Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.30 P.M.
Gwyn treaded water, wanting to scream at the pain when the salt hit the scraped skin on her arms. But the sting became bearable after a minute or so, and then she could be a little exultant. She’d done it! She’d escaped!
And now she had to swim a long way. They were moored a half-mile from shore.
It had been four years since she’d been in a pool. Swimming laps had once been part of her daily workout. Until Evan. Afterward, it had been all strength training and kickboxing. Activities she could use for self-defense.
Her swimming skills were rusty and her shoulder still throbbed from pulling it from its joint so that she could escape the handcuffs. But at least the water wasn’t too cold. She eyed the shore, where Tavilla’s enormous beach home rose from the sand, two stories tall above its stilts. She wouldn’t chance going near the house, and she hadn’t seen any other houses nearby when they’d driven in. But there was a boat tied to the dock.
It appeared to be the same launch that had brought her to the ship. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she swam along the yacht, stopping to tread water when she got to the stern. Yeah, that was the same launch, because there was currently no boat tied to the ladder.
Someone had left the yacht, for now, at least. She hoped that bought Thorne some time. And once she got to the dock, she could steal the launch and go for help. If the keys were in the ignition, as they had been when Kathryn had driven it earlier.
If not, she’d make her way to the road and walk until she flagged down a passing car. Either way, the dock was where she needed to end up.
She let herself drift for a moment to test the current, then reset her sights on the dock. I can do this. I have to. Thorne needed her. So did the Segal kid. I will do this.
Breaststroke would be the easiest on her shoulder and would allow her to keep an eye on the dock when she came up for air. Drawing a deep breath, she started out.
Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.30 P.M.
Thorne staggered out of the cabin, getting a few yards up the narrow hallway before sinking to his knees. He wasn’t trying to get away at this point. But if he could distract Tavilla, maybe the kid could escape and follow Gwyn to safety.
Gwyn. Part of him needed her there with him, but mostly he was so damn relieved that she’d gotten off the boat. Run. Don’t come back.
She’d send help. If it was at all possible, she’d send help. He just hoped he could hold on until then. Because goddammit, it hurts.
Tavilla grabbed him by the collar and leaned down, his breath hot against Thorne’s ear. ‘Up!’ he snarled. ‘Stand up.’
Thorne felt the cold barrel of a gun against his temple. ‘You won’t kill me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You want to hurt me. Not kill me.’
Tavilla’s laugh was bitter. ‘This morning that was true. It no longer is.’ He jabbed the gun harder. ‘Move. Now.’
‘No.’ He needed to stay away from that room. He forced his body to go limp.
‘That is fine,’ Tavilla said, his voice becoming mild seconds before the toe of his boot slammed into Thorne’s ribs.
Thorne couldn’t stifle his moan and thought of the phone in his pocket. He might not survive this, but if Joseph was still listening – and hopefully recording – he could go out doing some good. Plus, the longer he gave Gwyn to get away, the better her chances of survival. And that was the most important thing.
‘Why?’ he croaked. ‘Why do all of this?’
‘Because my son is dead, Mr Thorne.’ Another vicious kick, this one to his hip. ‘And you are responsible.’
‘Your son is responsible, Mr Tavilla,’ Thorne shot back, grinding his teeth to keep from whimpering in pain. ‘He committed the crime.’
Tavilla dragged him a few feet toward the room from which he’d come, then paused to lean against the wall, panting. ‘This is ridiculous. I know how to make you move.’ He left Thorne on the hallway floor, his footsteps receding back to the torture room.
At once there was a shout of fury. ‘Where is she?’
Thorne held his breath, waiting for him to find Blake Segal, but all he heard was more shouting and the sound of the big box tearing.
Tavilla came back, kicking Thorne once again. ‘Where is she? Your lover?’
‘I don’t know.’ It was true. He didn’t know. He hoped she had made it to shore. Please be safe. I love you.
‘And the boy? The judge’s son?’
He’s hiding. Thank God. ‘I don’t know,’ Thorne said again.
Tavilla kicked him once more, this time in the head.
‘Yes, you do, Mr Thorne.’ His voice quieted. Became so cold that Thorne shivered. ‘And I know just how to make you tell me.’
Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.40 P.M.
‘I want to kill that fucker,’ Jamie whispered, his voice choked.
Frederick glanced away from Judge Segal, who was seated alone at a table in one of BPD’s interrogation rooms, and studied Jamie’s reflection in the one-way glass of the observation room. His friend’s face was contorted with the pain that came from knowing that his child was in danger and there was no way to help.
Frederick was familiar with that expression. He’d seen it in the mirror daily after Carrie had run away. Later, after she’d been found dead, his reflection had shown the consuming grief of losing her. He sent up a prayer that Jamie would never know that agony.
Frederick didn’t want to kill Segal so much as he wanted to do the same thing he’d done to the gunman in the wood – make him talk, no matter what he had to do. Because whatever he’d pried out of the gunman hadn’t been enough. They knew they were looking for a boat, but they didn’t know where.
Joseph had helicopters conducting aerial searches, but so far, they’d found nothing.
‘I get wanting to kill him,’ JD murmured from where he stood on the other side of Jamie’s chair. ‘But we’re going to have to trust Joseph and Hyatt to do their job.’
‘Which is what?’ Jamie hissed. ‘Where the fuck are they?’
Because Joseph had abruptly left the room to take a call on his cell phone, Hyatt following behind him. The two had been gone for several minutes, serving to heighten the tension in the observation room.
Frederick remained silent, squeezing Jamie’s shoulder before returning his gaze to Judge Segal, who sat alone at the interrogation table, his expression neutral. But the grip he had on his thigh was white-knuckled. He was nervous. He should be. The FBI/BPD task force had found evidence that Segal had taken bribes. Big ones.
Still the man had not cracked. Hadn’t even asked to see his attorney. Which did not make sense at all.
The door to the interrogation room opened and Joseph and Hyatt re-entered, looking grim.
Jamie gasped, and Frederick squeezed his shoulder again, even though his own pulse had begun to race, wondering what had happened. ‘Keep it together, Jamie,’ he whispered. ‘They’d tell you first if it was something bad.’ Like if Thorne was dead.
No. I’m not going to even think it.
Joseph sat across from Segal. Hyatt sat beside the judge, encroaching on his personal space without actually touching him. Segal looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t move an inch.
‘You should have told us that Tavilla had kidnapped your son,’ Joseph said bluntly.
Segal flinched, the remaining color draining from his face. ‘You found him? Blake?’
‘No, but we know that Tavilla has him on a boat, in some kind of torture room.’
Segal’s eyes closed, but not quickly enough to hide the abject terror in his eyes. ‘You’re lying.’
Both Joseph and Hyatt narrowed their eyes. ‘You know we’re not,’ Hyatt said quietly. ‘What do you know about this torture room?’
‘Nothing,’ Segal insisted stiffly. He opened his eyes, having regained some of his composure. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
Joseph studied him. ‘I heard his voice. He didn’t think he’d been taken too far from your house, but he was groggy because he’d been drugged by his captors.’ He paused. ‘Blake wasn’t blindfolded, Judge Segal. He’s seen their faces.’
Segal sucked in a breath, the full import of that statement clearly registering. ‘Dear God,’ he whispered.
‘We know they’re on a boat,’ Joseph repeated. ‘We know it’s called the Señor del Mar. We know it’s docked somewhere called Chevalier.’ He gave Segal a sharp look. ‘We were hoping you could help us.’
Segal licked his lips nervously. ‘How? How could I know?’
‘Because you conspired with Tavilla to eliminate Thomas Thorne.’
‘Oh,’ Jamie breathed. ‘They found something.’
On the other side of the glass, Segal attempted to sneer, but the beads of sweat on his upper lip gave him away. ‘You’re fishing, Agent Carter.’
In answer, Joseph slid a piece of paper across the table. Hyatt leaned in to look over Segal’s shoulder, shaking his head. ‘That looks bad to me, Judge,’ the lieutenant said with mock sympathy. ‘An account in your own words. Signed by you.’
Segal had immediately stiffened when he saw what was written on the paper. His hands trembled as he snatched it off the table, not, it seemed, in fear, but in rage. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘From your safe deposit box,’ Joseph said. ‘We had a warrant. Signed by a judge.’
