Perfect Victim, The (57 page)

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
l
oss
,
Add
i
son closed her eyes, wondering if she shou
l
d 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."

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
f
ist
.

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.