Chapter 6 - The Turn of the Tide
Darkness. Cold. The heavy smell of salt water and diesel fuel.
I opened my eyes, my head throbbing violently as the lingering effects of the chloroform slowly wore off.
I was lying on a plush leather sofa inside the master cabin of a luxury yacht. The gentle swaying motion beneath me told me we were already out at sea. Outside the cabin portholes, pitch-black ocean stretched out in every direction.
Sitting on the floor near the door, bound in heavy ropes, was Harrison. He was conscious, staring at me with desperate, bloodshot eyes.
"Sarah..." he whispered loudly. "You're awake!"
I tried to move my hands, but my wrists were tied tightly behind my back with heavy nylon cord, my ankles bound together.
"Where are we?" I rasped, my throat raw.
"We're on my yacht... three miles off the coast of Malibu," Harrison whispered frantically. "Kane is upstairs piloting the boat. Rachel is in the state room setting up the fake overdose scene. We have maybe ten minutes before she comes down here with the syringes!"
Panic flared in my chest, but behind the panic, a cold, sharp anger took hold. I looked around the room frantically.
"Harrison," I whispered, rolling off the sofa onto the floor beside him. "Your hands... can you reach my pockets?"
"Why?"
"Before Kane grabbed me in the bunker, I managed to slide the heavy wire cutters under the elastic waistband of my trousers!"
Harrison’s eyes widened. He shifted his body, pressing his back against mine. His trembling fingers searched blindly along my lower back until he felt the cold steel of the tool tucked into my pants.
"I got them!" he gasped, his fingers struggling to grip the handles.
"Hurry!" I urged, listening intently to the heavy footsteps echoing on the wooden deck above us.
Snip. Snip.
The heavy nylon cord binding my wrists gave way. I pulled my hands free, instantly grabbing the wire cutters from Harrison and slicing through the ropes on my ankles and his wrists.
"What's the plan?" Harrison whispered, rubbing his raw wrists. "We're in the middle of the ocean!"
"The plan is to survive," I said grimly.
Suddenly, the cabin door swung open.
Rachel walked in, holding a tray with two pre-filled medical syringes and a bottle of expensive scotch. She was still wearing her emerald dress, but she had taken off her jewelry, her face set in a cold, methodical mask.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw both of us standing up, free of our bonds.
Before she could scream for Kane, Harrison—fueled by three years of built-up rage and terror—lunged forward. He slammed his body into Rachel, sending the metal tray and syringes crashing onto the hardwood floor!
"Sarah! Go!" Harrison yelled, wrestling Rachel to the ground as she fought like a feral cat, clawing at his face.
I didn't run. I reached down, grabbed the heavy crystal scotch bottle from the floor, and swung it with all the strength left in my body.
CRASH!
The heavy glass shattered against Rachel’s temple. She gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head, and collapsed onto the carpet, unconscious.
"Is she... dead?" Harrison gasped, breathing heavily.
"No, but she'll have a hell of a headache," I said, grabbing her silver revolver from her dropped handbag.
Suddenly, heavy, rapid footsteps pounded down the companionway stairs. Kane burst into the doorway, a heavy handgun in his hand.
"What the hell—"
BANG!
I didn't hesitate. I pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck Kane square in the shoulder. He staggered backward with a roar of pain, dropping his gun, slamming into the wooden railing of the stairs.
I rushed forward, kicking his fallen weapon over the side of the boat into the dark ocean waters, and pointed my revolver straight at his head.
"Don't move," I barked, my voice echoing over the roar of the yacht's engine. "On your knees! NOW!"
Kane, bleeding heavily from his shoulder, glared at me with pure hatred, but slowly dropped to his knees, raising his hands.
Harrison rushed up behind me, carrying a heavy roll of industrial duct tape he’d grabbed from the engine room locker. Within two minutes, Kane was bound securely to the steel railing, his mouth taped shut.
I ran up to the bridge, grabbed the wheel, and pulled the throttle back to idle. The heavy yacht slowed to a stop, bobbing gently on the dark ocean waves.
Harrison stood beside me, breathing heavily, looking out at the distant lights of the Los Angeles coastline flickering four miles away.
"We did it," he whispered, staring at me in absolute awe. "Sarah... you actually saved us."
I pulled out my phone—which I’d recovered from Rachel’s handbag—and dialed a number I knew by heart.
"Marcus?" I said when the call connected.
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"Sarah?!" Marcus screamed through the speaker, tears of relief evident in his voice. "Where the hell are you?! We saw the mansion security go crazy, and we lost your signal!"
"We're on Harrison's yacht, four miles off Malibu," I told him, looking back toward the lower cabin where Rachel was bound. "We have Rachel Collins and Kane in cuffs. Bring the FBI."
