Page 6 of Missile Strike

None of the men were. That much she could tell. He was of average height for a man, maybe five-eight, but everyone was tall compared to her.

He herded them below deck of the yacht her father had rented for an evening dinner cruise.

Cold sweat dampened her forehead before anger rushed through her body, dulling the sharpest edges of her fear.

This cannot be happening. Not again.

A loose strand of honey-brown hair brushed Isabella’s cheek. She tucked it behind her ear and grimaced at the tremor in her fingers before wiping them on the hem of her white tank top.

Think. You aren’t a scared little girl anymore.

Her sister-in-law, Annalise, sobbed next to her, long dark hair clinging to her wet cheeks as she clattered down the varnished wooden stairs in a bright pink sundress and white sandals. She clutched her infant son, Brooks, who wailed, sensing his mother’s distress.

Their kidnappers had taken Isabella’s father and brother Rory to a different section of the yacht.

The two men assigned as her father’s security detail were dead—ambushed back at their vacation villa.

The man with the gun herded them into a bedroom cabin that smelled faintly of cool, stale air, diesel, and salt water. “You will remain here until it is time.”

“What have you done with my husband and son?” Isabella’s mother, Janet Strickland, was pale, her blonde bob slightly mussed, her short-sleeved blue shirt and white tennis skirt rumpled. But her voice was steady, and it helped Isabella tamp down the scream that lodged in her throat, waiting for a chance to break free.

The cold grin and fanatical gleam in the man’s eyes iced Isabella’s blood. “The Great Satan believed the martyrdom of General Salehi would go unanswered. We will bring justice before the eyes of the world upon the criminal and the son who profits from his aggression.”

Isabella’s stomach cramped.

Annalise sobbed even harder.

When the cabin door slammed, closing them in, Isabella’s mother wrapped her arm around her daughter-in-law.

“Hush, Annalise, you need to be strong for the baby.” She guided Annalise, still cradling Brooks, over to the king-size platform bed.

Annalise settled against the pillows. She raised her tear-stained face. “I don’t understand. Why are they doing this?”

Isabella answered. “They blame Dad for the death of a senior Iranian military commander. He was targeted in a US drone strike when Dad was secretary of defense.”

This wasn’t the first time someone had blamed her father for a military action that had ended lives in the war on terror. Although no one in the US would mourn Salehi and the terrorist groups he’d helped fund and train.

The warm beige wood paneling and brown leather accents of the stateroom did little to soothe her tattered nerves. Isabella skirted the bed and found the remote that opened the semi-sheer drapery covering the sealed rectangular window embedded in the hull just above the waterline, fighting the déjà vu crushing her chest and clogging her throat.

Her mother’s gaze found hers, filled with memories of another time and place. “Sweetheart…”

Isabella’s fingers curled. “I’m okay, Mom.”

Losing control was not an option.

Not for any of them if they were going to survive.

She forced air into her lungs, then released it slowly, counting each measured breath.

Stepping onto the bed’s crisp white coverlet, she peered out through the tinted glass. Although she had a feeling no one could see inside, she waved frantically, then pummeled her fists on the window in case the men standing at the far end of the dock could see or hear her.

No one turned in the yacht’s direction.

Annalise gripped Isabella’s ankle, her manicured French tip nails digging into Isabella’s skin. “What are you doing? If they hear you, they’re going to come back and shoot us.”

With a sigh, Isabella gave up and sat next to her mother and sister-in-law, the events of the past hour replaying in her head like a bad movie she couldn’t switch off.

Four men had gate-crashed the exclusive villa her family was renting.