The Perfect Victim

by Linda Castillo

  Addison thought she'd been prepared. A half dozen plans of escape and rescue played out in the back of her mind. Randall bursting through the door, backed up by a hundred of D.C.'s finest. An FBI helicopter hovering overhead, a federal agent speaking into a bullhorn for Tate to give himself up. She even envisioned herself making a break for freedom, reaching the upper deck just as a Coast Guard cutter happened by.

  Instead, Tate's bodyguard descended the curving staircase.

  Terror paralyzed her when she spotted the zip tie handcuffs that hung loosely from his right hand. The bodyguard looked at Tate. Tate nodded brusquely.

  Blood pounded in her ears, deafening her. Her throat constricted, smothering a scream. For an instant she imagined the freezing water of the Atlantic closing over her. She imagined the darkness, the helplessness of being bound, the horror of being thrown into the icy abyss.

  The bodyguard started toward her.

  Addison dropped her hand to the waistband of her slacks. She felt the pointed tip of the scissors beneath her sweating palm. Her hands were shaking so badly she wasn't sure she could grip them, let alone use them to protect herself. But she'd run out of options. These two men were going to kill her in the most horrible way. Her only chance was to fight back.

  The bodyguard reached out and gripped her left forearm. "Turn around."

  Heart pounding, Addison yanked the scissors from her waistband. Spinning, she drew back and slashed. She put every ounce of strength she had behind her arm. A scream tore from her throat as the scissors sank into his throat.

  His hands flailed. She slashed again. The man shrieked as the blades cut the side of his face. "You bitch!"

  The sheer force of her attack knocked the scissors from her hand. As if in slow motion she watched them glide to the carpet. She looked up. The bodyguard's eyes found hers. A thin line of blood trickled from his cheek, making him look wild and dangerous. Knowing she had but a second to flee, she sprinted toward the staircase.

  Two strides, and he tackled her. His aims wrapped around her hips. Addison went down hard. She writhed, lashing out with her legs. He bent, gripped her arm. She screamed as she was jerked to her feet.

  "I'm going to enjoy hurting you," he sneered, forcing her back to the salon.

  She wanted to defy him, but the fear numbed her so thoroughly she couldn't speak. In the salon, Tate stood in the center of the room, gripping the crystal tumbler with white-knuckled hands.

  The bodyguard pushed her to her knees. "Get down."

  Addison fought him. She cursed him. But she wasn't strong enough. Her hands were jerked behind her back. The nylon cuffs locked around her wrists and snapped into place. With his foot, he shoved her forward. Bound, helpless, Addison fell onto her stomach hard enough to take her breath.

  For a moment, she couldn't breathe. She imagined the cold water closing in around her. The blackness. Panic dug into her. She struggled against the constraints. The nylon cut into her wrists, but she was numb to the pain. She tried to roll over, but a foot planted squarely at the small of her back pressed her down. She lay there breathing hard, unable to move, like a beaten animal about to face slaughter.

  The two men were talking, but she couldn't understand their words or phrases. The voices were merely babel as her mind rebelled against what would happen next. In a few short hours she would be dead. Terror sparked and twisted inside her. She thought of Randall and her heart shattered. So much lost, she thought, and a sob rose from deep within her.

  Aching with loss, Addison closed her eyes, wondering if she should have taken that sip of cognac.

  Chapter 27

  Randall parked in the marina’s lot, threw the door open, and left the truck at a lurching run. He'd known his tolerance for pain was high, but never imagined he could keep going when the agony snapped through his body like lightning and exploded like fire in his brain. He couldn't function much longer. He was in no condition for a physical confrontation. He doubted he'd be effective if he had to use the Beretta. His only hope was that the police had arrived before him.

  But he knew the local PD would need indisputable proof before making a move on a man of Tate's political stature.

  Tate was a powerful man with ties to all levels of government. He was certainly capable of ruining anyone who crossed him.

  Randall knew fully it could be morning before they sent a squad car to check out the Anastasia. Days before they picked up Tate for questioning. By then it would be too late for Addison. He wasn't willing to take the chance.

  To hell with going by the book. To hell with bureaucracy. He was starkly aware that he was functioning on gut instinct. The fear that he could be wrong never left him. But if he'd learned anything in the last thirty-eight years, it was to trust his instincts.

  Crossing the parking lot, he headed toward the docks. Tall, naked masts rose into the brisk night air, the rigging lines slapping hollowly in the wind. The smells of dead fish and diesel fuel hung in the air like a cloud.

  Lights from the marina restaurant shone off to his left. Beneath the arched portico, a young valet huddled against the cold, waiting for his shift to end. An older couple, the woman clad in animal fur, the man sucking on a cigar, waited for their car.

  Sticking to the shadows, Randall lumbered to the water's edge. The marina was well lit, with sodium-vapor lamps situated at intervals along each of the dozen or so floating concrete docks. Half the slips were without security. A few were empty. Most of the smaller vessels had been put into dry storage for the winter months.

