“I don’t know about God and Lucifer,” she said. “My father’s an ordinary human being. So are you.”

“There’s nothing ordinary about me. Prosecutors and even my lawyers made the mistake of thinking I was like other men. I have resources and connections the FBI can’t touch.”

“You won’t when you’re in prison.”

Estabrook gave a low chuckle. “Your father must be in torment right now, knowing that I have you and he’s responsible. Knowing he had me, and he let me go.”

“It wasn’t his idea. He objected to your deal. He’s not all powerful.”

“He didn’t believe I was capable of violence. He wanted my friends more than he did me. Imagine the possibilities going forward, Detective. I challenge the most powerful law enforcement officer in the world every day for the rest of his life, until he finally dies a bitter, broken old man.”

“You’re just not that special,” Abigail said.

This time, Estabrook’s laugh wasn’t right in her ear, and she realized he must have stood up straight. His voice was congenial when he spoke. “At first I just wanted John March dead. Now, I want him to suffer. I want him to suffer and suffer and suffer.” Estabrook was silent a moment, then added, “There are others I want to kill with my own hands.”

Abigail concentrated on her breathing before fear could take hold, as her captor obviously hoped it would.

In for eight. Hold for eight. Out for eight.

She heard a door click shut but continued with her breathing exercise. She did three sets before she stopped and focused again on her surroundings.

“You have relentless friends.” It was the man with the British accent, speaking softly, close to her. “They’re looking for you now.”

“Estabrook’s gone?” she asked, calmer now.

“For the moment.”

She swallowed, her mouth and throat dry from lack of water-and from tension, from fighting panic, nausea and claustrophobia. “It’ll go better for you if you set me free now, before my friends find me.”

“I take your point.”

He sounded pragmatic, neither relishing nor concerned about the prospect of going up against various arms of the law enforcement community.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Around eight o’clock. Are you injured?”

“I’m fine. Let me go before-”

“You’re in a tough spot, Detective. I suggest you not waste your energy arguing for something that can’t happen.”

“Then tell me about my friends who were home when your bomb went off. Scoop, Bob, Fiona.” She used their first names to humanize them, to make them real to this man. “What’s their condition? Are they all right?”

“There were no deaths, and Detective O’Reilly and his daughter are uninjured.”

She steeled herself against any emotion. “Scoop?”

“Detective Wisdom was cut by flying shrapnel. He’ll survive, but he’ll have a rough go for a while.”

“Owen,” Abigail whispered. “What about him?”

“A handy sort, your man Owen.”

She sank into her chair, her arms aching from being tied behind her back. How could she have brought this down on her friends? “You have baggage,” Bob had told her when she was a rookie determined to make detective, a grief-stricken widow who had quit law school and wanted to help other people get answers. He hadn’t minced words. “Husband an FBI agent killed on your honeymoon in an unsolved homicide. Daddy set to become the next FBI director. I should send you packing back to law school.”

At first, Bob had considered Owen more baggage, with his wealthy family, his constant travel with Fast Rescue. These were distractions as far as Bob was concerned, reasons she couldn’t dedicate herself to the job, reasons she didn’t fit in with the department and never would. But she had proved herself.

She heard footsteps as the Brit approached her in her chair. “All of you are remarkably lucky,” he said.

“That’s what I feel right now. Lucky. Did you try to kill Owen, or did you mean to kidnap him, too?”

“Kill.”

Her stomach lurched, but she refused to throw up. “Another bomb.” She kept her tone unemotional, professional. “Where? His family’s house on Beacon Street?”

“His car.”

“Bastards.”

“He was warned in time. So, love,” the Brit said, closer to her now, “how do you suppose that happened?”

Abigail wriggled in her chair to distract him from any hint in her expression that she had even the remotest theory.

“You’re meant to respond,” he said mildly.

“I have no idea how it happened. I was stuffed in the back of a van. But your plan hasn’t worked the way it was meant to, has it?”

“Did I say it was my plan?”

She realized he was in front of her, perhaps a few inches away, and she warned herself not to be misled by his quiet, almost wry tone. This was a disciplined, controlled and very dangerous man.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“Nothing at the moment, love. You and your friends are formidable foes. Your dad as well.”

“That’s the fun of it for Norman, isn’t it? You’re a pro. You know he’s taking unnecessary risks for his own amusement.”

“Perhaps in our own way, love, we all do.”

Abigail tried to relax her jaw muscles and ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. “I’ve heard a small boat pull up to this one several times. What did you do, fly Estabrook into a private airport, then bring him here?”

“That doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“That’s true. You can walk away. Help me. Let me go back home and plan my wedding.”

The Brit gave a short laugh. “And what would I get by walking away? Hold still, love. I’m going to cut the ropes on your wrists and ankles.”

“What’s your name? What should I call you?”

“Fletcher.”

“First name or last name?”

“Either.”

It might be real, or it might not. “You’re British?”

“Long live the Queen.”

He had a sense of humor, anyway.

“Wrists first,” he said. “You’ll feel the knife. Don’t panic, although I can see you’re not the type.”

He slid the cool blade of a knife between Abigail’s skin and the rope. He was too efficient-too professional-to indulge in unnecessary cruelty. If he decided to kill her, he’d be quick about it, at least.

“Easy, love,” he said as she felt the bonds give way. “Go slow. You’ll be stiff. You’ve been in the same position for a while. I’m freeing your ankles next.”

As she eased her arms over the back of the chair and onto her lap, Abigail winced at the flush of pain and barely noticed him tackling the ropes on her ankles. She slowly pushed one foot forward, biting back tears. Blood rushed into her toes and fingers, and, against her will, she moaned out loud. He untied her blindfold, carefully peeling it from her eyes. She blinked a few times, unkinked her arms and legs, and finally focused on her surroundings. There was a light on now, and she could see a pool table in the middle of the stateroom, next to her chair, and a low sectional sofa on the length of an interior wall.

Her captor leaned back against the pool table, giving her a moment. He was a clean-shaved, exceptionally fit-looking white male, approximately forty years old, skimming six feet, with close-cropped, medium brown hair and gray eyes. No visible scars or tattoos or other distinguishing features. Not that any were needed for Abigail to remember him.

He smiled. “Take a good look, love. You’ll want to describe me accurately to your sketch artists.” He gestured to the left side of her face. “The men hit you?”

She resisted a wisecrack. “The one with the South Boston accent did.”

“He’s a bit of a hothead. Care to take a moment while I’m here and freshen up?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He stood up from the pool table and gently took her by the elbow. “On your feet, then.”

He started to help her up, but she shook him off and rose on her own. She was stiff and sore, but steady. He led her to a door in the back of the stateroom, next to a wet bar.