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And not only had Mackie identified her staked out on the street, she’d also made her as a broken woman, a woman she had trumped.
Cindy’s nose smarted and tears welled up. She grabbed a tissue and pressed it to her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
But she cried anyway.
When she got hold of herself, Cindy left her office and made it to the ladies’ room without anyone seeing her. She washed her face and put on fresh makeup. Then she went back to her desk with a newborn and promising idea.
She hit the reply key and typed a return e-mail to Morales.
Subject heading: “Mackie’s back in town.”
Hi, Mackie,
I wasn’t sure where you were, so thanks for letting me know. Let’s meet. No tricks. I have a big idea to discuss with you.
Cindy
Before she could change her mind, Cindy hit the send key.
There. Done. She hoped she would hear back from Mackie very soon. If Mackie would meet with her, she might get her interview, and Mackie might get the kind of notoriety she might actually crave.
Her computer pinged.
There was mail in her inbox marked undeliverable. It was the message that she had just sent to Morales. Morales must have written to her from public internet access or a boost phone, so Cindy’s sketchy connection to her no longer existed.
Cindy exhaled a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
Morales had made her, cut her, dropped her, and every bit of that hurt like a hot poker had been thrust through her heart.
What are you going to do now, Cindy?
What are you going to do?
CHAPTER 54
YUKI HAD BEEN huddling against a bulkhead on the Pool Deck for a long time, terrified for Brady, having no sense of what these terrorists wanted in exchange for releasing the passengers of the FinStar.
And if they didn’t get what they wanted, what then?
Start shooting?
Blow up the ship?
She was very aware that she was wearing a see-through nightgown under the short ship-provided terry-cloth robe. She tucked the hem of the robe under and around her, then interlaced her fingers in front of her life preserver as if it could actually save her life.
These were the questions going around and around in her head on an endless loop: Where was Brady? Had they done something to him?
About six hours before, Yuki had been savagely woken by an unimaginably loud air-cracking boom. Her bed had pitched sideways, throwing her to the floor.
She had grabbed the floor as the ship rolled in the other direction, and she had fallen head-first hard against the bed frame. She’d screamed, “Brady! What’s happening?”
Glass crashed and doors swung open and slammed closed while the echo of the concussion rumbled long and low below her and the ship rolled again. Light flashed where light should not be—outside the windows, below their balcony.
Yuki got to her knees, grabbed the side of the bed, and pulled herself to her feet. Although the bed had been tumbled, Brady’s side of it was still neatly made.
She turned to the bathroom and screamed “Brady!” expecting him to come out, saying, “What the hell?” or “Get down!”
But he hadn’t been there.