  Tate would have security. He wouldn't have brought Addison here without absolute privacy. Randall headed toward the secure docks. A small, weathered structure the size of a walk-in closet served as the security guard's post. Inside, a young, uniformed man ate his dinner, his eyes glued to a small television. It would be impossible to climb over the six-foot chain-link gate without attracting the guard's attention, Randall walked to the window and knocked on the glass.

  The security guard started, then slid open the window. "Can I help you?"

  He was young, perhaps just out of college. Law enforcement type, Randall thought, hoping the kid was smart enough to know when to look the other way. He pulled his I.D. From his wallet and flashed it. "Where's the Anastasia?"

  The kid's eyes narrowed at the identification. "You a private dick?"

  "No, I'm just a dick. Now, where the fuck is the Anastasia?"

  "Uh, dock four." He motioned in the general direction of the secured dock area. "You got a key?"

  "I need you to let me in."

  "That's a secure area, sir."

  "Give me your key. I'll let myself in."

  "I can't do that. Would you step away from the window, sir?"

  Randall faced the wind, let it wash over his face to clear his head. Despite the chill, he was perspiring. The pain radiated through his torso, edging over to his spine, between his shoulder blades.

  The kid was still spewing excuses when, in the distance, Randall heard the groan of a starter and the low rumble of a marine engine. He froze, cocking his head to listen.

  “Who's scheduled to go out tonight?" he asked.

  "Crew's taking the Anastasia down to Lauderdale."

  "Dammit," Randall hadn't wanted to involve the kid. Knowing he had no choice, he drew the Beretta and leveled it at the young man's face.

  The kid's mouth flew open, his tongue flailing for an instant before he found his voice. "What the hell—" Frightened blue eyes jerked to the telephone on his makeshift desk.

  "Don't even think about it." Randall shifted the barrel six inches, squeezed off a shot. The telephone exploded on impact.

  The kid's hands shot up in the air. "Do whatever the hell you want, man! We don't keep money out here!"

  "Get your ass out here."

  The security guard's hands trembled so violently, it took him several tries to open the door.

  "What time is the Anastasia scheduled to leave?" Randall asked.

  "Midnight."
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  He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. "Who's onboard?"

  "I don't know. My shift started at eleven." The kid licked his lips. "Look mister, I got five bucks—"

  "Shut up and give me the key to that goddamned gate."

  The kid unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and held them out with a quaking fist.

  Snatching the keys from him, Randall removed his I.D. from his wallet along with Van-Dyne's card and pressed both into the kid's hand. "Now, listen carefully. I want you to run up to the restaurant and call the cops." In the distance, the engines rumbled ominously. "Give my I.D. to whoever's in charge. Tell them to contact Detective Adam Van-Dyne in Denver. It's a matter of life and death for a young woman onboard that boat. Go." The kid backed away, then took off running. Randall ran to the gate and attacked the lock. Once through, he fell into a broken lope, checking the names painted onto the transoms of each vessel he passed.

  He was halfway to the end of the dock when he heard the pitch of the engines change. The rpms revved. The boat was pulling out.

  Panic struck him like a sledgehammer. At a dead run, he watched as an immense President 830 yacht pulled slowly away from the marina. From twenty yards away, he made out the Arabic lettering—Anastasia.

  Chapter 28

  He was too late.

  Randall stood at the end of the dock, gasping for breath, and watched the boat pull away. "No!" he bellowed.

  Tate was going to kill her.

  Helplessly, he backtracked, staggering down the dock, uncertain of his next move. Around him, the night wind had picked up. The boats moved restlessly against their moorings. Nylon ropes groaned against steel cleats. Waves slapped against concrete piers.

  A man was examining the gate Randall had left open, obviously perturbed. He straightened and watched Randall approach. "Are you the idiot who left the gate open? Anyone could have just walked in. I don't know about you, buddy, but I don't want some lowlife waltzing in here to take my boat."

  Take my boat.

  "Which one is yours?" Randall heard himself ask.

  The man cocked his bald head. "Little Bertram up front. I was just coming out to check on her. What the hell were you thinking, man?"

  "Guess I wasn't." Randall smelled alcohol on the man's breath. He must have just come from the .marina restaurant. His only thought was that this drunken man would be easy to overpower. "Do you leave your boat out here all winter?" he asked.

  "Till Christmas. Then the wife and I take her down to Hilton Head. Damn Lauderdale's full of hop heads. Miami's full of Cubans. Just can't win, you know?"

  "What's the world coming to?" Randall fell in beside him, eyeing the boats they passed, watching the man's hands. "So she's fueled and ready to go?”

  "We're leaving this weekend so long as the weather holds. She needs some minor engine work. Damn mechanic here at the marina's a real asshole. Rebuilt one of the engines—took him two months and then he tries to charge me three grand. I told him to stick it tip his ass."

  Anxious to get a look at the boat, Randall walked faster. "Thanks for the warning."

