Page 71 of Under the Radar
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Mo could swear she was on a ship. The rocking reminded her of the gentle lilt and fall of a boat slapping against waves or a stiff chop. Damn. What she wouldn’t give for a swallow of Dramamine. Seasickness on smaller vessels was a bitch.
What the hell had those guys put her in? A box? A cage? A crate? Whatever it was, she couldn’t straighten out. She braced her feet and rotated her hips, hoping her shoulders would follow. No such luck. Twisted now, the nausea grew in intensity, and she had to get on her side in case she started wretching. Frustrated, she braced her feet again, lifted her shoulders, and drove her weight onto her right shoulder. Easier said than done, but on the third try, she succeeded and collapsed forward. Her own panting startled her. It was quick and hoarse, like a wounded, caged animal.
Mo alternated between flexing her feet and stretching her fingers, careful not to drop the knife Alice had slipped her. If she could keep her feet from falling asleep, she’d be ready to kick. Her fingers ached as she dug at the wrist restraints with the knife.
The stifling heat made her nausea worse. A moan escaped her lips as a warm breeze caressed her face. She turned her nose toward the salty scent and breathed deep.
There had been no voices in a long time, but someone nearby hummed a tune. She’d listened to muffled conversations when they moved her. And if she had any sense of time left, that was at least an hour ago. Now, just the humming of a deep voice and footsteps every once in a while.
The vessel pitched, and Mo gagged. If only she could sit on the deck with her eyes fixed on the horizon. It would quell the nausea.
Where was Mac? He had to be out of his mind looking for her. Why hadn’t she gone to see him before leaving the ship? Oh yeah, her dad’s supposed heart attack. Mac had warned her that she was up against a powerful enemy. Whoever used her father’s health as a weapon to capture her would pay. She’d eat them for lunch because she wasn’t giving up.
Why hadn’t she looked into Mac’s eyes last night and told him that she loved him? He deserved to know before it was too late—he was the love of her life.
* * *
Mac snapped his fingers. “I’ve got a location on her. She’s on a boat out in the bay. We need a fully-equipped ship and medical transport.” He wheeled around and gave Ethan a crisp nod. “Call Sanctuary for me.”
“On it.” Ethan tapped his phone. He launched a conversation from the backseat in hushed tones detailing numbers and locations.
Mooney was driving and turned to Mac. “Where we going?”
“The penthouse first, and then a marina in Fells Point.”
Mooney spoke in a low voice. “What do we do with mom and kids?”
Mac glanced at Alice in his mirror. Her eyes were wide as moon pies. Mo had promised to help her. He’d keep that promise for Mo. “Alice and the kids are too vulnerable if we leave them at a shelter. There’s a condo on the fifth floor of my building equipped with cribs and baby stuff. I keep it stocked for when my sister visits with her kids. Put her in there. I want round-the-clock security inside the apartment. No guard sitting in the hallway. Arrange the security through your agency, Mooney. Confiscate and disable her phone if she’s got one. We don’t want the hood coming to get her.”
Mooney nodded. “The key to the condo?”
“Hanging in my kitchen with a big 508 on it.” Mac eyed the screen on his phone as he formulated a plan. “Who in this crew has distance swimming on their resume?”
“Me, Beck, and Liz.” Mooney drove through security, entered the underground parking lot, followed it around a couple bends and pulled into Mac’s penthouse parking space.
“Make sure all three of you are ready to go in five minutes.”
“You got it. We’re primed for whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” Mac strode toward his private elevator flanked by Beck and Ethan.
* * *
Mo startled as her crate rolled a short distance and stopped. A lock popped open. Mo rolled to her back and drew her knees to her chest. She’d kick her way out of this thing if it was the last thing she did. There was another popping sound a few seconds later. The lid creaked as it started to open, and Mo rammed her feet into the top. It made contact with someone and knocked them off their feet. Whoever it was stumbled and fell.
“Fuck, you broke my nose. Son of a bitch.”
Mo screamed and forced herself to sit up. A stiff breeze cooled her sweat-soaked scalp. “Get me out of here. Help me,” she yelled as she flopped around trying to get on her knees. “Untie me,” she shrieked until she was gasping for air.
Someone placed a firm hand on the top of her head.
“Stop it. I can’t get you out of there while you’re thrashing and irrational.”
Irrational? Mo stilled. She knew that voice and recognized the familiar scent of cologne. What? “Jason,” she mewled, “is that you?”
“Yes. Now help me get you out of there. I’ll slide my hands under your arms and lift you. Do not hurt me again.”