The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [259]
Sherlock stood quietly for a few more seconds, but she simply couldn’t hear anything except the sounds of the equipment motors all around her.
When the gun barrel slammed down, she collapsed to the floor, her SIG hitting the concrete and skidding away from her.
Her first thought, when she opened her eyes, was that she had a bitch of a headache. She felt the pain slash through her head. Not a moment later, Nick remembered—Albia had struck her with the butt of her gun. She tried to raise her hand but couldn’t.
She heard the sound of an engine, loud, but that didn’t make any sense. She realized she was tied to a chair, arms and ankles, really tight. The pain in her head made her nauseous, and she swallowed repeatedly until she knew she wouldn’t vomit. Then she heard a moan, but it wasn’t from her.
She looked up. She was in a small room, lots of wood, cramped. She looked to her left. There was Sherlock, tied to another chair, her head slumped forward.
The room lurched. Moved. She realized they were on a boat and the boat was moving fast, the engine pushing hard. She smelled the water and the diesel, heard the powerful engine, felt the boat bounce and rock as it sliced through the waves.
Boat?
“Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock? Please, come out of it. You can do it.”
Silence, then, “Nick?”
“Yes, I’m all right, just a horrible headache. He got you, too. I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock got herself together, closed her eyes, tried to get her brain back in gear. “Nick, I’ll be okay, just give me a minute.”
The boat slammed down and Nick’s chair nearly toppled.
“We’re in a boat, going really fast,” she said.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I can feel it. I’m very sorry I let him get me, Nick. At least I’d already called Dillon. Every cop in Chicago will be looking for us, count on it.”
“We’re on John’s boat. I’ve been out on it a couple of times. It’s good-sized, a sixty-three-foot Hatteras Fly-bridge yacht. It’s really fast, Sherlock. He used to brag that it could do twenty-one knots.”
“It feels like he’s nearly at maximum. The man’s nuts, Nick. I can’t understand how a United States senator could do something like this. I can’t imagine how he got both of us out of the building and here on his boat, all without being seen. He’s a very well-known man.”
“It isn’t John, Sherlock. You guys were right, it was Albia. The guy who’s driving the boat is Dwight, the man who tried to kill me three times.”
Sherlock digested that. “You know something? I don’t feel all that smart that we figured out Albia was behind it.”
“I wonder where Dwight is taking us?”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. She was afraid she knew. Dwight was going to take them to the middle of Lake Michigan, weigh them down, and toss them overboard.
It’s what she would have done if she were nuts and in a hurry.
“Crane Island,” Nick said suddenly. “Maybe he’s taking us to Crane Island. Albia said that John owns a house there, really private.”
Fat chance, Sherlock thought, unless he wanted to kill them and bury them there. She wasn’t about to say that to Nick. She got her breathing and her brain together, shook her head just very slightly so she wouldn’t be sick, and raised her head. “You’re right, there’s the boat logo over there. My cell phone, Nick, it’s in my pocket. We’ve got to get loose and use it. Nick, how tight are your wrists tied?”
Several moments passed before Nick said, “Real tight, but my ankles aren’t too bad.”
“Mine are tight, too. Okay, do you think you can move yourself closer to me?”
“Yes, Sherlock.”
Nick was nearly there when the boat hit a big wave and she toppled to the side. She hit her face against the thin carpet on the wood floor. She was winded, lay there a moment trying to get herself together.
“Nick, you all right?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if I can still get over to you, Sherlock.”
“I’ve been