five hundred in French then she could probably risk opening the door to make a run for it.
Where she would run to was still a question. Over the side seemed the safest possibility, if she could find a life vest and a flare gun. A self-inflating raft would be even better—she could wait until the boat was out of sight before she inflated it. But if worse came to worst she'd simply go over the side as is, taking her chance with the cold water rather than the deadly cold voice of the unseen man. She had no idea whether there were sharks out there. She only knew about the human ones on board.
She counted to five hundred twice, her rusty French slowing her down. She considered trying it in Latin, but it had been too long since her high-school classes with Mrs. Wiesen, and besides, the chances of anyone still being outside the utility closet were almost nil. If they knew she was there they would have simply opened the door.
She moved her hands blindly over the door, looking for the inside latch. Her eyes should have become accustomed to the darkness, but the door was sealed shut. If she stayed in that airless, lightless hole much longer she'd probably pass out from the chemical fumes.
She made no sound as she ran her hands down the inside of the door, her fingers finally reaching the catch. She breathed a tiny sigh of relief—she'd known a moment's panic that there might be no inside latch. After all, how many people expected to be opening a tiny closet from the inside?
The door opened with an almost inaudible click, and she pushed it open, closing her eyes against the suddenly blinding glare of the midday sun as it bounced off the waters. She squinted, then opened her eyes fully. To look straight into the impassive eyes of a man she'd never seen before.
A million emotions raced through her—instant panic, then hope as her eyes focused on the man leaning against the railing, looking at her. He was tall, dressed in loose white clothing, with long dark hair and very blue eyes, and his expression was nothing more than politely curious. She'd never seen him before in her life.
"I wondered how long you were going to stay in there, Ms. Spenser," he said in a voice that was both Peter Jensen's and a stranger's. "As you heard me tell our bloodthirsty friend Renaud, there aren't that many places to hide on a boat."
She didn't hesitate. Her only chance was taking him by surprise, and she dived for the side of the boat. She was halfway over the railing before he caught her with insultingly minimal effort, pulling her back onto the deck, against him. His body was warm, hard against her back, which somehow seemed wrong, she thought dizzily. He should feel like a block of ice, not a living, breathing human.
"Sorry, Ms. Spenser," he murmured in her ear, a soft, soothing voice. "But we can't have you complicating our very careful plans, now, can we?"
She would have said something if she could. But the stinging sensation at the side of her neck was spreading through her body, and she wondered if this was how she was going to die. If so, she wasn't going to go without a fight. She kicked back against him, but her legs felt like rubber bands as they began to collapse beneath her, and she could hear his faint laugh in her ear.
"Feisty creature, aren't you, Ms. Spenser? Just relax, and it won't hurt a bit."
Her elbow didn't work either, as she tried to jab him in the stomach. Nothing worked at all, and she let herself sink down, knowing that this was the last thing she'd remember before she died. And then she knew nothing at all.
5
« ^ »
M s. Genevieve Spenser was rapidly becoming a pain in the ass, Peter thought. He ought to finish what she started, toss her unconscious body over the side of the boat and let the fish have her. In the end he doubted it would matter. As long as they found identifiable traces of Harry Van Dorn's body in the rubble of his island home the authorities would be satisfied. They wouldn't go to that much
Where she would run to was still a question. Over the side seemed the safest possibility, if she could find a life vest and a flare gun. A self-inflating raft would be even better—she could wait until the boat was out of sight before she inflated it. But if worse came to worst she'd simply go over the side as is, taking her chance with the cold water rather than the deadly cold voice of the unseen man. She had no idea whether there were sharks out there. She only knew about the human ones on board.
She counted to five hundred twice, her rusty French slowing her down. She considered trying it in Latin, but it had been too long since her high-school classes with Mrs. Wiesen, and besides, the chances of anyone still being outside the utility closet were almost nil. If they knew she was there they would have simply opened the door.
She moved her hands blindly over the door, looking for the inside latch. Her eyes should have become accustomed to the darkness, but the door was sealed shut. If she stayed in that airless, lightless hole much longer she'd probably pass out from the chemical fumes.
She made no sound as she ran her hands down the inside of the door, her fingers finally reaching the catch. She breathed a tiny sigh of relief—she'd known a moment's panic that there might be no inside latch. After all, how many people expected to be opening a tiny closet from the inside?
The door opened with an almost inaudible click, and she pushed it open, closing her eyes against the suddenly blinding glare of the midday sun as it bounced off the waters. She squinted, then opened her eyes fully. To look straight into the impassive eyes of a man she'd never seen before.
A million emotions raced through her—instant panic, then hope as her eyes focused on the man leaning against the railing, looking at her. He was tall, dressed in loose white clothing, with long dark hair and very blue eyes, and his expression was nothing more than politely curious. She'd never seen him before in her life.
"I wondered how long you were going to stay in there, Ms. Spenser," he said in a voice that was both Peter Jensen's and a stranger's. "As you heard me tell our bloodthirsty friend Renaud, there aren't that many places to hide on a boat."
She didn't hesitate. Her only chance was taking him by surprise, and she dived for the side of the boat. She was halfway over the railing before he caught her with insultingly minimal effort, pulling her back onto the deck, against him. His body was warm, hard against her back, which somehow seemed wrong, she thought dizzily. He should feel like a block of ice, not a living, breathing human.
"Sorry, Ms. Spenser," he murmured in her ear, a soft, soothing voice. "But we can't have you complicating our very careful plans, now, can we?"
She would have said something if she could. But the stinging sensation at the side of her neck was spreading through her body, and she wondered if this was how she was going to die. If so, she wasn't going to go without a fight. She kicked back against him, but her legs felt like rubber bands as they began to collapse beneath her, and she could hear his faint laugh in her ear.
"Feisty creature, aren't you, Ms. Spenser? Just relax, and it won't hurt a bit."
Her elbow didn't work either, as she tried to jab him in the stomach. Nothing worked at all, and she let herself sink down, knowing that this was the last thing she'd remember before she died. And then she knew nothing at all.
5
« ^ »
M s. Genevieve Spenser was rapidly becoming a pain in the ass, Peter thought. He ought to finish what she started, toss her unconscious body over the side of the boat and let the fish have her. In the end he doubted it would matter. As long as they found identifiable traces of Harry Van Dorn's body in the rubble of his island home the authorities would be satisfied. They wouldn't go to that much
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