing in front of the video camera.
Her father and brother were forced to kneel, three gunmen flanking them.
A rhythmic knocking came from the back of the boat, as if something had broken loose and tapped the hull with each swell of the sea.
The lead terrorist frowned, spitting out what sounded like a command.
Beside Isabella’s brother, the gunman gave a curt nod and left.
Annalise sobbed. Isabella’s mother’s lips moved in silent prayer.
Isabella repeated her father’s command. “Don’t look.”
She, however, couldn’t tear her gaze away from her father and brother. Helplessness swamped her, just as it had when she was twelve and at the mercy of another man hellbent on revenge.
She fought to hold on to the tattered edges of her control.
The leader began to speak to the camera.
A round, red dot of light appeared on his forehead a millisecond before crimson spray exploded from the back of his skull.
The sharp retort of a gun followed.
Isabella recoiled.
The man’s body crumpled to the deck.
Two more shots rang out.
The men flanking her father and brother went down.
Brooks let out a frightened wail.
The terrorist guarding Isabella, her mother, and Annalise dropped to a crouch, frantically scanning the upper deck.
His gaze swung back, connected with Isabella’s, and narrowed in fury.
He straightened, the barrel of his gun swinging toward the two Strickland men.
Like a shadow, a figure in a black hooded wetsuit appeared.
Cold blue eyes stared from a face covered with black and green war paint.
Black metal flashed in the waning sun as the diver grabbed the terrorist by the shoulder and drove a knife into the base of his neck.
The man dropped the terrorist’s body unceremoniously to the deck and slipped away toward the boat’s stern.
Isabella stared open-mouthed as another man—a giant also clad in scuba black—used a knife to cut the bindings from her father and brother and help them to their feet.
The first man in black returned. “Clear. The captain and crew are locked in an aft stateroom.”
American.
Relief made Isabella lightheaded.
“There’s another gunman,” she said.
The man glanced her way. “Not anymore.”
Recognition jolted her.
Why did his eyes look so familiar?
She swallowed and looked away. The metallic scent of copper laced with death settled in her nose, despite the breeze.
The man helping her dad and brother removed his hood to reveal spiky, dirty-blond hair. He had blue eyes as well, but his were so pale they reminded her of arctic ice set against the black of his camouflaged face.
“Sir,” he addressed Isabella’s father, “Admiral Dane sent us. Your location was compromised. I’m sorry we didn’t get to you in time to prevent”—he glanced at the bodies at his feet—“this.”
Whatever her father said in response faded into the background as Isabella’s gaze snared on the second man, who had also peeled off his hood.
Tousled, shaggy blond hair, a shade darker than she remembered. His shoulders were broader, his body lean and muscled like a swimmer’s. There were lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Those eyes.
Blue as a summer sky.
And staring directly at her.
“Hello, Bella.”
Her heart stopped, then started again, galloping away and leaving her short of breath.
“Danny.”
It wasn’t possible, was it?
What was he doing here?
“Are you okay?” He assessed her as if scanning for injuries, but she felt heat bloom wherever his gaze landed.
Her knees trembled, threatening to give way.
“How?” Her throat locked.
He’d joined the Navy.
Become a SEAL.
That much she knew.
He was as handsome now as he’d been at nineteen.
More so, because now she was looking at a fully adult male in his prime.
Everything she’d locked away when it came to Danny Mayhew came roaring to the surface.
The love.
The loss.
The big man with the icy blue eyes turned to Isabella’s father. “For obvious reasons, it’s best if we’re gone before the Greek authorities arrive. Once we’re away, release the crew and have the captain radio for help.”
His gaze moved over her father, then her brother, before shifting to take in Isabella, her mother, and Annalise. “You don’t know who we are, or where we came from. A new security detail will meet you back on Paros and fly you home.”
Her father nodded. “I’ll handle the Greek authorities. And tell Admiral Dane I owe him a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”
The other man directed his next words to Danny. “Chaos. We need to exit.”
Chaos?
She forced her arms to stay at her sides to keep from reaching for him. Her lips pressed together to keep from asking him to stay.
His eyes held her captive. He lifted a hand, and she braced for his touch.
It never came.
Something that looked like regret shadowed his features.
His hand dropped.
“Take care of yourself, Bella.”
He and the other man moved to the back of the boat and disappeared without a sound into the sea.
Just like that, he was out of her life again, disappearing as swiftly, as silently as he had thirteen years before.