“Listen to me carefully,” it said. “I have decided to accept your offer for your freedom. I’m going to remove the tape over your mouth, and I want you to answer my questions. Say nothing else, just answer. Do you understand me?”

Holly nodded.

“My question is, what do you need to accomplish the transfer of funds?”

The tape was ripped off. Holly panted for a moment.

“Answer me.”

“I need a computer and an Internet connection.”

“That’s it?”

“That and for you to find a way to convince me, beyond any doubt, that the moment I complete the transaction, I will be freed.” She heard the rip of duct tape being torn, and a fresh strip was slapped over her mouth.

“I don’t know if I can convince you of my intentions,” the voice said, “but I will promise you this: If we can’t make this happen quickly, you will be dead in less than twenty-four hours.” She felt the man leave the room.

Holly felt less drugged than usual, and she forced herself to start planning. First, she had to convince the man that she would cooperate with him, to the extent that he would untie at least one hand. She could still feel the weight of the small 9 mm pistol on her belt under her sweatshirt, and if she could get at that, she would not hesitate to shoot anybody who stood in the way of her freedom.

For the first time, she began to feel something like hope.

She took deep breaths, sucking as much air as possible into her lungs, and her brain began to work.

54

LIEUTENANT JAKE POTTER stood outside the dockmaster’s office in the Nantucket marina and trained his binoculars on Hotshot. The marina was a hive of activity, as crews readied their yachts for the start of the next leg of the race. Engines started; sails were hauled on deck, shaken out of their bags and bent onto spars and forestays; boats began to leave their berths and motor toward the open harbor.

Hotshot was no different from the others. Jake counted five young men in the cockpit or on deck, each working furiously, and no large blond twins were among them. He had been had. What he would have enjoyed most would have been to remove his Colt Cobra from its holster, empty it into the yacht’s hull just below the waterline and watch it sink.

Instead, he drew his cell phone from its pouch and punched in a number.

“Sergeant Young,” a voice said.

“Sergeant, this is Lieutenant Potter of the Nantucket police department.”

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”