“The fucking cunt. She knows too much.” He looks over his shoulder at Jim. “Give me your belt.”
“What!?”
“Give it to me! Now! She’s gonna bring us both down. We need to get rid of her!”
Jim blinks nervously. “Jesus Christ, Sheldon, I protected your ass. I’m not getting involved with cold-blooded murder. You’re out of your fucking mind.”
I process their exchange. The awful truth seeps through me like sludge. A cover up. Jim protected Greenberg. He knew about his sexual transgressions. His crimes.
“You should have tried harder. Stopped the cunt!” thunders Sheldon. “Fired her sorry ass.”
“I tried. She didn’t listen.”
Sheldon’s fiery eyes burn into my frozen ones. “Do you know what happens to little girls who don’t listen?”
I shake my head from side to side.
“They get punished.”
My unblinking gaze stays on him as he slides his hand under his jacket and around to his backside. My eyes widen and I hear myself gasp. Oh my God! He’s got a gun—a Beretta—and he’s pointing it at me. Right between my eyes. He pulls back the trigger. Click. My chest heaves as I swallow down panic. As I turn my head away, he swivels and aims the weapon at Jim. Fear fills the other man’s eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” The terror in Jim’s voice mirrors his expression.
“If you want to see your wife and two kids again . . . ”
He doesn’t deserve them!
“ . . . take off your goddamn belt and tie up her legs!”
“Jesus, Sheldon!”
“Do it!”
The gun stays on Jim as he silently staggers to his feet. His hands trembling, he unbuckles the belt and slides it through the loops of his slacks as he straggles toward us, his lips pulled tight in a thin grim line. Sheldon’s gun doesn’t move an inch as my ex-boss kneels down and coils the belt around my ankles, sparing no mercy for my injured one. A garbled groan fills my throat as another voice drifts into the room.
“Jesus. What sick clusterfuck have I just walked into?”
Kayla! Teetering in her stilettos as she heads our way. Hope fills me. Could she be my saving grace?
“Where have you been?” grits Sheldon.
“Chill, darling,” she slurs, taking in the scene while I observe her. Her eyes are glazed and a fine layer of white powder coats her glossed lips. My heart sinks to my stomach. In my career as a news reporter, I’ve seen this too many times before. She’s totally coked out.
“What is this? Some kind of kinky bondage thing?” Her glassy eyes travel from my bound feet to my bound hands. My eyes silently beg for help, but the drugged out bitch is completely oblivious.
Sheldon grins. “Yeah. Do you want to play with us?”
Kayla rolls her eyes. “Come on, darling. You know I only like it doggy style. One-on-one. The faster the better! Like an In-N-Out burger.”
As I lay close to my demise, I can only take solace that the sex between her and my beloved husband must have been so unfulfilling for him. He loved to tease me. Kiss me. Drive me crazy with foreplay. Fuck me for eternity. Every which way. Until totally spent, I fell asleep in his arms.
Kayla rakes a hand through her hair. “I’m out of here. I need my beauty sleep.” Pausing, she glowers at me, then laughs a haughty laugh. “Just throw the slut overboard when you’re done with her.”
And with that, she spins around, disappearing out of sight. The click, click, click of her stilettos fading. Any hope for salvation has just evaporated. Unless Jim comes through.
“Let’s just get it over with,” he mutters to my utter dismay.
“Take her feet,” orders Sheldon as he clutches my wrists.
Jim does as he’s asked, circling his long fingers around my ankles, and together they lift me. Thrashing like a helpless fish out of water, I try to wriggle myself free. But the excruciating pain in my ankle and their combined strength force me to succumb. I’m at their mercy—a limp puppet. A marionette tethered by the strings of their fingers. With the end in sight, tears sting my eyes. I long to vanquish fear. My real enemy. I remember my valiant mother telling me: The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. And Sister Marie saying that God hears our prayers.
Bravely, silently, I pray for someone to help me. To save me from this fate. For my precious daughter’s sake. For my beloved husband’s sake. For all our sake.
