by Meryl Sawyer
The Wrath spoke slowly as if he was a foreigner or a young child yet each word hit Ryan like a blow. It was exactly the way he’d analyzed the situation. “He was ready to blow her up. I can’t imagine why he’d allow her to live for long. That’s why I’ve got to find her.”
“Why’d he take her? Why not shoot her or something less risky?”
“We’ve had her surrounded, kept her whereabouts when she wasn’t at the store a secret. He had to take the chance.” But why? Ryan asked himself. Out of nowhere the answer came. “He’ll leave the body where it can be found. Hayley won’t simply disappear. They need to prove Hayley is dead or the estate will be tied up for years until the court declares her legally dead.”
“They?” The Wrath asked.
“This has to have something to do with her parents’ estate. Nothing else makes sense.”
If The Wrath knew about the estate or had an opinion, he didn’t voice it. Ryan didn’t have time to explain.
“Call the Sunseeker dealer. Give my name and pretend this is an official FBI call. Get a list of Sunseekers in the harbor in the forty-to seventy-foot range in case the boat-wash kid was off a few feet.”
The Wrath pulled out his cell phone while Ryan scanned the docks as they neared the tip of Lido Isle. Lots of yachts, but the only Sunseeker he saw was too small and there were two women sunbathing on it.
He gazed across the water at Bay Island. Now there was an exclusive address. The house on the point—considered to be the best view in the harbor—once belonged to Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans. It faced across the water toward where their old friend John Wayne had lived. Bay Island was unique because it didn’t allow cars. Access to the island was over a small bridge by foot or golf cart.
Ryan thought not having a garage with your home would be a pain, but there were over thirty homes on the island. Few of them changed hands and when they did they sold for millions. He scanned the docks he could see on this side of Bay Island. Lots of luxury yachts but no Sunseeker.
That figured. How would the killer get a body off Bay Island? On a golf cart that everyone could see? Not likely. The creep must have gone to one of the other islands…or something.
For a second, Ryan’s mind drifted to Hayley. He’d been enthralled by her face, but when he’d actually met her, Hayley’s smile captivated him. It ruled her other features and made her more attractive than photographs revealed. Her smile brightened her face, drawing attention away from a nose that was a bit too small.
Get a grip, he silently ordered. Stay focused. Remembering how she looked, how she felt in his arms, wasn’t helping a damn thing.
“Great. Thanks,” The Wrath said. He turned to Ryan and told him that there were seven Sunseekers in Newport Harbor in the size category they wanted. The Wrath rattled off the names of the owners. At the third name, bells went off.
“Son of a bitch!” Ryan changed direction and revved the dinghy’s motor.
“COME ON. I KNOW you’re awake.”
Hayley stubbornly remained silent, the words magnifying her power to resist. Her body was chilled by the fresh air that had drifted over her and evaporated the sweat sheening her skin.
She longed to feel more in control of her body. Not that she stood a chance when she couldn’t see a damn thing, but she intended to fight to her last breath. Her pulse accelerated at the thought of dying.
The idea of never seeing Ryan again tore at her heart. Why hadn’t she told him how she felt? Letting that jerk Chad Bennett ruin her relationship with a good man was just…unforgivable.
“I don’t have time to fool around.”
She kept her eyes closed as if she was unconscious. Her feet seemed almost normal and her arms were now tingling. The man speaking could kill her but she would be certain traces of his DNA were under her fingernails. She’d yank out his hair by the root so it, too, could be IDed. With any luck, she’d leave a mark on his face that Ryan would notice.
She wasn’t sure of Ryan’s love; he might not be over his wife’s death. But she knew he wouldn’t give up until he found her killer. She smiled inwardly at the thought of scaring this lunatic.
But who was he? Not Trent. She knew his voice too well. Not Chad, either. She would have recognized his voice by now. This man sounded familiar but her brain wasn’t functioning well enough to come up with a name. It seemed to take forever to get a thought to register and send back a response.
“I can kill you now or I can kill you later,” the threatening man told Hayley.
Around her, the air shifted and she knew he was leaning closer. If she started talking now, he might postpone killing her. Surely by now Ryan must be looking for her. What made her think that?
