Page 9 of Missile Strike

Isabella returned to the bed and took it, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. Annalise huddled into Janet’s other side, singing a quiet lullaby to the baby as he drifted off to sleep.

They stayed like that as the boat continued to its unknown destination and the sun drifted across the sky. Overhead, Isabella heard the rapid thrum of an approaching helicopter.

She lifted her head, her heartbeat accelerating. Maybe the Greek authorities were closing in on the yacht.

The drone of the rotor blades faded away, taking her brief spurt of optimism with it.

It was then she noticed the boat had stopped moving. The anchor dropped with a clang.

“Move, Isabella.”

Isabella took one look at the determination in her mother’s eyes and shifted aside to let her off the bed.

Janet Strickland’s fists pounded on the stateroom door. “I want to see my husband.”

No response.

The door wouldn’t budge. The terrorist had secured it somehow from the outside.

“Mom—”

More pounding.

This time footsteps clattered down the steps leading from the main deck, and the same captor who’d locked them in shoved open the door and raised his gun to her mother’s face.

“Shut up!” His finger slipped around the trigger. “You are expendable. If you don’t be quiet, I’ll shoot you.”

His slimy gaze roved over Annalise and Isabella, stopping to linger on Isabella’s shorts and tank top with a look that made her stomach knot.

She dropped her gaze and resisted the urge to curl her knees up to her chest.

Annalise whimpered as she curled her body over her child.

Janet paled but didn’t back down. “I’d like to pray with my husband before…” Her composure slipped.

The terrorist eyed her. Finally, he said, “You’ll have the chance to say prayers with him before his sentence is carried out.”

He turned, yanking the door shut behind him.

“Oh, God,” Annalise moaned. “Rory…”

“What do we do?” Isabella asked.

Her mother returned to sit next to them on the bed. “We pray.”

Thirty minutes later, more footsteps thumped down the stairs. The door flew open, and the man gestured with his gun.

“Come.” He’d changed from the jeans and long-sleeved shirt he’d been wearing earlier to black trousers and a black linen shirt.

Isabella’s stomach bottomed out.

This is it.

She locked trembling knees and stood, along with her mother.

Annalise followed, still clutching Brooks, who’d mercifully dropped off to sleep.

Each thud of her captor’s boots on the polished wooden steps echoed like a death knell.