He frowned. ‘He’s a judge.’
‘Okay. That’s true. The police are searching your house right now. He’s suspected of . . . a lot of things.’
His jaw tightened. ‘You think he killed my mother.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Do you think that?’
‘No, but I heard my mother’s friends talking about it.’
Oh, honey. That had to have been hard to hear. ‘Actually, no, I don’t think your father killed her. But I think he knows who did. That person is the one who plans to kill me. I’d really like to avoid that.’
‘What do you think I can do?’ he asked, shrewdly guessing her intent.
‘Help me get to that porthole.’
His eyes bugged. ‘You are shitting me. You can’t fit through there.’
‘Watch me. But I have to get out of these cuffs first. Are you tied up?’
‘My hands are cuffed behind my back too.’
‘Well, shit.’ She was going to have to do this the hard way. At least Kathryn had made her remove her Kevlar vest when she’d been forced into the van. Had she still been wearing it, she wouldn’t have had the freedom of movement to do what she needed to do. ‘You might not want to watch this.’ Drawing a breath, she forced her body to relax and slipped her shoulder out of joint.
She sucked in a breath. She’d forgotten how much that hurt. ‘Sonofabitch,’ she hissed. The young man was watching avidly. Tucking her knees to her chest, she swung her joined hands under her butt and popped the shoulder back in.
‘Sonofa-fucking-bitch,’ she swore. She rolled her shoulders, blinking away tears. ‘Goddamn, that hurts.’
‘But it was frickin’ cool,’ he said, sounding genuinely impressed.
‘Sure. It is cool when it’s not you, y’know?’
With her hands in front of her, she had a prayer of unlocking the cuffs. They were on too tightly for her to slip her hands through. She had just the tool to do the job, but she had to get to it. She hiked up her skirt and fumbled with the now-empty thigh holster. In the seam she’d hidden two of the hard plastic lock picks that she’d used most when doing performance art. After several tries, she managed to work one of them to the small hole she’d left in the seam. She pulled it out, feeling very pleased with herself.
However, picking the handcuff lock would be the hard part. Lockpicking was a delicate task and she hadn’t had much practice recently. She dropped the pick the first two times and had to force herself to relax, to not think about the fact that Thorne was helpless in that box and Aidan might be dead somewhere. Instead she hummed one of Thorne’s favorite songs and felt her muscles begin to unwind.
If Thorne could hear her and know she was near, that was a bonus.
It took two more tries, but eventually she managed to pick the lock, freeing one of her hands. It would do for now. She crawled over to the box and ripped at a seam, tearing away the back.
She couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped her throat when she saw Thorne lying there unmoving. His beautiful face battered and bruised.
The sound propelled her back into motion and she pushed at his massive shoulder as gently as she could, maneuvering him so that she could get to the cuffs at his back. He moved with her, although he said not a word. She made quick work of the locks, then tucked the cuffs into the back pocket of his pants and rolled him onto his back. Massaging his arms to help his circulation, she gave him a quick visual once-over. No blood, no obvious gunshot wounds.
She leaned in to brush a kiss over his lips. ‘I’m going to get out of here,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll be back for you. I love you.’
His eyelids fluttered open. ‘Run,’ he rasped. ‘Get away.’
‘I’ll have to swim. We’re on a boat.’
‘Fuck,’ he whispered, and she had to fight the urge to laugh.
‘Indeed.’ She took another second to touch his face, then pushed to her feet. ‘Your ankles are bound with zip ties. I need a knife.’
Thorne lifted to rest on his elbows, giving his head a hard shake, looking around the room for the first time. ‘Shit. What is this place?’
‘A boat with a torture room,’ she told him. ‘Welcome to Chez Tavilla.’
‘Check the cabinet on the wall,’ the kid said from the corner. ‘They were talking when they dumped me here. Thought I was still out of it. The woman said she wished she had the key, that . . .’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘That she’d left her knife in the . . . butler.’
Gwyn looked over from the walnut chest bolted to the wall. Blake’s eyes were closed, his jaw taut. But tears ran down his face.
She returned her focus to the lock, inserting the pick. ‘What do you mean, in the butler?’
‘My . . . tutor. Officially, anyway. Unofficially he was . . . He took care of me. Ever since I can remember.’ He shuddered another sob. ‘He called himself “the manny”.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Gwyn said softly, keeping the glee out of her voice, because at just that moment the chest’s lock turned and . . . ‘Holy fucking shit.’
Thorne twisted his body to see the cabinet. ‘Wow.’
There were knives of every size and type, all neatly displayed. Gwyn chose a pocket switchblade for herself and a large hunting knife for Thorne. Kneeling at his feet, she sawed at the zip ties with the hunting knife, then handed it to him once she’d freed him.
She dropped the switchblade in her skirt pocket, glad the pocket had a button. Hopefully she wouldn’t lose the knife in the water. She glanced back up at the weapons, re-evaluating her plan. If they were armed with knives, they could fight back when the cabin door opened, which it inevitably would. Tavilla was coming for them. She’d overheard Kathryn and her minions discussing it.
While they reloaded their semi-automatic weapons.
Gwyn discarded the notion of relying on fighting back. Only a fool brought a knife to a gunfight.
‘Can you stand? I need a boost to the porthole. I was going to ask the kid for help, but you’re taller. It’ll be easier for me to reach it if you’re lifting me.’
Thorne forced himself to his feet, swaying dangerously before staggering to the wall below the porthole. He was tall enough to see out of it easily. He huffed an irritated breath. ‘We’re a long way from shore, babe.’
‘I know. I was conscious when they brought us here.’ She glanced at the porthole again. She needed less constriction for such a long swim, so she lifted her blouse enough to rip at the Velcro holding her girdle holster in place, then did the same for the thigh holster.
While she took off the holsters, Thorne turned his attention to the porthole. ‘Hasn’t been opened in a while,’ he grunted. ‘It’s stuck.’
Both of them winced when the clamp holding the small window in place finally gave, because the porthole’s hinge creaked. Loudly.
Gwyn lifted her arms and, bracing his weight against the wall, Thorne spanned her waist with both hands. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him hard. ‘I’ll get help.’
‘You get safe,’ he rumbled gruffly. ‘I love you.’
Then he lifted her to the porthole and she wedged her shoulders through, stifling a cry when the skin on her upper arms scraped away. The salt water was going to hurt like hell.
Thorne lifted her higher, and she shimmied until her hips slid through. Gripping the edge of the porthole, she bowed her body until her feet were free and she was dangling over the water. Belatedly, she wondered about sharks. Especially since her arm was now bleeding.
Don’t be ridiculous. She was in far more danger from Cesar Tavilla than she was from sharks. She pulled herself up so that she could see through the porthole to where Thorne was watching her, his expression a mix of relief, fear and hope. And desperate love.
‘Love you too,’ she whispered, and then let herself fall into the bay.
Annapolis, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 5.25 P.M.