The shoe. From some dark, remote crevice in her brain resurfaced the memory of Ryan inserting the tracking device in the heel of her left tennis shoe. The missing shoe! Oh, my God! She’d told Laird about the shoe.
Laird McMasters. Her befuddled brain had finally managed to provide the monster’s name. Why would he want her dead? Simply because she didn’t want him for a partner?
Start talking, urged an inner voice. She tried to speak but the words stuck to her dry tongue and her throat burned as if she’d swallowed acid. You’re as good as dead if you don’t say something—anything—to distract this nut. She tried again, but failed.
Open your eyes. Let him know you’re awake. She fluttered her eyelids as she opened them to make certain he noticed.
“That’s better,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”
It took a second to realize Laird didn’t know she was blind. How was that possible?
“N-n-n.” She struggled to speak but still nothing intelligible came out.
“Can’t talk, can you?” From the self-satisfied tone of his voice, she would bet the lunatic was smiling. “That’s to be expected. Don’t remember much, do you?”
She jerked her head from side to side to indicate she didn’t remember. She had to keep him talking. Buying time was her only hope.
“Scopolamine does that. It’s a surefire way to induce amnesia. That’s why criminals like it so much. Slip it into a drink, spray it on someone and wham—they forget who you are, what you look like. Perfect for robbing people.”
“Naaaah,” she managed to utter, meaning no. No, she didn’t remember anything.
“The Russians and the Nazis believed scopolamine was a truth serum. Didn’t work on everyone, but it worked on you. I asked about a tracker and you pointed right to your shoe.”
How could she have been so stupid? Hayley wondered. If she’d just kept her mouth shut, Ryan could have found her. Now it would be impossible. She was on her own. There wasn’t much hope of saving herself since she couldn’t see, but she intended to inflict as much damage as possible on Laird. “W-w-w-aah?” She tried to form the word why.
Laird understood; he chuckled softly, a grating sound that filled what suddenly seemed to be a small room. “Why do I want you dead? Curious, aren’t you?”
Again, she jerked her head from side to side. Keep him talking. Her arms had to move in order for her fingers to scratch his eyes out.
Or die trying.
He ran his finger along the line of her cheek and down to her neck; edging still lower he stopped at the top of her breast. She inhaled sharply at the contact. “I guess you deserve to know.”
Hayley couldn’t stop a grateful gruntlike sound from escaping her lips. A reprieve. How long would it last? She’d given up any hope of rescue, but she needed circulation to return to her arms, hand and legs in order to launch herself at him and draw blood. She didn’t stand a chance against him, but she was going to do her best.
“I need to merge Surf’s Up and Rip Tide. I can make a killing selling them together to WaterExpo. Or I can do an IPO.”
Hayley understood. WaterExpo was one of the original surf companies that had gone public. They were enormous and had an international name much bigger than Surf’s Up. They’d once approached her father, but a hug
e company with layer after layer of management wasn’t her father’s style.
“Trent went for it. He saw the possibilities and could have convinced your father. But you—” his fingertip slid down another inch “—wouldn’t go for it.”
Not true, she wanted to shout, but the words lodged in her throat. She would have said no, but Trent had never asked her. Of course not. It was easier to blame Hayley and stay on Laird’s good side. But even if she had been in favor of it, her father—and mother—wouldn’t have wanted to be dictated to by corporate types.
“Surf’s Up was desperate for money, thanks to your brother’s greediness. He thought he’d corner the surfboard market in SoCal. He came to me and I agreed to help, even though I was tight for cash myself. What happens? You little bitch! You went to your aunt and cut me out.”
The venom in his voice took her breath away. She’d known Laird for years but never suspected he felt so intensely about this. This deal would have meant millions to Laird, she reflected. To some people money was their God.
“With you out of the picture, the estate will be divided two ways. Farah doesn’t give a shit about the business and Trent needs the money. I’ll get the company.”
“Umm-hmm,” she managed to mumble. The extent of Laird’s enmity toward her was stunning. She’d dated him—briefly—but often saw him at parties and around town. She’d never suspected how much he hated her.
