Page 67 of Nothing to Fear

Duct tape was slapped on her mouth, flex-cuffs around her wrists, a hood thrown over her head, and she was tossed into the van.

It took four seconds to bag her. Pathetic.

27

Atlantic Ocean

Saturday, July 6, 11:20 p.m. EDT

Gideon stirred, lying on the bench near the glass doors. The haze of sleep shrouding his brain cleared. Rain pelting the boat sounded like gunfire.

He longed to stretch his cramped legs and opened his eyes.

A bolt of lightning cracked the night. Choppy waves rocked the boat, almost sending him sliding out of the booth if not for the table in the way.

A loud thud came from the bedroom. He assumed it was Willow hitting the floor.

He sat up and pushed out from the seat. The rain hammered the vessel, and the wind had picked up.

“We must have sailed into a storm,” she said, coming out into the cabin, wearing one of his T-shirts and a long sweater.

It had started raining before he dozed off, but nothing more than a drizzle. “I think it’s worse than a storm. Wait here.” Gideon went out onto the deck.

Ominous clouds rolled across an angry, dark sky. Lightning flickered, and thunder roared on cue. Conditions had flipped from rainy to perilous while he slept. The tropical storm must’ve changed course and grown into a full-blown hurricane.

Willow slid the deck door open and came out into the rain.

“Go back below,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Neither should you.”

“This isn’t good.” He wasn’t an experienced helmsman or sailor or whatever the heck you called a boating expert, but he’d driven Knox’s houseboat a few times and picked up tips.

They were close to the shore of some barrier islands on the leeward side of the boat, which was dangerous. The gale could drive them onto land and wreck them. They had to get out of the teeth of the storm and needed sea room—a safe distance from anything they might crash into like the coastline. First, he needed to turn the bow into the waves to keep a swell from striking the side of the hull and capsizing the boat.

He steered Willow inside the cabin and handed her the life jacket from the locker. “Put it on.”

While she donned the yellow vest, he started the engine, cranked the wheel over to point the bow in the correct direction, and shifted into forward.

The boat jerked violently against the waves, the stern fishtailing. He throttled up, accelerating, but the vessel only pitched, refusing to move, as if the hull was caught on something.

Earlier, they’d been far enough out to sea that it would’ve been pointless to drop anchor since it wouldn’t have landed on the bottom. He had no clue why they weren’t moving.

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

Taking in a deep lungful, he detected the faintest scent of smoke and burnt oil. She had a very sensitive nose.

He killed the motor. “It’s the engine. I need to see what we’re hung up on.” He met her wide, panicked eyes. “Stay here.”

He slid the door open, bracing to go back out into the deluge. Driving rain whipped him. Grasping the handrail, he pulled himself toward the bow, checking over the side along the way. Strong gusts dragged at him, and he fought to keep his balance on the slick deck.

At the front of the cruiser, he checked the anchor. The chain stopper had broken off, unlocking the anchor. The storm had carried them close enough to shore for it to hook into the bottom. He pressed the button to reel in the anchor and waited for the distinct grumbling sound that never came. The boat dipped and rose with the waves.

A clinking sliced through the roar of the wind. The anchor was stuck.

He’d have to cut the nylon line to free the boat.

As he made his way back to the rear to get his bowie knife, the yacht did a wicked roll, going from thirty degrees heeled over one side to swing thirty degrees the other way within seconds.