‘Always risky to pen a confession to be shared in the event of your suspicious death,’ Hyatt added, still mocking. ‘Especially if you don’t die.’ He reached over Segal to tap the bottom of the page. ‘It says here that you visited Tavilla on his ship, where you confronted him about the murder of your wife Patricia. He admitted to the crime “freely” and threatened your son if you told anyone.’
Joseph lifted his brows. ‘It looks like he jumped the gun on you. He’s got your son now.’
Segal lowered the page to the table, folding his hands atop it. ‘Who told you that Blake was on the boat?’ he asked, shoulders sagging in defeat.
‘Thomas Thorne,’ Joseph answered tersely. ‘He’s on the boat too and they’re trying to find a way off it.’
Segal closed his eyes again. ‘Thorne?’ he moaned. ‘Thorne is with my son? Oh my God. He’ll kill Blake. He’ll kill him.’
Hyatt’s jaw tightened. ‘You know, Judge, you should be relieved that it’s Thorne with your kid. A lot of men would use this as an opportunity to exact revenge for allowing them to be accused of a murder that you fucking committed. But that is not Thorne’s style.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s more likely to take a bullet so that your kid can escape.’
Jamie made a sound that was too close to a whimper.
Heart hurting for him, Frederick squeezed his shoulder again. ‘You don’t know that anyone’s taking a bullet,’ he said quietly. ‘Hopefully this asshole will tell them where the fucking boat is.’
‘But Hyatt,’ Jamie whispered. ‘He . . . That was a really nice thing he said there.’
JD cleared his throat. ‘Nice and true.’
‘He’s right,’ Joseph said to Segal. ‘Now help us save them before it’s too late.’ He leaned across the table, getting in Segal’s face. ‘Where is the boat?’
Segal withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘I’m not exactly sure. It’s somewhere off Muddy Creek Road. Near the mouth of the river.’
Joseph sat up sharply. ‘Rhode River?’
A nod. ‘I think so. Or one of the creeks. I was blindfolded, so I’m not sure.’
Hyatt frowned. ‘How do you know that much if you were blindfolded?’
Segal flushed, the twin streaks of red dark against his pale face. ‘I had a tracking device on me, but it . . . malfunctioned at the end.’
Joseph’s face also bent in a frown. ‘Tavilla allowed you on his boat without checking for a tracking device?’
If anything, the man’s flush deepened. ‘He checked. His gorilla – Patton – strip-searched me, the fucker. I had it . . .’ He lifted his chin. ‘I had it hidden. I was hoping to get his exact location for further leverage.’
Joseph’s eyes flared wide in surprise, but the reaction was so brief that Frederick might have missed it had he not been watching closely. ‘Oh. Hidden. Got it.’
Frederick exchanged glances with both JD and Jamie. ‘Oh my God,’ he murmured. ‘He hid it up his . . .’
JD winced. ‘So it would seem.’
Jamie closed his eyes, his relief palpable. ‘Muddy Creek Road. That’s a relatively small search area. They’ll be able to find Thorne. They can get to him in time.’
Joseph lowered his chin to speak into the microphone clipped to his lapel. ‘Detective Rivera, did you get that?’
The door to the interrogation room opened and Rivera stuck his head in, an earpiece clearly visible. ‘Yes, Agent Carter. I’ve relayed it to the search team. They’re changing course to intercept Tavilla’s boat.’
‘Any other news from Mr Thorne?’ Hyatt asked.
Rivera shook his head, chancing a quick glance out of the corner of his eye at the mirror. ‘No, but we’re still connected.’
‘To Thorne,’ Jamie whispered. ‘They still have Thorne on the phone. He’s still alive.’
Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.50 P.M.
Gwyn felt like throwing up. Swimming in the bay was completely different to swimming in the pool. It wasn’t a windy day, but the waves still tossed her around, and she’d swallowed too much water. But she’d made it. Thank you. Thank you.
Swimming under the dock, she dragged herself onto the sand, giving herself a moment to rest before inspecting the boat’s ignition. Please let the keys be in it. Please.
It was quiet here. Quiet enough that she heard the slamming of a car door.