“What I can’t understand,” Laird continued, “is why your father had so much faith in you. He left you the company.”
Laird McMasters was behind the destruction of the trust. She took a quick breath of utter astonishment. Hayley could go to her grave knowing the half siblings she’d been raised with hadn’t been the ones to destroy the document. They didn’t hate her.
“C-c-chaa.” She tried to ask about Chad but the word wouldn’t pass her lips.
“Chad? Is that what you’re asking?” His laugh sounded like a death rattle. “He’s easy. Money talks. His business hasn’t gone so well since his old man kicked the bucket. The house on Harbor Island, a brand-new Sunseeker in its dock. Oh, that’s where we are by the way. Chad’s place. He’s down in San Diego on a deposition. I ‘borrowed’ his boat.”
Chad! She trembled with impotent rage. Did he kill Sylvia Morrow to keep her quiet? Or had he gotten Laird to do his dirty work? If only she could talk. She tried to ask but merely sputtered.
“Chad loved you, Hayley. Really adored you. But he couldn’t keep his zipper closed. When you threw him out, poor guy knew it was over because you are so fucking stubborn.”
Now, facing death, Hayley was thankful she hadn’t taken the skunk back. If she had, she would never have met Ryan. Never have known what it was like to be with a good man, someone she could truly love.
“What I need to do,” Laird said, as if he was discussing a new boogie-board design, “is to get you topside. I don’t want to kill you down here and leave a lot of blood and evidence.”
He slid his hands under her. Hayley made a split-second decision. She could try to fight him now or she could wait. She decided she had a better chance of getting away if she allowed him to carry her topside.
“You’re no featherweight,” he said as he trudged up the stairs. “This is an awesome boat. Right out of Architectural Digest—all clean lines and contemporary Italian furniture. Blood will show on the white carpet.”
Good, she thought. He walked a few steps and she realized they were no longer on the stairs. From his comment, they must be in the main salon. She couldn’t see anything, but in her mind’s eye a stretch of Arctic white carpet was at his feet.
Now! A juggernaut of adrenaline jolted through her body. She clawed at his face and bit his shoulder at the same time. Kicking with all her might, Hayley scratched where she thought his eyes must be. She struck the side of his cheek, then found an eye.
“Shit!” he bellowed and dropped her.
Her tailbone hit the carpeted floor and fire shot up her spine as if she’d been seared by a blowtorch. She ignored it; she didn’t have time for pain. Flailing with both arms, she found his ankles. He grabbed her hair, but Hayley bit him again. This time she hit the fleshy part of his calf. Since he was in shorts, her teeth sank into unprotected skin.
“Stop it, bitch!”
He yanked harder on her hair, but she didn’t let loose. Warm blood—his blood—poured into her mouth. Yes! Yes! She silently applauded herself and bit with even more tenacity. She would spill his blood on the white carpet for the police to find and analyze.
He hauled her to her feet, kicking and thrashing. She had a clump of bloody skin in her teeth. She spit it in the direction of his face—she hoped.
“It’s over.” His words were calm but his breath was coming in ragged gasps. “You’re dead.”
The cold steel muzzle of a gun pressed into her temple. She closed her eyes. I love you, Ryan. Love you, Aunt Meg. Take care of Andy.
Her life was finished.
CHAPTER THIRTY
PEERING INTO the yacht’s salon from the windows on the main deck, Ryan drew the gun from the waistband at the small of his back. For a gut-cramping second, the earth froze. He saw Laird McMasters’ head coming from the cabin area. The bastard hadn’t spotted him! Ryan choked back a curse.
He’d expected to find Chad Bennett, since he was the owner, but the attorney didn’t seem to be around. Ryan motioned for The Wrath to stay low and circle to the other side of the boat where there was a second entrance from the deck to the luxurious living area.
Was Hayley still alive? Her body was slack but Ryan didn’t see any blood or signs of strangulation. His pulse beat erratically and the gun trembled in his hand. Get a grip!
Suddenly, Hayley was flailing in McMasters’ arms—kicking and biting and scratching at his face. Go, Hayley! Arms, legs, hands flew in all directions at once. The tumult was an unfocused attack with limbs thrashing wildly but it worked. Laird was caught off guard.
