Black Jack Point by Jeff Abbott Page B

said. His weight pressed against her ribs, his erection poking into her thigh.
    ‘Be a good girl,’ Gar whispered in her ear, ‘and I’ll keep myself on a leash. Be bad, and I’ll play with you. For hours on
     end.’ Gar made a wet kiss against her ear. Then he left the room and shut the door.
    Silence. Danny must have walked out with him.
    Claudia lay in blindfolded darkness, shivering.
They’re not gonna let us go. They’re not. Even if Stoney pays this ransom. They knew this is Stoney’s boat. Knew he was supposed
     to be out on the water today. Didn’t know he canceled. How?
    A journal. A jewel. Treasure hunters. Crazy, but she could not worry about that now. The only thing that mattered was getting
     help or getting the hell out of here.
    So how are you going to get you and Ben out of this?
    The kidnappers had the guns but they quarreled among themselves, improvising since Stoney wasn’t here, no backup plan in place.
     So they were being stupid and she would be smart.
    Claudia twisted around on the mattress and managed, by dragging her head down the bedding, to nudge the chamois-cloth blindfold
     a hairbreadth off her eyes. Again. Again. She could see below the blindfold’s edge. The stateroom was dark. Thin light filtered
     in from the oblong portholes above the bed, cut into rods of black and white by half-opened shutters. On the walls were reproductions
     of old sailing maps and a framed set of antique coins. Next to the closet hung another yellowed print – a portrait of a man
     with flowing black locks, wearing a rakish hat and a blue nautical jacket, in an arrogant stance. The print was vaguely familiar,
     something she’d seen in a tourist bar in Port Leo, but she couldn’t place it. She looked at the picture as a focus point,
     took calm, steadying breaths.
    First get loose.
    She rolled across the bed. Her hands were bound in front of her and by lying on the bed’s very edge and inching forward, she
     was able to reach and slide open a side table drawer. No gun, no pocketknife, nothing inside but a weathered paperback and
     a self-winding watch. The bookshelf, a small one, didn’t even hold a heavybookend. A closet stood on the opposite wall but she remembered it only held clothes and hangers. She rolled up to kneel
     and look out the rectangular portholes above the bed; the stateroom was directly beneath the salon, where she and Ben had
     fished in luxury, and below the portholes was a small swim platform.
    Smash the glass in the frames, cut the ropes? They’d hear her, and she wouldn’t have time to free herself.
    If she could ease out the porthole – no guarantee she’d fit – she could wriggle onto the swim platform. And then what? More
     than seventy-five miles out at sea, no way to call for help, roasting in the sun until they found her. Or she fell off and
     drowned. Bound foot and hand as she was, she could hardly wriggle up and across the main deck without them hearing her. Maybe
     she could ease into the water and slice her ropes on the propellers.
Yeah, just like a movie action hero.
One flick of the propeller switch and she’d shred like cabbage, assuming she didn’t drown first. She remembered the silky
     sharks, plowing through the yellowfin school. She might be too big for the silkies but sharks didn’t measure their meals.
     They just ate. They would still take her, make her a five-course meal, a leisurely limb at a time.
    She listened. In the quiet roll of the waters she heard them threatening Ben, shoving him into a chair, Ben protesting. She
     lay very still, breathing through her mouth.
    She heard a phone ring. Ring. Click on. ‘Good afternoon, this is Stoney Vaughn.’
    ‘Good afternoon, Stoney.’ Danny’s voice was creamy as butter. ‘This is your friend Danny, from New Orleans.’
    A pause, then Stoney, annoyed, ‘I told you to quit calling me, you fucking nut.’
    ‘We’ve got your brother and his girlfriend.’
    Silence.
    ‘You weren’t on your little