Sheldon’s labored breaths cut into my prayers. We’re now at the entrance to the stateroom. He jabs a button on the nearby intercom with his elbow.
A deep male voice instantly responds. Half statement, half question. “Yes, sir.”
I recognize the voice. The yacht’s captain.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Take Marilyn out to sea.”
A brief pause. Then . . . “But sir, visibility is almost nil. And a major storm is about to hit. The waves are already at fifty feet and the wind is about forty miles per hour. It’s not safe.”
Sheldon’s voice hardens. “I don’t pay you to challenge me. Just fucking do as I say.”
I hear: “Aye, aye, sir.” In a few rapid heartbeats, the boat stirs. Twenty terrifying minutes later, I’m outside. Standing on the deck. Still bound. The rain pounding, pricking my skin like needles. The gusting wind, whipping my hair across my face. The boat rocking violently as it battles the ruthless storm.
With Jim out of sight, Sheldon yanks out my gag.
“Where are we going?” I choke out, fear turning the blood running through my veins into ice.
The monster snickers. “It’s not where we’re going. It’s where you’re going.” He aims the gun at me.
“What do you mean?”
“Turn around!”
I don’t budge. The excruciating pain in my ankle gives me strength, driving stubborn determination into me.
“Fucking turn around!” He presses the barrel of the gun into my throat giving me no choice. Hopping on my good foot, I turn and face the dark tumultuous sea. A narrow railing is all that separates us.
“Bend over.”
Hesitantly, I do as he asks as the yacht sails like a wicked rollercoaster over the monstrous waves. My soaked hair draping me like a wet curtain, I keep my eyes focused on my dangling lucky locket, wishing I could clutch it. My teeth chatter, partly because I’m drenched and freezing, partly because I’m wheezing with fear. The Beretta’s now pressed against the nape of my neck.
“Are you going to shoot me?” I stammer, struggling to get the words out as my teeth hammer. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
“Maybe.” He digs the gun deeper into my flesh. “I hear there are a lot of sharks in the water at this time of the year.”
My fear morphs into a powerful wave of nausea. I gulp back the bile that burns the back of my throat. I taste salt. I taste bitterness. I taste death. He’s going to shoot me and throw me overboard. Oh, God! I’m going to drown! Die of hypothermia. Or be shark bait! All of the above. I’m living my last story. A horror story that’s coming to its tragic end.
As if reading my mind, he cackles his evil laugh. “That’s right, cunt. When this night is over, you will officially be a missing person. No one’s gonna find your body. Maybe I’ll stay and watch the feeding frenzy. I love Discovery’s Shark Week.” He laughs again. “This will be better.”
“You’re not going to get away with this!” I yell back, calling on my last bastion of courage.
He snickers. “Guess what! You’re not going to be around to find out.”
A sudden clap of thunder booms in the air. Followed by a lightning bolt that cuts through the fog and downpour like the sign of Zorro. Then, as if I’m hallucinating, a bright light beams onto the stormy dark water. Round like a searchlight. Overhead, the whir of blades slices through the veiled sky. A helicopter? The police?
“What the fuck?” mutters Sheldon.
Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it disappears. Just as quickly, all hope vanish
es into thin air. I’m doomed. I’ll never see my beloved husband or daughter again. Like the onslaught of a tsunami, sobs wrack my body. Loud, heaving ones. My eyes squeeze shut as endless tears sear my cheeks. A tempest of emotions whirls inside me. Terror. Sorrow. Despair. Finality. No one’s coming to my rescue. Not even my hero.
“Shut up!” screams Greenberg.
Suddenly, sirens blare in the near distance.
“LAPD. Drop the weapon and put up your hands.”
A booming voice. Echoing in my ears as if it’s coming through a megaphone. I blink open my stinging eyes. Bright lights three decks below blind me. The yacht is surrounded by a swarm of police boats! And it’s not moving!
“I repeat. Drop the weapon and put up your hands.”
As the yacht bobbles in the riotous ocean, Sheldon shouts down at them.
