CHAPTER

1

Time to get this over with.

Rafe Angelito signaled his two crewmen. They pushed the RIB off the beach and leaped in, the scrape of the hull on peb­bles the only sound in the moonlit bay. As he’d predicted, the American had brought her yacht closer to shore than usual for the night, to shelter from the trade winds belting through the Indian Ocean.

Michael pulled in the bowline while his brother Uriel low­ered the outboard motor and gunned it. Rafe tested a thin rope, coiled it and stuffed it in his pocket. A pampered heiress wasn’t likely to give them trouble, but with his son’s future at stake he wasn’t taking chances. A kidnap for a kidnap.

He cricked his neck. Time for action, at last. Since dawn they’d followed the yacht through the archipelago, awaiting the right moment to strike. A lightning operation—grab the woman, leave the yacht. Even if she got out a mayday call they’d be gone before anyone responded.

“Faster,” he ordered, the language of his childhood awkward on his tongue.

“Yes, Capitaine.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened at Uriel’s facetious comment. “Call me that again and I’ll rip out your throat.” This week he wasn’t a French Foreign Legionnaire. He was a Lost Boy again, whether he liked it or not.

Michael handed him a phone, nodding at the screen. A text. Rafe clenched his teeth. Gabriel again. What is happening, my brother?

He yanked off his glove, gripped the railing and replied one-handed in his native language. A few minutes and we’ll have her.

And I’m not your brother, you son of a bitch.

A reply came in seconds. Don’t mess this up, Raphael, or your boy is mine for good.

Rafe’s gut twisted. His son was sheltered, innocent—everything Rafe never had a chance to be. Right now, Theo was supposed to be home with his grandmother on Corsica, going to school, learning to fish, playing football. But the Lost Boys had come in the night, just as they’d come for Rafe as he’d lain sleeping in the dust of a refugee camp nearly thirty years ago.

Another buzz. He likes his uncle Gabriel. He’ll make a good lieutenant, when I’ve finished with him.

Theo’s face filled the phone’s screen, terror lacing his dark eyes. Rafe’s heart kicked. Next to his son, with an arm slung over the boy’s shoulder, a man grinned. Gabriel. Two decades older, but no mistaking the machete scar splitting his nose. Rafe tightened his grip on the phone. What kind of “uncle” would snatch a nine-year-old to blackmail his father into committing a gutless crime?

Gabriel, that was who. But why kidnap the daughter of an American senator? The Lost Boys’ usual trafficking victims were lost themselves—unwanted girls and women sold into prosti­tution, or orphaned boys forced to become child soldiers, like Rafe. This heiress was the closest America had to a princess. A stupid risk, but at least Rafe could ensure no harm came to the woman—or his son. Best-case scenario? Within the week her father paid the twenty million, she went home and Rafe got Theo back. Worst-case?

Crack. A cobweb of splinters spread across the screen, fractur­ing the image of Theo’s face. Rafe loosened his grip and shoved the piece-of-crap phone in his pocket. The worst-case scenario would not happen. He pulled on his glove. He was an imbécile for thinking a past like his could remain buried.

His gaze swept the yacht, which was silvery and skeletal with its sails stowed. No movement. With luck she’d be asleep. On signal, Uriel swung the boat around to the northwest, setting up for an approach from the yacht’s leeward side. Rafe yanked down his balaclava and signaled his crew to do the same. Wouldn’t do to have their faces broadcast on the American’s live webcam.

“No mistakes,” he growled. “Anyone hurts the girl, I hurt him.”

The halyard clinked against the mast as the yacht rocked in the swell. Holly Ryan closed her eyes and stretched out on the deck, soaking up the pleasure of dozing to the current’s ebb and f low.

She inhaled the velvety air and sighed. The sound rolled out into the night, joined by the slap of water against the hull and the strain of a distant motor. Tropical heat seeped into her skin. If only life could stay this way forever—waking at dawn and anchoring at dusk, sun-bleached hair clumped from swimming, freckled skin rough with salt.

She linked her hands behind her head. The boat wasn’t a hell of a lot bigger than her prison cell and only marginally more comfortable, but it was intoxicating just knowing the horizon wasn’t blocked by a concrete wall. Hallelujah. So what if the real Laura Hyland sipped champagne on her father’s superyacht somewhere off Bali while Holly did the hard sailing? Holly could get drunk on the smell of freedom—out here it came salty, with notes of seaweed.

Four more months of sailing and Holly would have fulfilled her end of this screwed-up bargain and earned enough money to wipe clean the disaster that had been her life so far. In the meantime, she’d damn well enjoy it. She’d done worse things for lesser reward.

Closer now, the motor whined as it was pushed faster. Bit late for a fisherman, and no villages lay along this stretch of rain for­est. Precisely why she’d chosen the spot for an anchorage—the fewer people she faced as Laura, the better. Even in Indonesia, people had heard of the New York socialite and her solo cir­cumnavigation. Though she did resemble Laura after a hurried makeover, Holly couldn’t risk anyone figuring out the truth.

The motor’s pitch dropped—it was slowing, the water swish­ing around it. On approach. She bolted upright, the back of her neck prickling. Moonlight glinted off an inflatable with three large figures on it. No lights, closing in. Her breath shuddered. Not one of the local fishing boats. A journalist looking for a scoop—but out here, at this time of night? Hardly. A shark-finning boat? Dozens of large sharks had glided past the yacht in the last few days.

