Terror paralyzed her when she spotted the zip tie handcuffs that hung loosely from his right hand. The bodyguard looked at Tate. Tate nodded brusquely.
Blood pounded in her ears, deafening her. Her throat constricted, smothering a scream. For an instant she imagined the freezing water of the Atlantic closing over her. She imagined the darkness, the helplessness of being bound, the horror of being thrown into the icy abyss.
The bodyguard started toward her.
Addison dropped her hand to the waistband of her slacks. She felt the pointed tip of the scissors beneath her sweating palm. Her hands were shaking so badly she wasn't sure she could grip them, let alone use them to protect herself. But she'd run out of options. These two men were going to kill her in the most horrible way. Her only chance was to fight back.
The bodyguard reached out and gripped her left forearm. "Turn around."
Heart pounding, Addison yanked the scissors from her waistband. Spinning, she drew back and slashed. She put every ounce of strength she had behind her arm. A scream tore from her throat as the scissors sank into his throat.
His hands flailed. She slashed again. The man shrieked as the blades cut the side of his face. "You bitch!"
The sheer force of her attack knocked the scissors from her hand. As if in slow motion she watched them glide to the carpet. She looked up. The bodyguard's eyes found hers. A thin line of blood trickled from his cheek, making him look wild and dangerous. Knowing she had but a second to flee, she sprinted toward the staircase.
Two strides, and he tackled her. His aims wrapped around her hips. Addison went down hard. She writhed, lashing out with her legs. He bent, gripped her arm. She screamed as she was jerked to her feet.
"I'm going to enjoy hurting you," he sneered, forcing her back to the salon.
She wanted to defy him, but the fear numbed her so thoroughly she couldn't speak. In the salon, Tate stood in the center of the room, gripping the crystal tumbler with white-knuckled hands.
The bodyguard pushed her to her knees. "Get down."
Addison fought him. She cursed him. But she wasn't strong enough. Her hands were jerked behind her back. The nylon cuffs locked around her wrists and snapped into place. With his foot, he shoved her forward. Bound, helpless, Addison fell onto her stomach hard enough to take her breath.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe. She imagined the cold water closing in around her. The blackness. Panic dug into her. She struggled against the constraints. The nylon cut into her wrists, but she was numb to the pain. She tried to roll over, but a foot planted squarely at the small of her back pressed her down. She lay there breathing hard, unable to move, like a beaten animal about to face slaughter.
The two men were talking, but she couldn't understand their words or phrases. The voices were merely babel as her mind rebelled against what would happen next. In a few short hours she would be dead. Terror sparked and twisted inside her. She thought of Randall and her heart shattered. So much lost, she thought, and a sob rose from deep within her.
Aching with loss, Addison closed her eyes, wondering if she should have taken that sip of cognac.
Chapter 27
Randall parked in the marina’s lot, threw the door open, and left the truck at a lurching run. He'd known his tolerance for pain was high, but never imagined he could keep going when the agony snapped through his body like lightning and exploded like fire in his brain. He couldn't function much longer. He was in no condition for a physical confrontation. He doubted he'd be effective if he had to use the Beretta. His only hope was that the police had arrived before him.
But he knew the local PD would need indisputable proof before making a move on a man of Tate's political stature.
Tate was a powerful man with ties to all levels of government. He was certainly capable of ruining anyone who crossed him.
Randall knew fully it could be morning before they sent a squad car to check out the Anastasia. Days before they picked up Tate for questioning. By then it would be too late for Addison. He wasn't willing to take the chance.
To hell with going by the book. To hell with bureaucracy. He was starkly aware that he was functioning on gut instinct. The fear that he could be wrong never left him. But if he'd learned anything in the last thirty-eight years, it was to trust his instincts.
Crossing the parking lot, he headed toward the docks. Tall, naked masts rose into the brisk night air, the rigging lines slapping hollowly in the wind. The smells of dead fish and diesel fuel hung in the air like a cloud.