“The victim,” the announcer intoned in a sonorous voice, “is using all his energy and oxygen just to keep his mouth above water. As is common in these types of cases, he appears to be climbing an invisible ladder. He doesn’t have enough air to call out. He doesn’t have enough energy to swim toward shore or to wave for help. All he has is less than a minute before he goes under—for good. The last thing that will happen is he will lose consciousness and make a final effort to breathe. This is known as the terminal gasp. Water will then move passively into the airways. Death will follow.”
That documentary had featured prominently in Mia’s nightmares for months.
Now she was living it.
If only something would float by that she could cling to. Wasn’t the ocean supposed to be filled with garbage? Where was some when she needed it?
If only she had a life vest.
Although
that’s stupid
, she berated herself.
Why
not
wish
for
a
helicopter
with
a
guy
from
the
Coast
Guard
in
the
basket?
Her arms and legs were even slower now, and not by her choice. Slower and heavier. Heavy as lead yet limp as noodles. She told herself she was conserving energy.
What good had jumping off the yacht done her? No good at all. She was alone in the middle of Puget Sound. Pretty soon she would
stop being able to tread water and she would die here. Would it be a calm death? she wondered. The way Vin had half promised? Or would she be panicking to the last, even if she was too weak to show it?
Maybe when the end came, it would be easy to let go. To take that last breath.
Then she pictured Gabe’s face. The face he wore when he forgot that he was supposed to be a surly teenager. Forgot that he was supposed to be the man of the house. When he showed that he was what he was—still a boy, a boy mourning his father. A boy who needed a steady adult to guide him.
And Brooke? She was only four. Scott had almost faded from her memory. Mia certainly hadn’t had enough time to shape her, to teach her, to love her.
She had to figure out a way to live. If she could make it to sunrise, maybe someone would venture out, a fishing boat or even a pleasure craft, and spot her. She thought longingly again of life jackets. Remembered the last time she had flown, the flight attendants going through their spiel about slipping the vest on over the head and blowing into the tubes on either side.
And that gave Mia an idea. Her raincoat! She shrugged out of it, her head dipping below the water each time she pulled an arm free. She knotted the two sleeves at the end, then managed, after a long period of fumbling with stiff fingers, to refasten the zipper and pull it all the way up. As if it were a life jacket, she stuck her head between the tied together sleeves, with the knot resting against the back of her neck. Then she took the bottom edge of the coat and spread it open with her hands. She lifted it high overhead, legs still kicking, and slammed it down toward the water, bagging air.
It worked! The body of the coat was swollen with air. She laughed in triumph. She had done it. She had created a makeshift life vest. Holding the bottom of the coat tightly closed, she let herself rest on top of the air trapped inside.
Only then did she realize that her toes were going numb from the cold.
Mia wasn’t going to die from drowning. She was going to die from hypothermia.
S
taring after the yacht, Charlie berated himself. He had come too late. He had come too late and now Mia was in the hands of killers and he had no way to follow her. His voice tight with urgency, he radioed dispatch. “Tell Harbor Patrol I need that unit to meet me on the northernmost pier. We have an active kidnapping situation.”
He was still releasing his thumb from the button when he heard footsteps pounding toward him. Sucking in a breath, he pivoted while grabbing for his gun. A man was running toward him, swinging a long metal boat hook.
Charlie was aiming for center of mass when he realized who it was. Eli Hall. He let his arm fall by his side. Panting, Eli dropped the hook. Then he leaned down and braced his hands on his knees.
“You’re too late,” Charlie said. “They’re gone.” He gestured at the sleek white yacht, which was speeding out of the harbor. “And they’ve got Mia.”
“You’re the one who told me to keep back,” Eli said between gasps. “By the time I got here that guy was marching her down the ramp and into the yacht that used to be here. I went to find
something to use as a weapon.” He lifted his head to glare at Charlie. “If I hadn’t listened to you, I might have made a difference.”
“You also might have got Mia killed,” Charlie said. Then he realized how stupid it was to stand here arguing. “Did you get a name or a number off the yacht?”