“Shit,” screeched Laird and he dropped Hayley.
She hit the floor with a thud that made Ryan flinch. She hadn’t broken her back, had she? No. Not at all. She grabbed McMasters’ leg and ferociously gnawed his calf with a bite worthy of a lioness.
Ryan took aim, ready to shoot the prick and save Hayley the trouble. Aw, hell! Why had he told The Wrath to go around to the other side of the boat? He could see him at the window on the opposite side of the salon. Right in his line of fire. If Ryan’s shot missed by less than an inch, he might kill The Wrath. But on the plus side, Hayley’s unexpected attack had distracted McMasters. He still hadn’t noticed Ryan, and he had no clue The Wrath was behind him, easing into the salon’s doorway.
“Stop it, bitch!” hollered Laird.
Hayley had a death grip on the jerk’s leg with both arms and her teeth. She’d ripped a sizable gash in his leg. There was no sign she intended to let go. Laird grabbed Hayley’s long mane of hair. After several vicious jerks with both arms, he hoisted Hayley to her feet by her hair, a piece of his flesh still in her mouth. She spit it in his face.
Quick as a snake, McMasters drew a gun from the pocket of his cargo shorts. Shit! Shit! The Wrath was still in the line of fire. Ryan couldn’t risk shooting. He silently cursed himself for not taking more time at the range. A trained sniper could make the shot.
“It’s over.” Laird’s ragged breathing distorted the words. “You’re dead.”
Ryan launched himself into the room, gun pointed at Laird, roaring, “Let Hayley go.”
“What?” Laird sounded incredulous at seeing Ryan, but he didn’t release Hayley or lower the gun pointed at her temple.
“R-Ryan. I-is-s that…you?” Hayley croaked out the words.
She must have blood in her eyes or something. Couldn’t she see it was him? Maybe the ordeal had her in shock.
Blood pooled on the floor, gushing from the ferocious bite on McMasters’ leg, but he didn’t seem to notice. The Wrath had moved into the open doorway behind the lunatic. Stil
l no clear shot, but at least McMasters’ attention was riveted on him. With luck, Ryan and The Wrath could overpower him.
“Let her go. The police are coming.” This was a fact. The Wrath had called Wells as soon as they realized the Sunseeker belonged to Chad Bennett and was probably at his home on Harbor Island. They’d been wrong about Chad, but at least help was coming.
“Get out of the way or I’ll kill her.” McMasters sounded calm but fireworks flared behind his eyes and his tight expression revealed his anxiety. He inched forward, dragging Hayley with one arm. Ryan held his ground, his gun still aimed at Laird’s face. McMasters’ gun was still flush against Hayley’s temple.
“Watch where you’re going,” Ryan yelled. Not that he gave a crap if McMasters tripped over the huge glass coffee table that had to be some outrageously expensive decorator’s idea of chic. But any jolt could cause Laird to accidentally squeeze the trigger.
“Move!”
“Are you nuts? You can’t get away.” Ryan heard the distant wail of a siren. It sounded as if it was coming from the water, which meant it was the Harbor Patrol. He wasn’t sure those officers were armed. They usually encountered speeding or inebriated boaters—not gun-wielding lunatics.
“Y-you’ll never get Surf’s Up now.” Hayley’s voice was almost unrecognizable.
“Is that why you want Hayley dead? Gimme a break! Of all the stupid-ass ideas, this beats them all.” It was impossible to argue with a sick mind, but Ryan kept talking as The Wrath moved up closer behind Laird. If the fighter grabbed or hit him, the gun might go off. Christ Almighty! The Wrath was smart. Surely, he realized the danger to Hayley.
“Laird’s after our name and my father’s custom molds,” Hayley said, her voice still not normal. And she wasn’t looking at him, either—just gazing wide-eyed in his direction. Could scopolamine sprayed in the eyes blind you?
Laird McMasters smile flickered. “Hayley’s smarter than she looks.”
“Can’t you hear those sirens?” Ryan struggled to keep his tone level. “They’ll catch you. Let her go.”