“Fuck you, assholes. One move and I’ll blow her to pieces.” He presses the gun harder against me. A shiver of panic zips down my spine. I bite down on my quivering lips so I don’t provoke him. Or throw up.
Another voice, this time female, floats into the air. A familiar, firm, and direct one I’ve heard before while covering a hostage story. The negotiator. Tried and true, Jan Lunden.
“Mr. Greenberg. Please calm down. We want to work with you. Tell us what you want.”
“This is what I want.” His voice bellows against the crashing waves. “I want you to get the fuck off my back and let me sail to Mexico with no intervention. Once I’m free and clear, I’ll let her go.”
Or not! I don’t believe him. Anyway I look at it, my life is over. It just takes one bullet.
An instant response from the voice below: “All units. Put down your weapons. Do not engage.” My leaden heart sinks like an anchor as I watch the fleet of police boats retreat. The yacht begins to move again, battling the sky-high waves.
My monster roars with laugher. “The stupid pigs. They fell for it! Should I shoot you now and just get it over with or should I take you on a little cruise? There are a lot more sharks off the coast of Mexico.” The cold barrel of his gun digs deeper into my neck.
“Shoot me now!” I scream.
On my next breath, a deafening pop thunders in my ears. The scent of gunpowder surrounds me.
“Skye, baby!” I hear his voice as I go down.
A groan and then a crush of my bones. A rush of heat bellows up my neck and my throat closes. Unable to breathe, I feel myself suffocating. The menacing gray sea and obsidian sky become one as the fog fades to black.
CHAPTER 61
The wheels of the gurney grate in my ears as the rain beats down upon me, the wind still gusting. Clad in a rain parka, I’m close by her side, my heart in my throat, as Skye is transported into the chopper to airlift her to a nearby Marina Del Rey hospital. When she came to in my arms, she was shivering like crazy and in a state of shock. Her pulse frighteningly low, her pupils dilated, her lips blue.
Now inside the helicopter, the EMT team works at breakneck speed to get her out of her soaking wet clothes and then wraps her in a thick blanket before inserting a fluid resuscitation IV into her arm and placing an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. Silently, I sit next to her holding her icy cold hand, never taking my eyes off her. A violent chill of my own runs through me at the thought of how close I came to losing her again.
“I love you, baby,” I tell her as we lift off. Weakly, she squeezes my hand as a loving smile ghosts her face beneath the plastic mask. That’s all I need.
The ride to the hospital takes less than ten minutes. While Skye is rushed into the trauma unit, I’m forced to remain in the waiting room. Eager to talk to her, Billings offers to stay with me, but I tell him to come back in the morning. Anxiousness ticks with each passing minute. And guilt tolls like a death knell at each passing hour. Why the hell did I let her go through with this? What the fuck was I thinking? I should have stopped her! Finally, after almost three long hours, a doctor ambles up to me as I stare remorsefully at the floor.
“Mr. Jackson?”
Startled, my head jerks up as he introduces himself. “I’m Doctor Linderman, your wife’s attending physician.” My weary eyes meet his. They look glazed. Like he’s tired and overworked.
“My wife . . . is she okay?” Apprehension fills every word.
He lifts his horn-rim glasses on top of his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. I’ve watched far too much TV to know this isn’t a good sign. My heart thuds in my ears as I brace myself for bad news.
Then, he exhales a breath and twitches a smile. “We’ve done a full work-up on her—an MRI, a CT scan, and routine blood work—and all her vitals are stable.”
I blow out the breath I’ve been holding as he goes on.
“She was in shock, but her blood pressure and heart rate are back to normal.”
“So, she’s fine?” I blurt out.
“Yes, except for . . . ”
For what?
“A badly sprained ankle. She tore several ligaments and will have to be on crutches for some time.”
I heave another breath of relief. I can handle that.
“There’s something else you should know.”
My pulse speeds up again, anxiety coiling in the pit of my stomach. “What is it?”
“Your wife is pregnant.”