  . The bald man stopped in front of an old, sleek-looking Bertram. "There she is. All forty-four feet of her."

  "Nice-looking boat. Got your keys with you?"

  Alarm entered the man's eyes. "Look, buddy, I don't want no trouble."

  Randall eyed the Bertram, spotting the flotation key chain dangling from the ignition. Heart hammering, he swung around and punched the man in the jaw.

  The man's head snapped back. He raised his hands to protect himself. "What the hell! Hey!"

  Gritting his teeth in pain, Randall shoved him into the water. He'd already reached the deck of The Pulpit when the sound of the splash reached him. He darted to the control console and turned the first of two ignition keys, silently thanking God when the starboard engine roared to life. The port engine grumbled, coughed like a sick cow and then turned over. With the engines purring, he untied the moorings.

  Randall didn't know much about the big vessels, but he'd been onboard plenty of smaller boats and was mechanically inclined enough to find the port and starboard throttles and clutches. Flipping on the lights, he checked the bilge and fuel alarms. Gripping the throttle with his right hand, he jammed it forward.

  The boat quivered as the transmission jerked into gear. For an instant, the Bertram drifted. The engines whined. He checked the double tachometers. The stern bumped a nearby sailboat's taffrail. He spun the wheel. The big boat quivered, as if she'd been struck by a wave. With a recklessness he hadn't known existed inside him, he maneuvered the boat from its slip. Ignoring the No Wake sign, he pressed the throttle forward as far as it would go. The old Bertram jumped forward, its hull slicing through the black water with the grace of a racing boat.

  The logical side of him knew better than to attempt to navigate the inland waters at such a high rate of speed. He didn't know depths or direction. He didn't have a nautical map. But the darker side of him scoffed at the notion of logic.

  Finding the Anastasia would be nothing short of a miracle. The intracoastal waterway and the massive expanse of Chesapeake Bay were nearly as boundless as the ocean itself. The shores were chock full of undeveloped inlets, shipyards, marinas, and livers. It was too much territory for one man to cover. He needed help, but there was no one left to help him.

  He'd broken too many laws to count in the last several hours to expect any help from the local police. The detective investigating the shooting back at the restaurant had expected him at the hospital hours ago. He'd threatened a paramedic. He'd broken into Clint's apartment and tampered with evidence. Christ, he'd stolen a boat at gunpoint.

  They're taking Addison out to sea, Talbot.

  Terror twisted inside him. He should have known better than to take her out of the hotel. He should have been able to protect her. Guilt pounded at him.

  Determined to stay in control, Randall closed his eyes and let the cold, heavy air wash over his face. It wouldn't do her any good for him to lose it now. All he could do was keep up the search and hope for a lucky break.

  He squinted into the darkness. Ahead, the lights of the Francis Scott Key Bridge spanned the Patapsco River. The boat shifted slightly as it entered the river's current. Turning the wheel sharply, he headed out into the bay.

  On the horizon, two tiny specks of light shone like stars against the night sky. Too near to be land. Half expecting them to disappear like a mirage, Randall kept his eyes trained on the lights. As he drew closer, he realized they were the lights of a large vessel heading due south.

  He adjusted the wheel and set a direct course for what he prayed was the Anastasia.

  * * *

  Inside the pilot house, Garrison Tate marveled at the sheer beauty of the machinery his power afforded him, the breadth and width of the power he possessed touched him with an intensity that was almost sexual.

  "How far are we from open ocean?" he asked, running his hand over the ergonomic instrument panel.

  Kyle looked away from the darkened windshield and met his gaze. "Depending on the bridges and traffic, three or four hours."

  "How's the surf?"

  "Two to four feet. We picked a good night."

  Tate nodded and let his gaze travel beyond the glass. "You'll need to drop me in Annapolis."

  The other man nodded and continued to stare out into the abyss spread out before them.

  Tate checked the Rolex strapped to his wrist and thought of the young woman belowdecks. Bringing her to the yacht had been a calculated risk. But he wasn't sorry for it. He'd enjoyed meeting her even more than he'd anticipated. A flicker of satisfaction settled over him. Yes, he thought, she was everything he'd expected. Beautiful. Intelligent. A compelling young woman with a lovely spirit and a sort of feminine cunning that shone bright behind the dark eyes she'd inherited from her mother.

  But it was obvious Addison Fox was not the offspring of a dirt-poor high school dropout from Siloam Springs, Ohio. No, she'd defini
tely inherited his finer genes. She handled herself well in the face of adversity. Had the circumstances been different, he would have liked to know her better. As it was, he would be nothing but relieved once this nasty business was done.

  He felt no real connection to her. The sight of her hadn't moved him or touched him in ways he'd imagined, in ways he'd feared. She was the only offspring he would ever produce. For reasons he wasn't quite sure he understood, or wanted to admit, he had become obsessed with meeting her in the last few days. Tonight; as he'd gazed into her eyes for the first time, he'd spent several desperate seconds searching for traces of himself.