‘Because he’s a cop,’ Thorne said, and the kid’s eyes grew even wider. ‘Sorry to be the one to bust your bubble, kid, but not all cops are good.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Blake said grimly. ‘Not all judges are, either. I don’t believe my father killed my mother, but he’s taken bribes recently. I heard my parents fighting about it, right before Mom . . .’ Voice breaking, he looked away. ‘Fuck.’
Thorne wished he had words to give the kid. But he didn’t, so he focused on priorities. He disarmed Brickman and tucked the gun into the back of his own waistband, then patted the cop down, finding Brickman’s phone.
Yes. He dialed Joseph, relieved when the man answered on the first ring. ‘Carter,’ Joseph said briskly.
Thorne’s throat grew abruptly thick, surprising him. ‘It’s Thorne.’
‘Thorne? Where are you?’ Joseph demanded.
‘I don’t know. On a boat somewhere.’ Thorne looked at the kid. ‘Do you know where we are?’
Blake shook his head. ‘No. I was pretty groggy when we got here. But it wasn’t far from my house, I don’t think.’
‘Who’s with you?’ Joseph asked.
‘The Segal kid. Blake. He’s okay. So am I.’
‘That makes sense. His father hasn’t said a word, even though we’ve pulled compelling evidence from his home and office.’
Thorne hesitated, then spoke his mind, because Blake was eighteen and not really a kid. ‘They didn’t blindfold Blake. See if that makes a difference to the judge.’
‘I will. Um, what about Gwyn?’
‘She got away. She’s swimming for shore.’ I hope. God, please let her be okay. ‘Brickman’s here. I’ve cuffed and gagged him. This is his phone.’
‘Good. I’ll stay with you. Don’t hang up. We’re going to trace the call.’
‘I won’t.’ He wished Gwyn were here. She was the only one who’d been conscious enough to pay attention to their surroundings. ‘We’re going to try to get the hell out of here,’ he said, to both Joseph and Blake. ‘We’re in some kind of torture room and I don’t want to wait for Tavilla to arrive.’
‘Especially since he didn’t have Blake Segal blindfolded,’ Joseph agreed. ‘Just be careful, Thorne.’
‘I will.’ He met Blake’s eyes, saw him square his shoulders. ‘Can you swim?’
‘Yes. But there’s no way we’re fitting through that porthole.’
Thorne almost laughed. ‘We’re going to make a break for the deck. Run like hell, jump off the boat and swim for shore. I’ll be right behind you, but I’m a bigger target.’ And I’m not wearing Kevlar anymore, he realized. It must have been removed in the van, when he was still unconscious. ‘If they get me, you keep going. Got it?’
‘Got it.’ Blake hesitated. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re a victim of all this, same as me. I want both of us out of here alive.’
A loud banging on the door had them both jumping.
‘Fuck, Dickman,’ a man’s voice thundered from the other side. ‘Open the damn door. You’ve got the motherfucking key.’
Trusting Joseph not to speak, Thorne put Brickman’s phone on speaker and shoved it in the pocket of his trousers, then pointed Blake to his corner. If Brickman didn’t say anything, the guy outside the door would get suspicious and call for reinforcements.
Not even wanting to try imitating Brickman’s whiny voice, Thorne gripped the hunting knife, opened the door, and yanked the man inside. He got a chance to yell once before Thorne plunged the knife into his throat. He was gurgling blood before he hit the ground.
Thorne stared at him for a long minute, frozen, horrified at what he’d done. He’d taken martial arts, he knew how to fight, he’d seen enough street fights, both on video and reconstructed, as part of defending his clients . . . But this was real. I did this.
Then he was crying out as pain seared into his back, through his gut. His hand reached back and felt the slim hilt of a knife. Felt the blood already soaking his shirt. Felt the barrel of Brickman’s gun slipping from his waistband.
Motherfucking sonofabitch.
He turned to find a smiling Cesar Tavilla, Brickman’s gun in his hand. ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Thorne. I’ve been expecting you.’
Twenty-eight
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.