His directions seem pretty clear to me, so I do exactly as he says.
He presses a button on a huge handset, puts it to my ear and a man answers, “Guard. How can I help you?”
As robotically as humanly possible, I read into what must be a sat phone. “Hi. My name is Samantha Sutcliffe. My husband is Sebastian. We are private investigators in New York City. I have run away from him. He is a wife beater and a terrible person. I am in hiding because I am pregnant and he wanted me to get an abortion so I ran away. Please do not let him find me. I am so scared.”
As he takes back the phone, my hope surges. No one in their right mind is going to believe that bullshit.
Without another word, the man at the helm pulls a cord, the outboard motor starts up, and we race across the sea. Soon, a pristine white wharf, lined with bright yellow ropes shines bright as day. Men in white uniforms exit a plantation-like building, jog down a hill, and wait at the edge of a wooden structure.
When the deafening engine stops, my ears ring, and we drift to a stop. At the dock, two dark men grab me under my tethered arms, and lift me out. My legs, numb from sitting so long, give way so they help me along the palm-tree lined path toward the manor.
Perfectly coiffed hedges in front of the building are cut so evenly, not a single leaf rises above the rest. No grain of sand dares to appear on the paverstones under my bare feet. Over a shiny pink door, a sign welcomes me in pale blue script.Main Office.
From there, I’m marched through a lobby where a woman behind a desk smiles and points to the stairs. “Room six-oh-five.”
I pretend to be docile and frightened. Instead, like Suds taught me, I memorize every egress and entrance to later plan an escape.
Upstairs, the two release my wrists, press a button on the wall, and exit. The door locks with a solid click.
Chapter 14
Suds
Like in battle, I speed up or perhaps, the world slows down. Sensing the gunman behind the building, I dive to the flagstones. A bullet hits the side of the pool in front of my nose as I roll into the water.
With my ears ringing, I can’t make out what is shouted but my would-be killer does. He lowers his weapon and runs toward the front of the building. The water sucks me back as I brace my palm on the edge of the pool and hop out.
Those few seconds give the man the edge he needs. I race after him but, in the driveway, he hops in an accelerating van. The gate slams shut behind him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I climb the iron, jump to the street, and standing in the middle of the road wave down a dark pickup truck.
“Out.” I point my wet gun at a stunned, wide-eyed Bahamian.
He doesn’t move so I open the door and shove him out.
“Sorry.” Hopping into his warm seat, I shift, and tear down the street following Sam’s captors.
In about five hundred yards, I squeal around the corner. To my right and left, plywood shacks with tin roofs line the vast emptiness.
Dammit. I pick up my cell phone and nine-one-one answers on the fourth ring.
“Guard.”
“My wife was kidnapped. Her name is Samantha Russo, I mean Sutcliff. Please, hurry. Give me your URL and I’ll send you her picture.”
“Slow down, mister. Are you sure? Did you check around the house?”
Gawd almighty, I didn’t lose my fucking cat. My tone remains cool despite the fact I’m about to describe half the vehicles on the island. “She’s in ten-year-old, rusty, white Chevy van. No license plate.”
The man sighs heavily. “What’s your address. I’m on my way.”
After I give him all my information, he hangs up, and I call Slate. “Sam was taken.”
“How?” Considering all her self-defense lessons, I’ve been asking myself the same thing.
“I guess she didn’t want to risk harming the baby. Our baby.”
“Shit. I mean congrats. I’ll get a crew together.” He hangs up and without a doubt, he’ll be wheels up in less than an hour.
