“We’re going to find out.”
He shifted the boat into high speed, buckling Lydia’s knees. Her hands shot out for the bench seat behind her before she fell to the floor. “A little warning next time, please.” She put a little bite into her words as she took her seat.
“I’ll try to remember.” He didn’t sound too convincing.
Wesley skimmed across the ocean until they finally pulled up to the yacht’s portside and turned off the motor. He lifted a bullhorn to his mouth. “This is the sheriff of Stepping Stones. I need the captain of the vessel to please step out on deck.”
No sound but the waves lapping the hulls below and the seagulls squeaking above in the sunshine could be heard.
“You have thirty seconds to come out or I come aboard,” Wesley warned through the megaphone, but still no reply came.
Lydia offered her two cents. “I don’t think anyone’s here. It’s too quiet.”
“I agree,” he replied, his voice deep and serious. His hand went to his belt to flip the holster cover off his gun. “Wait here. I’m going aboard.” Leaning over he pulled his boat closer to make the leap across to the aft of the yacht. His body moved in a perfect blend of fluidity and muscled strength.
She watched him slink around the side of the yacht and up the stairs to the pilothouse with its black-tinted windows. He disappeared through a portal as though its dark shadows swallowed him whole.
Minutes went by with Lydia turning an ear for Wesley’s or anyone’s drifting voice. The small police boat rocked in the swells, up and down, lulling her senses until she realized a lot of time had passed. Going aboard didn’t feel like an option and was way out of her expertise, unless someone was dead and decomposed.
She checked her watch and drank her coffee but couldn’t shake her gut feeling that trouble brewed out on the high seas.
* * *
Wesley held his gun as he traversed through the rooms of the ninety-foot luxurious Expeditions yacht. The place was beyond anything he’d ever been in or imagined. He knew there were people out there who lived in the lap of luxury—he knew of some—but that didn’t make this experience any less eye-opening.
He passed through the dining room, the table set with gold utensils. Gold, seriously? Does it make the food taste any better? His head swiveled and met the golden statue head of an Egyptian princess sitting on an ivory carved pedestal. He peered closer. They both looked pretty old. In fact, as he roamed through the room and down the hall into the last great room, everywhere his eyes landed, he gawked at ancient art in one form or another.
Either whoever owned this vessel had spent their lifetime collecting antiquities or Wesley had happened upon an art thief’s black-market pillages. Perhaps they were modern-day pirates seeking to hide their stash on these shores again. Wes snickered at the idea but secretly wished that was the case. He knew he wouldn’t like the real reason this boat was near his island.
Especially since its owner was missing.
Wes had covered every square foot of the layout and had come across no one. The yacht was empty except for its expensive contents.
He scanned the large and final room. Past a bar and leather furniture. Past a pool table with a game half played, the black eight ball eyeing him from the center of the table. The largest flat-screen television he’d ever seen hung from the back wall, a closed metal door a few feet to its right.
One more room to explore. Judging by the metal door, he figured this was the engine room. Wes kept his gun ready as he approached the door. A twist and pull swung it wide. The room gleamed spotless...and empty. The engine was closed off behind a metal gate. A clean stainless-steel counter with drawers below shone. A tall steel locker cabinet stood cornered in the small room.
Tall enough to fit a person.
As Wes approached with careful steps, the door behind him swung closed on a bang. He shot around to no one. Automatic hinges. He crossed the floor, his boots light and silent. Another twist and the metal doors clanged open to empty hooks.
Nothing and nobody. This vessel was unmanned.
He headed for the exit, but a last gaze around the room halted on a black duffel bag sitting on a shelf. Curiosity had him moving in. Maybe there would be something identifying in the bag.
The top flap was unzipped, partially open. A quick flick lifted it up. Wes’s stomach dropped to his knees at the sight of the bag’s contents.
A bomb!
The homemade contraption had a tangle of colorful wires connecting one small black box to a liquid explosive in a clear container. The red digital numbers counting down halted his inspection and hope of disabling it. If his eyes were reading the dropping digits correctly, they told him he had less than two minutes to get off this boat. No time to fool around with wires.
Wes made a dash for the metal door, his hand outstretched for the doorknob before his feet could reach. A twist and pull did nothing. Dear God, no! I can’t be locked in here. He yanked harder and harder. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His hand slipped off the doorknob, also slick with sweat.
A minute five and counting.
Wes contemplated yanking all the wires out but knew that could detonate the bomb immediately. His hand fisted and relaxed, fisted and relaxed as he came to the acceptance that he was locked in here with no hope of an escape.
Thirty seconds.
He looked around the room. The metal locker was his only choice. He made a mad dash for the container with five seconds remaining.
* * *
A loud, muffled bang from the boat’s interior jolted Lydia to her feet, and then down to the boat’s deck. Coffee sloshed all over her before the cup rolled away, forgotten.
Lydia twisted around, pushing herself up on her knees to find black smoke drifting up into the atmosphere, coming from the other side of the yacht.
Questions ran through her mind. What was that bang? Is that a fire making the smoke?
Is Wesley alive?
Lydia jumped to her feet in the same moment the two-way radio on Wesley’s boat chirped. “Wes, do you read?”
Lydia’s lips grew pained from her teeth biting into them. She stood on her tiptoes, squinting to see through the tinted pilothouse’s windows. Where was Wesley? Had he been hurt in whatever that bang was?
“Wes, this is Owen. Do you read?”
Lydia stepped to the side of the boat. She kept her eyes on the handheld radio still chirping, and shot her hand out for it, finding the button on the side. “Owen? This is Lydia. Wesley went aboard a yacht in the ocean and there was some sort of bang, and now there’s a fire on the other side of the hull. He hasn’t come back out. I’m not sure what to do.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.” She searched the land to give a frame of reference. “I see the ferry dock from here, but it’s pretty far. I see a big red boathouse straight ahead on the island. At least I think that’s what it is. It’s pretty substantial. Looks like it holds a lot of boats.”
“Hang on. I know where you are. I see the smoke now.”
Lydia climbed up on the side to try and get a better view inside the yacht. A few steps later, and her feet hit the vessel’s deck.
She halted. Should she go any farther? Father, I know what I heard was an explosion. If someone is hurt, then that is something I can help with. Please stay with me, though. Lydia ran toward the stairs as Wesley had done and reached the top. She peered in.
Empty.
“Wesley?” she called out again, her voice squeaky like the seagulls. She