It takes several moments for the news to sink in. Not too long after I discovered that Skye was alive, she told me it was unlikely she could have another baby due to the internal injuries she sustained from her near-fatal accident. She thought I’d be terribly disappointed, but I told her it didn’t matter. I had her and I had Maddie. Everything in the world I needed.
I’m speechless as shock courses through my veins. Skye’s pregnant. The baby is fine. A burst of elation . . . then red-hot rage. The hatred I feel for that motherfucker can’t be put into words. Or measured. Greenberg not only almost cost me my wife’s life—twice!—but also that of my unborn child. I hope the fucking sick son-of-a-bitch dies on the operating table. If I could kill him myself, I would.
I take several deep calming breaths, then ask, “Can I see my wife?”
“Yes. She’s awake and eager to see you. Follow me.”
Five minutes later, I’m in Skye’s room. The doctor leaves me alone with a nurse who’s setting a pair of crutches against a wall close to Skye’s bed. She’s now in a hospital gown, propped up against several pillows and covered with a blanket. An IV along with a heart monitor are attached to her. Though she looks exhausted from her ordeal, she’s a far cry from the limp, shivering woman I carried to the helicopter. Her wan face brightens when she sees me.
“Finn!”
I jog up to her bedside. “Skye!” Saying her name is like an endorphin. Sitting down next to her, I take her into my arms. Holding her tenderly, I kiss the top of her head, keeping my lips pressed against her scalp for what seems like an eternity. It feels so good to hold her. To feel her heartbeat. To know she’s still mine.
Finally, I break the kiss and smooth her matted hair. “Baby, how do you feel?”
“I want to go home.”
The buxom nurse interjects. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson. You need to stay overnight for observation.”
Skye’s face tightens, her eyes darkening. I know this look—it’s the look of determination. Nothing can sway her.
“No way!” she barks at the nurse.
Before the startled nurse can respond, Skye peels off the heart monitor pad from her chest—Whoosh!—and then yanks out the IV from her wrist. Alarm floods my cells as a fountain of blood pours all over her forearm.
“What are you doing?” shrieks the nurse as Skye bolts upright and wrenches off the covers.
“I’m going home. Plain and simple. You can’t keep me here.”
If there’s anything I’ve learned in my twelve years of marriage and especially tonight, you can’t hold back my headstrong wife. With panic in my voice, I look at the nurse imploringly. “Please! Can you do something about the bleeding?”
With a look that could kill, the nurse manages to bandage Skye’s wrist as she throws her legs over the bed. Her right ankle is taped. Gripping the bed railing, she steps onto her good foot, her balance shaky.
“Let me help you, baby.” For the second time tonight, I sweep my wife into my arms. Sinking into me, she wraps her arms around my neck and rests her head against my chest. How I love having her in my arms! How lucky I am to have her!
“Can you please do me a favor?” I ask the nurse.
Narrowing her eyes, the frizzy-haired woman fires me another disapproving look.
“Can you cover my wife with the blanket and take her crutches?”
Ten minutes later we’re signed out of the hospital.
The limo service sends a car to the hospital quickly. Curled up in my lap, Skye silently snuggles against me in the back seat, my leather jacket on her shoulders and the blanket wrapped around her. Her crutches are perched in the front seat next to the driver. She won’t need them tonight. I’m all she needs.
The storm and fog now out to sea, we get to the house in less than an hour. I carry Skye inside while the driver brings in her crutches. Having tipped him generously, I tell him to leave them in the entryway.
Once he’s gone, I carry Skye upstairs, intending to take her to bed. There’s so much to talk about, but it all needs to wait until tomorrow. When she has more strength.
“Finn, my love, I need to take a hot bath,” she whispers against my chest. “Wash away tonight. Cleanse myself of that monster.”
That monster! Rage again surges inside me. I would have liked to have been the one to give him that bullet. Billings beat me to it. Too bad it didn’t kill him. Gravely injured, he, too, was airlifted to the hospital and immediately taken to surgery. For all I care, the motherfucker can take his last fetid breath and go to hell. Where he belongs.
My attention returns to my wife. “Skye baby, are you sure? What about your foot?”
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