Dammit. Somebody’s here. Hurry. Forcing herself to move, she waded over to the boat. It had a small ladder on the side so that anyone in the water could easily climb aboard. She pulled herself high enough on the ladder to see the ignition.
No keys. Fuck. She could pick a lock, but she’d never been good at hot-wiring. That had been Thorne’s expertise.
Voices suddenly split the quiet. Two women, calling to one another.
Fuckety fuck, fuck, fuck. Gwyn knew one of those two voices. Laura or Kathryn or whatever the fuck her name was.
Stop. Calm down. Drawing a breath, she focused, because in that split second she’d become over-the-top angry and frustrated. The voices were coming closer, and she needed to think.
As smoothly as possible, she slipped back into the water and under the dock just as footsteps thudded above her head.
‘You okay?’ That was Kathryn. Fucking bitch.
Stay calm.
‘Not really.’
Gwyn blinked, because that sounded like Anne, her voice small and tentative, much as it had been when she was working for Thorne. Not French, though. Faker. But maybe the tentativeness wasn’t faked.
‘Is he very angry?’ Anne asked.
A long pause. ‘Yeah, hon. He is.’ Kathryn sighed, her words full of gentle reproach. ‘You really fucked up, not making sure that Colton Brandenberg was dead.’
‘But that was Patton’s fault, not mine.’
‘I wouldn’t take that tone with him. Just . . . say a lot of “yes, sir” and “no, sir”. I’ve noticed how tired you are doing double duty. Triple duty, really. You were working for Thorne during the day and Cesar in the evenings, as well as taking care of Benny. Of course you’re going to be tired. I even commented to him last night that you needed a vacation. Just play that up. He’ll be angry and he’ll yell and scream, but we have this contained.’
‘You have the judge?’ Anne asked hopefully.
‘No. The cops have him. But we do have his kid. Had to kill the butler to get him out of the house, but the kid’s on the boat. The judge will stay quiet.’
‘What about Thorne?’
‘We have him too. Him and his bitch girlfriend.’
Gwyn scowled. Calling me a bitch? Cocking her head, she listened harder, because those last words had been muttered.
‘What did she do?’ Anne asked.
‘She and her flunky bodyguards took out three of my men.’
Another long pause. ‘Your men?’
‘Well, Cesar’s men.’ Kathryn laughed. ‘Don’t get upset, little sis. I’m not horning in on your territory. But he will need some help while he regroups and you tend to Benny.’
Sisters. Kathryn and Anne, or whatever her real name is. They’re sisters.
‘Tend to Benny?’
‘Well, yeah.’ Kathryn had stopped laughing. ‘He’s not going to trust you again anytime soon. You realize that, don’t you? Margo?’
Margo. Anne Poulin is really Margo. Things were starting to fall into place now.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Margo insisted. ‘I’ll convince him. Will you stand up for me?’
‘You know I—’ The sultry tones of a tango interrupted. ‘Cesar, we’re on our—’ She stopped short. ‘Nowhere? She’s tiny and bendy. Did you check under the beds and in the closets?’
Shit. They know I’m gone. I should have been quicker. But she’d swum as fast as she’d been able. She knew that. Holding her breath, she waited.
‘The kid too? Fuck, Cesar! I had them tied up. I patted them down myself.’ Kathryn sounded annoyed. ‘I’ll check the security tapes. Give me two seconds.’
‘Do we need to go inside to check?’ Margo asked.
‘No. I can access the cameras from my phone.’
Of course she can. Gwyn’s pulse began to race and she felt for the knife she’d buttoned into the pocket of her skirt. Closing her hand over the hilt, she flicked the catch, releasing the blade. She wasn’t going down without a fight.
‘Gwyn?’ Kathryn called. ‘We know you’re under the dock. I can see you right now.’
Gwyn looked up at the piling. Sure enough, there was a camera. Dammit.
‘You might as well come out,’ Margo added. ‘There’s nowhere to run.’
Gwyn said nothing. Come down here and get me. She might not make it out alive, but she’d do her damnedest to take one of the bitches with her.
There was quiet above, and then footsteps along the dock above her head. Gwyn backed up until she was wedged between the top of the dock and the beach. Tavilla wants to use me to hurt Thorne. So they probably won’t shoot me. At least not much.
