Chapter Twenty-Nine

Unwilling to just sit and wait to find out if they planned to kill her, Andrea checked out the storeroom. No windows. Lots of boxes. The labels told her the contents: flags, nautical charts, boat wax, T-shirts in size large, chamois cloths, life preservers, halogen spotlights. A box labeled orange smoke flares—danger flammable gave her hope. She read the instructions: break off end to use. She helped herself to three, using the contents of her purse to stash them out of sight. If the storeroom had windows, lighting one and throwing it out might draw attention to her plight. Without a window, the flares were useless. Still, in the right circumstances, they might come in handy.

Several other cartons held items like paint thinner and varnish and were labeled flammable. A dozen fuel jugs for small boats were lined up near the inner wall. She hefted one and discovered it was full. Okay, forget the flares for now. Setting one off next to all these combustible materials could blow the whole building to smithereens.

Continuing her inspection, she spotted a heavy, round barrel. She used her letter opener to pry off the lid. Stainless steel anchor chain, probably to go with the navy-style anchor leaning on the wall nearby. Both were useless. The building wasn’t likely to drift away.

Andrea crossed her arms over her chest and looked around. The storeroom could have been designed as a tomb for King Kong. A concrete floor. No skylights, no windows, no ventilator ducts. A garage-type door opened on one side, but when she tried it, that door was locked as tightly as the door through which she’d entered.

The twenty-foot-high ceiling had a network of exposed steel beams. The beams sparked an idea. Two against one made her odds of escape poor, but maybe there was a way she could swing them in her favor.

She retrieved the letter opener from her purse and used the point to gouge a hole through the material about two inches above the bottom edge of her designer blouse. Pulling with all her might, she tore off the bottom strip. The area with the delicate embroidery was where the material was doubled and would be the strongest.

She slipped off her shoes. Walking around in them would make too much noise on the concrete floor. Plus, she’d have better traction barefoot. Once the shoes were off, she glanced down, stooped, picked one up, and examined the narrow heel. The heels might not be the best things to walk in, but one could probably be a lethal weapon if aimed at a man’s eye.

Andrea had a wicked desire to surprise her friends outside the next time one of them came near. Maybe she could hide the heel in her hand and catch them off-guard. Stabbing them in the eye with the heel of a girlie shoe, and scoring a point for the wimpy female she’d pretended to be, would be gratifying.

She wrapped her fist around the heel and her other hand around the shoe. Twisted. Nothing. Maybe she could slam it against the wall. Her gaze fell to the designer’s insignia, and her glimmer of optimism died. Forget breaking off the heel. If she wasn’t mistaken, one of the shoes’ claims to fame was a continuous steel rod through the sole and heel.

She studied the heel. Could she use the letter opener to strip off the covering and get to the rod? It would make a wonderful stabbing implement. For a couple minutes, she worked at disassembling the heel, silently grumbling. Why couldn’t Karli buy regular shoes like most of the other women in the world? She’d need a blowtorch to get this one apart. Realizing she was wasting precious time, she dropped the shoe in disgust and went back to her original project.

Working quickly, she piled four large cartons under the beam nearest to the door, then put two more on top, building a rough stairway. She pushed on the barrel of chain to move it toward the cartons. Nothing. She repositioned her feet, leaned her whole body against the barrel, and shoved. No movement.

Andrea huffed out her breath. She might as well be trying to slide the island of Saint Thomas. Loaded down with all the chain, the barrel was too heavy to be influenced by her weight. She’d have to move a few feet of chain at a time.

She lifted several feet of chain and moved her load to the floor, went back for another handful and placed that next to the first. She slid the first mound a foot closer to the pile of cartons, then repeated the process. Dragging the chain out of the barrel would be faster, but the clunk, clunk, clunk as the links went over the rim and then slapped the concrete floor would make too much noise and could draw the attention of her captors.

Slowly, she lifted and slid mound after mound, and the chain snaked across the floor. When she moved enough chain to reach the cartons, she arranged more on the floor in a pile, and winded by the exercise, sat on a carton to rest.

How long would it take Mitch to realize his phone was missing, hear her message, and come looking for her? Moisture blurred her vision, but she fought back the tears. What if he got here too late? What if all the dreams of a future with him were about to die?

