cord.
It was colder out on the open water, and the stiff breeze tugged at her neatly coiffed hair. She should have had it cut—she'd intended to wear it in braids while she was in Costa Rica, but it was looking as if it was going to be a long time before she saw that place.
"Keep moving," the man behind her snarled. "Up that staircase."
She started up, wishing she'd found her missing shoes. They would have done more damage, but she'd simply have to make do without them. He was following close behind her, and she waited until the right moment, when she was at the very top of the metal staircase, and then she kicked backward, hard.
Her bare foot connected with his face and he tumbled down the steps, cursing. She didn't wait to see whether the fall had done any permanent damage—she took off. The deck was deserted, with blinding sunlight all around, and there was no place to hide. She grabbed the first doorway, only to be confronted by a utility closet, but she didn't hesitate, cramming herself inside and pulling it shut just moments before the sound of heavy footsteps made it onto the deck.
It was pitch-black inside the tiny cubicle, and it smelled like gasoline and cleaning supplies. She was covered with a cold sweat, and her heart was racing, but apart from that she could pride herself on an almost surreal calm. She'd studied hard and well on just what to do if someone ever came after her again. The circumstances hadn't been quite what she'd practiced, but close enough, and she'd definitely managed to hurt the man with the gun. The question was, if he found her, how would he pay her back?
One thing was crystal clear in the claustrophobic confines of the closet. She didn't want to die. And she wasn't going to go without a fight.
"Lost something, Renaud?" The voice came from almost directly outside her hiding place, and the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach turned to ice. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and she'd been listening intently. She didn't recognize the voice either—it was low, cool, expressionless.
"That bitch." Renaud's voice was muffled.
"Got the drop on you, did she? Maybe you should go clean up—you're bleeding all over the deck."
"I've got a score to settle with that little—"
"You don't have any scores to settle, you have a job to do. I'll take care of Ms. Spenser."
"She's got to be a plant."
"Because she managed to get away from you? I doubt it—I think you. just underestimated her. Madame Lambert just came through with the best possible intel—she's simply a high-priced lawyer who stumbled into something unpleasant. Too bad for her, but no particular problem for us. Harry was just as likely to have someone with him when the mission went down."
"She's the one who's going down," Renaud snarled.
"You'll do what I tell you to do and nothing more." The voice was cold, cold as ice, and Genevieve could feel the goose bumps form on her arms. She didn't want to meet the owner of that emotionless voice—the cold water of the open sea would be warmer than the man who was dangerously close to her hiding place.
"Whatever you say, boss," Renaud muttered, clearly unhappy.
"After you get cleaned up why don't you go to her room and get rid of her stuff. We don't want any loose ends, do we?"
"What about her?"
"It's a boat, Renaud. There aren't many places to hide in the middle of the water. I'll take care of her when the time comes."
Genevieve held her breath, half expecting an argument, but Renaud had been thoroughly cowed. "Just promise me you'll make it hurt," he said.
"I'll do what I need to do to accomplish the mission, Renaud. No more, no less."
She listened as Renaud's footsteps retreated down the deck, then the belated clatter on the metal staircase. There was no other sound, but then, she hadn't heard the mysterious boss approach. It stood to reason she wouldn't hear him when he left either.
She wasn't about to take any chances. He couldn't stand there forever—if she counted to
It was colder out on the open water, and the stiff breeze tugged at her neatly coiffed hair. She should have had it cut—she'd intended to wear it in braids while she was in Costa Rica, but it was looking as if it was going to be a long time before she saw that place.
"Keep moving," the man behind her snarled. "Up that staircase."
She started up, wishing she'd found her missing shoes. They would have done more damage, but she'd simply have to make do without them. He was following close behind her, and she waited until the right moment, when she was at the very top of the metal staircase, and then she kicked backward, hard.
Her bare foot connected with his face and he tumbled down the steps, cursing. She didn't wait to see whether the fall had done any permanent damage—she took off. The deck was deserted, with blinding sunlight all around, and there was no place to hide. She grabbed the first doorway, only to be confronted by a utility closet, but she didn't hesitate, cramming herself inside and pulling it shut just moments before the sound of heavy footsteps made it onto the deck.
It was pitch-black inside the tiny cubicle, and it smelled like gasoline and cleaning supplies. She was covered with a cold sweat, and her heart was racing, but apart from that she could pride herself on an almost surreal calm. She'd studied hard and well on just what to do if someone ever came after her again. The circumstances hadn't been quite what she'd practiced, but close enough, and she'd definitely managed to hurt the man with the gun. The question was, if he found her, how would he pay her back?
One thing was crystal clear in the claustrophobic confines of the closet. She didn't want to die. And she wasn't going to go without a fight.
"Lost something, Renaud?" The voice came from almost directly outside her hiding place, and the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach turned to ice. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and she'd been listening intently. She didn't recognize the voice either—it was low, cool, expressionless.
"That bitch." Renaud's voice was muffled.
"Got the drop on you, did she? Maybe you should go clean up—you're bleeding all over the deck."
"I've got a score to settle with that little—"
"You don't have any scores to settle, you have a job to do. I'll take care of Ms. Spenser."
"She's got to be a plant."
"Because she managed to get away from you? I doubt it—I think you. just underestimated her. Madame Lambert just came through with the best possible intel—she's simply a high-priced lawyer who stumbled into something unpleasant. Too bad for her, but no particular problem for us. Harry was just as likely to have someone with him when the mission went down."
"She's the one who's going down," Renaud snarled.
"You'll do what I tell you to do and nothing more." The voice was cold, cold as ice, and Genevieve could feel the goose bumps form on her arms. She didn't want to meet the owner of that emotionless voice—the cold water of the open sea would be warmer than the man who was dangerously close to her hiding place.
"Whatever you say, boss," Renaud muttered, clearly unhappy.
"After you get cleaned up why don't you go to her room and get rid of her stuff. We don't want any loose ends, do we?"
"What about her?"
"It's a boat, Renaud. There aren't many places to hide in the middle of the water. I'll take care of her when the time comes."
Genevieve held her breath, half expecting an argument, but Renaud had been thoroughly cowed. "Just promise me you'll make it hurt," he said.
"I'll do what I need to do to accomplish the mission, Renaud. No more, no less."
She listened as Renaud's footsteps retreated down the deck, then the belated clatter on the metal staircase. There was no other sound, but then, she hadn't heard the mysterious boss approach. It stood to reason she wouldn't hear him when he left either.
She wasn't about to take any chances. He couldn't stand there forever—if she counted to
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