Eli shook his head. “I didn’t get close enough.”
They both turned at the sound of the Harbor Patrol. It was a sleek aluminum craft, the high bow cutting through the waves, the word POLICE written on the side in four-foot-tall black letters. It entered the far side of the harbor and raced toward them, sirens sounding and lights blazing. As it got closer, Charlie could see two cops on board.
Instead of stepping back, Eli was sticking right next to Charlie. Acting as if he had become part of things. Charlie shook his head. “Oh no. You’re staying here.”
“No, I’m not.” Eli was just as adamant. “And you don’t have any time to argue with me. We don’t have time to do anything but go after her.”
Charlie’s only answer was a growl, but Eli was right. There wasn’t any time to waste.
The cop at the helm, a tall black guy, cut the motor and expertly glided in next to the end of the pier. The other cop, a redhead with masses of freckles, leaned forward to offer Charlie a hand.
“Charlie Carlson, Homicide,” Charlie said as he clambered aboard with Eli right on his heels. Eli even introduced himself as if he were central to the process. The first cop was named Johnny Crashaw and the second Gordon Ploughman. The four of them moved into the bow of the boat. Charlie pointed out across the water. “A yacht just left here. There’s a hostage on board. She’s a King County prosecutor. And there are two suspects with her. Maybe more.”
“And at least one of them is armed,” Eli added.
“Who is this guy exactly?” Gordon asked Charlie with a frown, staring at Eli.
“Eli Hall. He’s a witness,” Charlie said. What Eli really was, was a nuisance.
Eli said, “I’m also the hostage’s boyfriend.”
“What?” Charlie jerked his head around. Was Eli serious? There hadn’t been any hint of a relationship between them when they interviewed Jackson. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. There was no time to think about what Eli had just said, or about why his own first reaction had been jealousy. For right now, he had to keep his feelings about Mia compartmentalized or he wouldn’t be any good to anyone.
They were now out of the harbor and in the open water of the sound. The boat skipped over the waves, the powerful engines thrumming.
Charlie squinted. “There it is.” The police boat was so fast it made the yacht look like it was standing still. Then he realized it really was. Two men were standing on the back deck, but Charlie didn’t see Mia, and the portholes were too small to reveal anything.
He was so focused on finding Mia that at first he didn’t notice that the two men on the yacht both had guns in their hands. At the sound of the Harbor Patrol’s approach, they turned and began firing.
“Get down!” Gordon yelled at Eli. While Charlie and Gordon drew their guns, Eli dropped to his knees and scuttled into the cabin, where Johnny was grabbing a handheld microphone.
“This is the Seattle Police,” Johnny said. His words were broadcast a split second later. “Come out with your hands up.”
Instead, the two men on the yacht—Charlie could see now that one of them was Turner—opened the door and both of them ran down into the yacht’s main living quarters.
They were alongside the other craft now. Johnny cut the engines and ran out on deck. All three of them had their guns drawn.
Where was Mia? Charlie was frantic with worry. Was she tied up inside the boat? Had they hurt her? He moved into the bow and leaned closer to the yacht, squinting as the Harbor Patrol boat
bobbed up and down. Through a porthole he saw movement, but it was too hard to tell what he was seeing. He just prayed that she was still alive.
He looked down. Their bow was right next to the yacht’s back deck, which was about the same size as his bathroom at home and had cement blocks stacked in one corner. The waves were two or three feet high, maybe more. That meant the two decks were moving as much as six feet up and down from each other.
Even if Charlie had been a twenty-two-year-old Olympic athlete, the idea of trying to land on the yacht was ridiculous.
He took a deep breath.
And then he stepped over the rail, bent his knees, and jumped.
I
t was clear to Vin that things were going south in a hurry. He and Oleg stood in the yacht’s tiny living area, staring at each other. Blindingly bright beams of light from the police boat cut through the portholes. Outside, orders blared, telling them to cut their engines. Telling them to come out with their hands up.
