Eighty-four

TEN minutes later, the tip of the Freedom Tower was receding—and so were my hopes of being rescued.

After passing Governors Island, we would motor by Red Hook, within sight of Matt’s warehouse. So close and yet so far . . . Soon we’d be out in the open sea.

An electronic gadget mounted on the Riva’s dashboard began to blink. “The smugglers are waiting!” he declared. “I just have to follow this beacon to the rendezvous point, and you can meet your new playmates . . .”

With renewed determination, I continued working the ropes binding my ankles. Another few minutes, and they finally fell away. My feet were free!

In the movies, I would then be able to slip my legs through my arms and get my hands in front of me. But even if I were that flexible—which, I’m not—I was wedged between two seats and unable to move.

Hope surged in me again when an NYPD helicopter flew directly over Tristan’s boat. He peered upward, alarmed. But the chopper raced on until the sound faded. Then he tensely returned his focus to the dark waters ahead.

The beacon on the boat’s dashboard continued to blink, and the boat surged across New York Bay. Suddenly the helicopter returned, flying lower this pass. A shaft of light projected from its belly, spearing the boat.

Tristan panicked and swerved out of the brilliant glow. As he jinxed the boat back and forth, he tossed the Styx cylinders overboard. I could hear his panicked breathing as he wheeled around to face me.

“Looks like you’re going swimming.”

When the helicopter gave up the hunt and flew away, he put the boat back on autopilot, left the driver’s seat, and grabbed me. As he dragged me to my feet, he tried to loop a rope tied to several dumbbell weights around my arms.

He was interrupted by a booming voice and a spear of blinding light—this time on the water.

“This is Sergeant Jones of the NYPD. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

As a surprised Tristan paused, I ground the one high heel I had into his loafer until he howled with pain and released me.

“Twinkies!” I yelled, kicking him in the shin. “Oreos!” I cried, delivering a second kick that knocked me and him to the deck.

Tristan was up first, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, hauling me to my feet again.

“Heave to,” Jones commanded, his boat closer now.

Three lights bathed Tristan’s ship in a white glow, but with no one at the controls, there was no one to “heave to.” As we struggled, the Riva kept racing toward the Atlantic.

Growling like a frustrated animal, Tristan flung himself against me, and the force of that body block was too much. With only one shoe, and my wrists tied, I lost my balance. Our feet were tripped up by the weighted rope, and we both tumbled into the freezing water.

The shock of the cold was paralyzing, and I nearly blacked out. Hands hopelessly bound, I felt my body sinking fast. But as darkness closed in, a prayer rose up. Mike’s prayer . . .

Angel of God, my guardian dear.

To whom God’s love commits me here.

Ever this night, be at my side

To light, to guard, to rule, and guide . . .

The words steadied me, and I saw the light. Was I dead already? No, this light was moving. It was a searchlight from the Harbor Patrol boat above!

My fight coming back, I used my free legs to kick. Desperately, I tried to reach that searching light, but I couldn’t. Not on my own.

As my head spun and my lungs burned from lack of oxygen, I felt myself passing out. Suddenly, strong hands closed around my waist. Then a mask was placed over my nose and mouth, and I sucked in oxygen like a suffocating newborn.

For long seconds, nothing else registered but the simple miracle filling my lungs. Air! Beautiful air! Nothing felt better!

Seconds later, we broke the water’s surface, and I recognized the deep brown eyes of a grinning Officer Hernandez.

“Hello, again, Coffee Lady!”

He and Burns pulled me, shivering, numb, and still gasping, out of the water and aboard the Martin Morrow.

Hernandez dived over the side again, while Burns cut through the ropes on my wrists and wrapped my teeth-chattering body in a blanket. Instantly, I was further warmed by Nancy and Madame, who both tearfully hugged me.

“You p-p-pinged my phone,” I stammered between shivers.

“We did,” Jones replied, relief on his weathered face. “Nancy found your shoe on the dock, and we knew Ferrell had taken you. I called my crew, and with Sergeant Franco’s help, we tracked your mobile.”

Just then, Hernandez and Burns hauled Tristan Ferrell out of the drink and dumped him onto the deck. He was still shivering and calling us “evil bitches” when they put him in cuffs and read him his rights.

When they were done, Nancy lost it. And I was reminded again how much she loved us—her Village Blend family.

“You jackass!” she screamed, lunging at the fitness guru.

It took Burns and Hernandez to pull her off, but not before Nancy found her Critter Center and delivered a swift kick to the man’s hoo-hah.