dropped it, except she was absolutely certain he’d stop until it was recovered, and they didn’t have time for that. It hadn’t seemed to occur to the fool that if they were caught, he wasn’t going to need his money because he was going to be dead. She would have relished the thought, except she was horribly afraid she would be dead, too. Maybe not on the spot, because none of the guys here tonight would do such a thing. What they would do was call Uncle Nicco for instructions. Before tonight, the idea of having them call Uncle Nicco for such a reason would have made her laugh with scorn at their idiocy. “Let her go” would have been the least of what he would have said to them. But now—maybe he would say “Let Mick go.” Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.
Because of the damn pictures.
If he knew what they showed, and knew that she had seen them, she didn’t like her chances.
Uncle Nicco might love her like family, but he was a careful man.
Cold sweat broke out on her brow at the thought.
“There!” Pointing out the boathouse, which was maybe half an acre of undisturbed snow away, Mick caught just a glimpse of the gray metal building and the shining black water of Lake Erie beyond it before she skidded and dropped the suitcase. She would have fallen on her butt if the thief hadn’t caught her by the elbows. A split second later, the night seemed to spin as he whirled her around to face him. Before she could react, she felt the hard impact of a blow to her stomach. Astonished, she registered that she was being hoisted intothe air. Blood rushed to her head. Just that fast, the whole world went topsy-turvy.
“What the …?” she gasped, fighting for air. Only the fact that much of the breath had been forced from her body kept her from protesting more vigorously. It took her a second to get it: without a word of warning, he’d flung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Snatching up the suitcase himself, he took off in a sprint toward the boathouse. Mick found herself eyeballing a black canvas back, flashing black-clad legs and black boots churning through pristine drifts of snow. Her head bounced, her stomach felt like it was draped over a rock ledge, and breathing took real effort. As a mode of transportation, it wasn’t what she would have chosen, but she had to concede it was probably efficient from his point of view. At least he was moving fast in the right direction. Anyway, she was glad not to have to run down the path to the boathouse, which had not yet been cleared of the almost knee-high snow, in her soggy flip-flops. Grasping the sides of his jacket with both fists, she made the best of her position and set herself to hanging on.
The main problem was, as she immediately saw, the fact that they were leaving a trail a blind man could follow. And if one thing was more certain than anything else, Iacono and Otis and the rest would scour every inch of the property and find those tracks through the snow. The only question was, how soon?
“Mick!” She could hear them shouting for her. “Mick! If you can, yell out!”
“Look in there!”
“They got to be here somewhere!”
“Check around the bushes!”
From the direction of their voices, the guys were combing the area around the pool house. Clearly the search was on. Her stomach clutched at the thought they might be caught. There was no way that was going to end well for anybody.
Go, she urged the thief on silently. She would have said it aloud if she’d had enough breath to speak.
Lifting her head, Mick was straining to see back the way they had come when the thief’s gait changed. No sooner had she registered that they had reached the boathouse than he was leaping up the wooden steps. Stopping on the small stoop at the top of the steps, he dropped the suitcase long enough to grab at the knob.
“Damn door’s locked.”
“Eight-seven-four-one,” she gasped out. It was the code to the keyless lock that secured the door. She
Because of the damn pictures.
If he knew what they showed, and knew that she had seen them, she didn’t like her chances.
Uncle Nicco might love her like family, but he was a careful man.
Cold sweat broke out on her brow at the thought.
“There!” Pointing out the boathouse, which was maybe half an acre of undisturbed snow away, Mick caught just a glimpse of the gray metal building and the shining black water of Lake Erie beyond it before she skidded and dropped the suitcase. She would have fallen on her butt if the thief hadn’t caught her by the elbows. A split second later, the night seemed to spin as he whirled her around to face him. Before she could react, she felt the hard impact of a blow to her stomach. Astonished, she registered that she was being hoisted intothe air. Blood rushed to her head. Just that fast, the whole world went topsy-turvy.
“What the …?” she gasped, fighting for air. Only the fact that much of the breath had been forced from her body kept her from protesting more vigorously. It took her a second to get it: without a word of warning, he’d flung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Snatching up the suitcase himself, he took off in a sprint toward the boathouse. Mick found herself eyeballing a black canvas back, flashing black-clad legs and black boots churning through pristine drifts of snow. Her head bounced, her stomach felt like it was draped over a rock ledge, and breathing took real effort. As a mode of transportation, it wasn’t what she would have chosen, but she had to concede it was probably efficient from his point of view. At least he was moving fast in the right direction. Anyway, she was glad not to have to run down the path to the boathouse, which had not yet been cleared of the almost knee-high snow, in her soggy flip-flops. Grasping the sides of his jacket with both fists, she made the best of her position and set herself to hanging on.
The main problem was, as she immediately saw, the fact that they were leaving a trail a blind man could follow. And if one thing was more certain than anything else, Iacono and Otis and the rest would scour every inch of the property and find those tracks through the snow. The only question was, how soon?
“Mick!” She could hear them shouting for her. “Mick! If you can, yell out!”
“Look in there!”
“They got to be here somewhere!”
“Check around the bushes!”
From the direction of their voices, the guys were combing the area around the pool house. Clearly the search was on. Her stomach clutched at the thought they might be caught. There was no way that was going to end well for anybody.
Go, she urged the thief on silently. She would have said it aloud if she’d had enough breath to speak.
Lifting her head, Mick was straining to see back the way they had come when the thief’s gait changed. No sooner had she registered that they had reached the boathouse than he was leaping up the wooden steps. Stopping on the small stoop at the top of the steps, he dropped the suitcase long enough to grab at the knob.
“Damn door’s locked.”
“Eight-seven-four-one,” she gasped out. It was the code to the keyless lock that secured the door. She
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