Still her heart hammered. Tightening her grip on the knife, she waited.
There was a loud thump in the boat. One of them had climbed in. Gwyn glimpsed a long blond ponytail. Anne. No, Margo.
And then a hand grabbed her hair, twisting and yanking. And even though she knew it was Kathryn . . . it wasn’t. Even though she knew Evan was dead . . . it didn’t matter.
She froze, her heart pounding out of her chest, leaving her lightheaded and dizzy. He’d grabbed her by her hair and . . .
Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the things he’d done. Again and again. An agonized cry burst from her throat and she struck out, twisting in his grip, the knife in her hand hitting something hard.
A screech cut through the air, followed by a torrent of curses.
It was the screech that snapped her back into her mind. It was high. Falsetto. Not deep. Nor were the curses. Not Evan.
The hand in her hair fell away and she backed up, crablike.
Kathryn. Not Evan.
Though it didn’t really matter, because both of them had pointed a gun at her face.
Gwyn blinked at the barrel as it came closer.
‘Get in the fucking boat,’ Kathryn gritted out. ‘Now.’
Gwyn heard a splash behind her, followed by Margo’s not-French voice. ‘I’ve got her, Kat. Are you okay?’
‘Yeah.’ But Kathryn sounded breathless, and there was pain in her voice. The water around her arm was red. She was bleeding profusely.
I’ve got her. Ha! But Gwyn’s joy was short-lived, because Margo had a gun of her own, this one with a silencer.
‘Get in the boat, Kat. I won’t let her get away. Once we have her locked down, I’ll stitch up your wound.’
Kathryn waded by Gwyn on her way to the boat. ‘Fucking cunt,’ she muttered, and Gwyn felt a blinding pain as the butt of Kathryn’s gun connected with her cheekbone.
Margo focused on Gwyn. ‘Thorne lives as long as you’re alive. I’m already in trouble with my father-in-law.’
Wait. What? Margo was Tavilla’s daughter-in-law? We had his daughter-in-law working for us for a whole year? Shit.
‘At this point,’ Margo continued coolly, ‘I’ll kill you where you stand rather than risk his anger if you get away again. So do us all a favor. Extend Thorne’s life and your own by getting in the fucking boat.’
Gwyn’s eyes were watering, both from the pain radiating across her face and the gutting disappointment of losing her chance to help Thorne. But despite her blurred vision she could see that Margo’s gun was a .45 with a shiny silencer. The woman meant business. Gwyn drew a breath, then nodded, ignoring the stars still twinkling in front of her eyes.
‘Good choice,’ Margo mocked. She waited until Gwyn had climbed the small ladder into the boat, then followed her in. ‘Can you drive, Kat? I need to watch this bitch.’
Kathryn nodded. ‘I think so.’ She swallowed hard. ‘This . . . is pretty bad, Margo.’ Weakly she pointed at the yacht. ‘I hope I can get up the ladder.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Margo promised. ‘Tide’s just starting to go out, so there aren’t as many rungs to climb.’
Kathryn gripped the steering wheel, her jaw set in determination, and the launch started out toward the yacht. With its powerful motor, Gwyn could see the trip wouldn’t take long.
She watched the dock grow smaller and steeled her spine. She’d figure out another way. She’d get help for Thorne and Blake Segal. I will. I have to.
Once they reached the yacht, she didn’t fight Margo when it was time to climb on board. She’d bide her time, waiting for another opportunity to run. She’d expected it to happen before the launch left the dock, as soon as Margo put down her gun to apply a tourniquet to her sister’s arm, because Kathryn was still gushing blood. But Margo didn’t do that. Nor did she tend to her sister when they got to the yacht. After forcing Gwyn up the ladder, she climbed up herself, then extended her arm over the side, hauling Kathryn up.
Kathryn collapsed on the deck, her face whiter than snow. ‘What the fuck, Margo? That hurt like hell. You were supposed to help me, not drag me.’
Margo rose to her feet gracefully. Then casually shot her sister between the eyes.
Gwyn froze, gaping. ‘What the . . . Oh my God,’ she whispered. She lifted her eyes to Margo, shocked. ‘Why?’
‘Not your business,’ Margo snapped. ‘Now get down the stairs or I’ll do the same to you.’