Wondering how much time she had left to prepare, Andrea glanced at the door. The men could show up any minute, and resting was dangerous. She wiped her grimy palms on her thighs. Reminded of the silky gloves she’d worn at the gala in case her skin wasn’t as soft as a socialite’s, she examined her hands. They were black. All but one of Karli’s long, fancy nails were missing or broken. Her transformation back to the real Andrea had begun.

She stood and picked up the end of the chain, then climbed on the lower cartons, dragging the chain behind. She knelt on the second level and pulled more chain until it formed a small pile. Standing, she measured out enough chain to hang the length from the beam above and have the end stop about six feet off the floor. She needed about fifteen feet. The remainder was excess that could have been trimmed off with bolt cutters. She grimaced. If she had bolt cutters she might be able to cut through the walls and escape and wouldn’t need the chain at all. But she didn’t. The long end would have to stay attached.

Lifting the chain, she passed the cloth loop she’d cut from her blouse through the link of chain at the end of her fifteen-foot section. She raised the loop and both sides of the length of chain toward the beam. The fifteen feet of chain hanging down to the floor weighed a ton, as did the useless tail section she had to lift along with it. She strained until her muscles ached. As she struggled to tie the material loop around a beam, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and vowed not to even think about giving up.

Thank God for all the mornings she’d lifted dumbbells in a gym.

The loop of material slipped through her fingers and the end of the chain fell, slamming onto the arch of her foot. Pain radiated up her leg. She slammed a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

She listened for any indication that the men had heard the noise made by the collapsing chain, aware that her heart was beating too fast. Nothing. Maybe her flesh had muffled the sound. Picking up the chain, she rethreaded the chosen link and lifted the chain again.

By the time Andrea had the loop of cloth tied securely around the beam, her arms felt devoid of blood. She panted to catch her breath and consoled herself with the sight of her success: the heavy chain hung straight down toward the floor.

She climbed down from her perch and grabbed the heavy anchor. After lugging it to the end of the hanging chain, she opened the shackle at the shank, lifted the anchor, and shackled it to the end of the chain.

The anchor hung about four feet off the floor. A foot or two higher might have been better. She glanced up at the loop of cloth on the beam. Could she move the loop and shorten the chain? No, her arms already ached. The current height would have to do. She gave the anchor a small shove and it swung in an arc near the door.

Andrea sat to think and gather her strength. She spotted a teak flagpole that could be used as a weapon leaning near a corner, pushed to her feet, grabbed it, and stood it at the base of the piled cartons.

Voices outside the storeroom. She hastened closer to the door, hoping to eavesdrop.

Someone, a man, asked, “Is she still secure?”

“In the storeroom. Did you make the call to Dillon?”

The first man again. Probably Elliott. “I told him we have a terrible problem. Karli was here and in danger, and he needed to get over here quick. White knight that he is, he’s on his way to save her.”

Andrea assumed Dillon had played along and not explained about her switch with Karli. Maybe that would buy her some time.

Elliott went on, “Is everything rigged for the explosion? We don’t want to delay once he arrives.”

An explosion? She glanced around at all the flammable materials. Of course! No reasonable businessman would keep all this gasoline inside the building unless he had an ulterior motive. If both Karli and Dillon were killed in an explosion and the resulting fire, Cousin Elliott would inherit the Stone fortune.

Andrea wondered what Elliott would do when he discovered she wasn’t Karli. If her guess was right, he was going to be livid.

One of the men, not Elliott, said, “Shit, Mikitas is coming back to the dock with a boat. He must have been on a demonstration ride.”

“Get rid of him.”

A door clicked. Someone called out, “Hey Mikitas, leave the keys in the boat and go get some lunch. Be back for a sales meeting at two.”

Elliott said, “The memory sticks with the video backups are in my office. I’ll be right back. Bring her out here.”

Footfalls came toward the door. Andrea rushed to her pile of cartons and climbed to the top. She pulled the chain and anchor back. Waited. She held her breath and stood statue still. Her timing had to be perfect.

The doorknob turned, and the door opened. A foot, then a slice of body came into view. She pushed the anchor with all her strength. Watched it arc toward the man coming through the doorway.