Don't Turn Around Read Free Page B

it.
    Without breaking stride, Noa grabbed the rung of the ladder leading to the dive platform. She slung herself up and over the gunwales and dropped to the deck. She lay there, keeping very still as she tried to control her breathing.
    Footsteps approaching. They suddenly slowed. Noa stopped breathing entirely as they paused. The deck of the boat was ten feet off the ground; she could hear someone panting just below her.
    “Where the hell did she go?” a guy gasped.
    “Damned if I know.” The second voice was deep and guttural, the accent more Rhode Island than Boston. “Wicked fast for a little girl. How’d she get out?”
    “Jim was supposed to be watching her.”
    A snort in response. “Figures.”
    “Cole is gonna go ballistic when he finds out.”
    At that, they fell silent. Out of the corner of her eye, Noa saw a smear of blood on the gunwale where she’d stepped on it. She must have left other traces on the blacktop and ladder. She silently prayed that they wouldn’t notice.
    A radio crackled.
    “I’ll get it,” Rhode Island muttered. After an electronic chirp, he said, “Yeah?”
    “We’re meeting in the far east quadrant to regroup.” The voice coming through the radio was authoritative and deadly serious. Cole, Noa guessed. He didn’t sound like someone you’d mess with.
    “Roger that,” Rhode Island replied. Another chirp, and he laughed. “You believe this guy? ‘Far east quadrant,’ like we’re back in Haji-land.”
    “No kidding. Man, I hope this doesn’t take long. I wanted to catch the end of the game,” the other guy said.
    The voices started to move away. Noa waited a few moments, then released her held breath. She was ten feet from the door to the main cabin. She crawled forward quickly on her belly, then reached up to turn the handle. The door was locked. She fell back against the deck and gritted her teeth. Finding it open would have been too much to hope for.
    Noa scanned the deck for something to pick the lock. She knew from past experience that boat locks were designed more to stymie problem teenagers than experienced burglars. Luckily, she just happened to be both.
    The deck was clear except for a small tackle box tucked beneath one of the benches lining the railings. As quietly as possible, Noa eased over and got it open. Scrounging around inside, she found a small fishhook: not ideal, but it would have to do.
    It took five minutes to pick the lock. It would have been quicker, but the throbbing in her chest and foot was distracting. Plus she was forced to work at an odd angle, reaching up with her arm. Twice she had to yank it down as more guards passed the boat.
    Noa waited another minute, straining to detect anyone nearby, then slowly opened the cabin door and slid inside, shutting it behind her.
    Blinds were drawn over the tinted windows, shadowing the interior. She could just make out a plush living room set, leather captains’ chairs, and a solid table. Everything was bolted to the floor, but otherwise could have been straight out of any upscale furniture catalog.
    Noa got to her feet and went down a few steps to the lower deck. She was in a narrow hallway, four doors off either side and one at the end. The first door on her left accordioned open to reveal a tiny bathroom. She went in and unhooked the latch for the medicine cabinet. She was in luck: It was fully stocked; apparently the owners didn’t bother clearing the boat out for winter storage. She sat on the toilet seat and examined her foot. A gouge ran along the heel of her right foot: It was long but didn’t look deep. She awkwardly held her foot over the sink, biting her lip as she poured antiseptic over it. After the wound stopped fizzing, she dabbed it with Neosporin and bandaged it with gauze.
    She took a deep breath, which sent another spasm of pain through her chest. Reluctantly, she eased up her shirt.
    Noa had seen the bandage when she changed into the scrubs, but there hadn’t been time to check