The Perfect Victim

Kyle looked away from the darkened windshield and met his gaze. "Depending on the bridges and traffic, three or four hours."

 

"How's the surf?"

 

"Two to four feet. We picked a good night."

 

Tate nodded and let his gaze travel beyond the glass. "You'll need to drop me in Annapolis."

 

The other man nodded and continued to stare out into the abyss spread out before them.

 

Tate checked the Rolex strapped to his wrist and thought of the young woman belowdecks. Bringing her to the yacht had been a calculated risk. But he wasn't sorry for it. He'd enjoyed meeting her even more than he'd anticipated. A flicker of satisfaction settled over him. Yes, he thought, she was everything he'd expected. Beautiful. Intelligent. A compelling young woman with a lovely spirit and a sort of feminine cunning that shone bright behind the dark eyes she'd inherited from her mother.

 

But it was obvious Addison Fox was not the offspring of a dirt-poor high school dropout from Siloam Springs, Ohio. No, she'd definitely inherited his finer genes. She handled herself well in the face of adversity. Had the circumstances been different, he would have liked to know her better. As it was, he would be nothing but relieved once this nasty business was done.

 

He felt no real connection to her. The sight of her hadn't moved him or touched him in ways he'd imagined, in ways he'd feared. She was the only offspring he would ever produce. For reasons he wasn't quite sure he understood, or wanted to admit, he had become obsessed with meeting her in the last few days. Tonight; as he'd gazed into her eyes for the first time, he'd spent several desperate seconds searching for traces of himself.

 

A tiny, cruel part of him had wanted to see what he had spawned as a young man in the throes of a violent passion. Another, less familiar side of him had winced with regret.

 

Not because of his plans to murder an innocent young woman, but because, after her demise, he would never father another child.

 

Needing a drink, Tate turned away and started for the salon. "Would you like a cognac, Kyle—”

 

 

 

The yacht lurched. The sound of splitting fiberglass and the screeching of metal against metal shattered the stillness. Tate fell sideways, the throttle housing ramming into his shoulder as he went down.

 

His first thought was that Kyle had run them aground. Rage poured through him at the thought. With an unwilling guest onboard, how could the man be so negligent?

 

The Anastasia shuddered. The engines coughed and died. A startling silence resounded through the cabin, punctuated by the sound of waves slapping against the hull. Tate dragged himself to his feet. Glancing out the windshield, he felt his blood run cold.

 

A vessel, stark and white against the black water of the bay, rocked in the choppy water. He blinked at the surreal scene, disbelief and rage pumping through him.

 

Only then did he realize he'd underestimated Randall Talbot.

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

 

 

The impact slammed Randall against the wheel. Pain ricocheted through his body. He groaned, felt his knees give. A curse flittered through his brain, but he didn't speak. Knowing he was dangerously close to blacking out, he clung to the chrome support next to the wheel and hauled himself to his feet.

 

Even in the darkness he spotted the other boat just off the bow. The Anastasia sat low in the water, rolling in two-foot swells. There were no lights, no engines, and no sign of a crew.

 

The Pulpit listed sharply starboard. He knew instantly she was taking on water. Pulling the Beretta from his waistband, he checked the clip, wishing Clint had kept an extra on hand. He opened the pilot house door. Cold night air and ocean spray rushed over his face. He studied the position of the Anastasia, realizing with alarm that the two yachts were drifting apart. A kick of adrenaline had him ascending the ladder. He had to board the other vessel before it drifted too far away.

 

A bullet zinged past him as he reached the deck. The window behind him exploded, showering him with shards of Plexiglas. The flash had come from the other boat's pilot house. Blindly, he took aim, fired off six rounds.

 

Nine rounds left. Hoping he'd gotten lucky and hit his target, he clambered onto the gunwale and leaped.

 

*

 

 

 

The impact had thrown Addison to the floor. Hands bound, she hadn't been able to break the fall and tumbled amid the flying debris and broken glass, landing hard against the opposite wall. She was back on her feet in an instant, listening to the quiet rush of water and the sound of the waves pounding the hull. All the while Tate's words echoed in her ears.

 

Your death won't be an easy one.

 

Linda Castillo's books