Where there was one unit of Harbor Patrol you could bet there would soon be more. Eventually with the addition of the Coast Guard and Homeland Security. It wouldn’t be long until they were surrounded. Any opportunity to escape was quickly slipping away. But Oleg seemed rooted to the spot.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Vin yelled at him.
Oleg shook his head and muttered to himself in Russian. Vin wanted to shake him. If Vin just knew how to drive this stupid boat, they would have been long gone by now.
They both jumped as something heavy landed on the aft deck, shaking the whole yacht. What had the cops tossed on board? Some kind of anchor? A flash-bang grenade to temporarily disable them?
But then the door at the top of the stairs opened and Vin realized it had been a person. All he could see was a black shadow silhouetted
against the bright lights. Moving to put Oleg’s bulk between himself and the intruder, Vin raised his gun and fired. Oleg did as well.
The small space of the cabin rang with the sound of multiple gunshots.
Oleg screamed like a girl and crumpled to the floor. The cop tumbled down the stairs and then landed half on and half off a suede banquette. Blood was gushing from his face, and his right arm was twisted at an odd angle.
Neither the cop nor Oleg was moving.
Vin ran for the controls. There were dozens of dials, sliders, switches, and what looked like gearshift handles. The only thing he was sure how to operate was the metal steering wheel. He set down his gun. The engines were still thrumming, but he needed to make the boat go forward. Desperately he began to shove and push at the levers. If he could just get back on land, he might still stand a chance. He didn’t care if he ran this stupid thing up onto the rocks and tore off the bottom. He just had to turn tail and get out of there while there was still time.
But instead of revving, the engines abruptly cut off with a clunk that he felt as much as heard.
No!
He was not going to be trapped in here. He was not going to die in a space hardly bigger than a prison cell.
Vin ran out onto the deck, his eyes nearly closed against the blinding light, not paying any attention to the amplified commands being shouted at him.
Someone punched him in the shoulder. Vin spun around to see who it was. But no one was there. His arms pinwheeled as he lost his balance. As he fell back off the deck, he only had eyes for the neat round hole in his chest.
The water closed over his face before Vin even had a chance to be surprised.
G
et inside,” Gordon had shouted at Eli when the two men on the yacht started firing. “And get down!”
On his own, Eli had already decided that this was a great idea. This realization had coincided with everyone else’s guns coming out. The last time Eli had spent any real time with a weapon was basic training. Now he realized that fieldstripping a gun and firing at a paper target was no preparation for having someone earnestly trying to kill you. He just prayed that Mia was out of range of the guns. Out of range and safe.
He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through the door to the boat’s cabin, flinching each time he heard a bullet whine by. The cockpit seemed like it would offer the most protection, so he huddled as close to it as he could.
A screen next to him drew his eye. The display was made up of different shades of gray. It reminded him of looking at ultrasound pictures when Lydia was pregnant with Rachel. At first you had no idea what you were seeing. And then the lines and curves and shadows resolved and you realized you were looking at a baby on its back, curled up like a shrimp.
Only in this case, what Eli was seeing was . . . was what? Something out on the water. A bright white oval floating above a dark gray background. Two lighter gray lines on either side of it moved slowly back and forth. They were longer and paler, appearing insubstantial when compared to the nearly white oval.
It was like watching a video of a ghost. But what it was, Eli realized, was a real live person. A person as seen through some kind of thermal imager. Judging by levels of brightness, the person’s head was still warm, the arms less so. No wonder, given that their owner was floating in the Puget Sound in November.
And that person must be Mia. If Eli’s guess was right, she wasn’t on the yacht at all. She was in the water on the other side of the Harbor Patrol boat. He squinted. Was she clinging to something? As he watched, the glowing oval drooped forward. And was it his imagination, or was the brightness slowly draining away from it? Eli’s heart contracted. Could he be watching Mia die?
He risked getting to his knees. Peering out over the cockpit, his eyes scanned the water.
There! On the left! That must be Mia, floating.
But now she seemed motionless. Was she even still alive?