Page 10 of Missile Strike

Heart tripping, blood pounding in her ears, Isabella gripped the handrail as memories from the past bullied their way forward.

The oppressive daytime heat.

The frigid nights.

Every sound a promise of rescue.

Or death.

A cool ocean breeze brushed her bare skin, yanking her back from her childhood nightmare to her present one.

They’d reached the main deck, the sun sitting low in the western sky, the lengthening shadows bathing the white surfaces of the deck in a soft golden light.

In the distance, the jagged peak of Mount Zeus reached for the heavens, and from the direction of Paros, where they’d come from, Mount Prophet Elias. The air was crisp, with a hint of brine.

Her mother ran to where her father and brother stood at the bow of the ship in their golf shirts and shorts, their hands tied behind their backs. Annalise went over to Rory.

Isabella joined her parents.

All five of the terrorists had changed into black pants and long-sleeved black shirts. They spoke in what sounded like Arabic, their faces covered with black scarves.

All armed.

The one in charge slung some sort of rifle over his shoulder and began to assemble a tripod and video camera.

“Stay strong,” her father said in hushed tones. “Someone will find you.”

Isabella gave him a weak nod, her gaze shying away from the apology and regret swamping his brown eyes.

“It is time,” one of the masked men spoke.

“No.” Her mother clung to her father.

Isabella’s expression mirrored her mother’s as tears streamed down her face, blurring the world around her. Annalise wailed as Rory spoke to her in a low, urgent tone.

With a gentle but firm grip, her father tugged his wife’s hands from around his shoulders. “Take care of each other.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “Don’t watch.”

Their escort from below deck herded Isabella, her mother, and Annalise to the padded benches on the left side of the bow. “Sit.”

He leveled his weapon at them and stood, his attention divided between them and the terrorist leader, now standing in front of the video camera.

Her father and brother were forced to kneel, three gunmen flanking them.

A rhythmic knocking came from the back of the boat, as if something had broken loose and tapped the hull with each swell of the sea.

The lead terrorist frowned, spitting out what sounded like a command.

Beside Isabella’s brother, the gunman gave a curt nod and left.

Annalise sobbed. Isabella’s mother’s lips moved in silent prayer.

Isabella repeated her father’s command. “Don’t look.”

She, however, couldn’t tear her gaze away from her father and brother. Helplessness swamped her, just as it had when she was twelve and at the mercy of another man hellbent on revenge.

She fought to hold on to the tattered edges of her control.

The leader began to speak to the camera.