Whoever they were, she had no escape. By the time she weighed anchor they’d be on her. A mayday call or flare wouldn’t do shit, out here in the middle of nowhere.

She skidded into the cabin, snatched up her pocketknife and stuffed it in her shorts pocket. What else could she use for a weapon? Damn the senator for refusing to let her carry a gun. She eyed the radio, biting her lip. No time for a call—if these guys cornered her down here, there’d be no escape. She sprang back up the ladder. The inflatable drew up to starboard, the men silent. Balaclavas. They wore balaclavas. Shit. She spun around. Come on, come on. Her gaze landed on the winch handle. She wrenched it out of its socket, tested its solid weight. Good old-fashioned heavy metal.

As one man tied up and pulled the boats alongside, another stepped onto the yacht’s stern, wobbling as if he straddled a tight­rope. He was burly but perhaps not a sailor. That could work in her favor. She moved the winch handle behind her, out of sight.

“What do you want?” she asked, sounding more confident than she felt.

“We don’t want to hurt you.” The deep voice came from the bow of the inflatable, in thickly accented but precise English.

Her cheeks iced over. In her experience, people who said that usually did the opposite. The burly man advanced, feeling for his balance. Was that seriously an Angry Birds T-shirt?

“Who are you?”

“We are taking you with us.” The guy on the inflatable again. He said something to his crew in a language she couldn’t place. His voice was authoritative but at ease. She chanced a look. He leaned against the console, arms crossed. Confident, but casual with it—like he’d done this a hundred times. He was even big­ger than the guy coming for her, but more athletic. Not good.

“You won’t be harmed if you cooperate,” he continued.

Her blood chilled. “You’re pirates? You’ve got to be kidding me.” She was almost halfway through this job, halfway to her new law-abiding life. Not even Blackbeard was going to ruin that.

He laughed, deep and calm. “I wish I was joking, Laura.”

Laura. This was no random heist. What was his accent— Russian? Eastern European? Not one of the notorious Indo­nesian lanun pirates who patrolled the Strait of Malacca. This archipelago was far enough south of the main shipping lanes that thieves weren’t supposed to consider it profitable. So much for sticking to safer waters.

It was a long time since she’d had to fight a man. She had one advantage—they thought she was a helpless socialite. They weren’t expecting trouble, and if they were kidnapping her for a ransom, they wouldn’t want to kill her—yet. She swallowed. She could play the frightened girl, give them false confidence and try to escape. In what—her tender? That thing wouldn’t win a race with a jellyfish.

She could tell them the truth, but why the hell would they be­lieve her? Even if they did, what then—they’d apologize grace­fully and be on their way? Fat chance.

“No, please, you can’t do this to me.” She let her nerves show in her voice. The Angry Birds guy was five feet away. Another few steps… “I’ll scream, I’ll… I’ll… My daddy’s a United States senator, a retired marine. A webcam is broadcasting your every move. He’ll track you down in minutes.” She cringed, inwardly. Too much?

“Nothing to be worried about,” said the man on the inflat­able. “We’ll take you somewhere comfortable for a few days, your father will pay a ransom, you will be freed.”

“No. Please…”

Angry Birds jumped down onto the deck. Holly sprang back­ward, onto the bow. She slid her legs apart for stability, her bare feet compensating for the yacht’s movement. The man on the boat growled something. Angry Birds shouted back. One word was clear: Capitaine. He approached gingerly, his palms up, pla­cating her. She cowered, as if bracing for the moment of con­tact, her pulse pummeling in her ears.

He inched closer. Patience. She tightened her grip on the winch handle. Her days of being someone’s punching bag were long dead. She waited until he was within a yard of her, then piv­oted her torso, letting her hand whip with the momentum, and bashed the handle into his face with a dull, meaty crack. He wobbled, forced to prioritize regaining his balance over captur­ing her. Yelling from deep in her chest, she drove her heel into the side of his knee, buckling it. As he collapsed, she shoved him backward. The boat tilted with his weight and he slid into the water, one hand clutching the grab line. Her leg muscles clenched, finding equilibrium, her soles clinging to the deck like limpets. Gasping for breath, she cracked the handle onto his fingers. He splashed into the inky water with a howl.

The boat rocked, and she jumped backward to avoid following him in. Hands grabbed her biceps, from behind. Damn. When had a second man come aboard? She bent her knee and rammed a heel into his groin. Awkward, but effective—he grunted and eased his grip, just enough for her to swivel out of it. It wasn’t the capitaine, just the other goon, now bent double and panting. Be­fore he could straighten, she clutched his head and rammed her knee into his face. Bones crackled, he yelped. She sprang back.

Instinctively, he brought both hands up to his face. Holy crap, she’d broken his nose? She wasn’t as out of practice as she’d thought. She launched a flying kick into his stomach, but it glanced off. Damn. He flailed but regained his balance, shook himself and fixed his hooded eyes on her. She retreated, panting. What now—the knife? She didn’t want to risk getting close enough to use it—and bloodshed wasn’t her thing. Angry Birds splashed about below, no doubt fighting the pull of his heavy boots.

Stern instructions came from the boat. The capitaine sounded frustrated with his men but bored, like he knew capturing her was just a matter of time.