kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller) by Rick Chesler Page A

was when Tara spotted a man bracing himself against the RIB’s tubular console frame, a pistol in one hand.
    Pointed their way.
    “Dave, get the boat ready to leave, but don’t move us until I say ‘Go,’” Tara ordered.
    Dave jumped to their boat’s console and started the engine.
    “Anchor—Kristen, get the anchor,” he shouted. Kristen dropped the flash drive’s lanyard around her neck while running to the bow on the side of the boat that faced away from the gunman.
    Tara, for her part, was eyeballing the vessel for any kind of law enforcement logo—Coast Guard, police, city lifeguards—anything to possibly explain the legitimate presence of a firearm at sea. There was a logo of some kind painted on one of the pontoons, but she knew it did not represent a law enforcement agency. She found herself reaching for the FBI issue 9mm Glock holstered in plain view at her waist, fingers unsnapping the catch with practiced ease. She still didn't expect to have make use of the weapon, but years of accumulated instinct told her to have it ready.
    Tara removed a small pair of field binoculars from a pocket and trained them on the boat’s logo: A red fish with large eyes and oversized scales.
    Where have I seen that?
    And then it hit her, hard, as her mind’s eye pictured the lapel pin of the Chinese man who’d jumped from the high-rise the day before.
    The detective made a mental note to look into the meaning and prevalence of this fish when she returned to the office. The dragonfish! The woman in the condo had said they were a common Chinese good luck symbol. But Tara hadn’t seen any of them in her first year in Hawaii, and now she’d seen two in the same number of days.
    The RIB’s blasting loud-hailer cut into her thoughts as the black boat slowed, approaching the dive boat.
    “ Aloha ! Give us what you found down there and we won’t hurt you,” a male voice called. He and his cohort were both Asian, although their features were largely concealed behind oversize sunglasses and hats, a look that was not out of place on the water.
    “Anchor, Kristen—now!” Dave called as he revved the motor in neutral, priming it. His hands scrambled across a console shelf, tossing items aside. He found a fish filet knife and gave it to Lance, who was sitting low on the floor of the boat.
    “Lance, take this to Kristen. Cut the anchor line. Go!”
    Lance turned his good eye toward the approaching RIB, clearly frightened, but he ran forward in a low crouch that soon took him to the bow, where Kristen was struggling with the anchor chain.
    “Give me the radio,” Tara said to Dave. She would identify herself, put a stop to this now. Dave handed her the transmitter. She held down the switch and addressed the boat on a common marine channel. “Black inflatable, this is Special Agent Tara Shores, FBI. Check your weapons and state your intentions immediately!”
    The RIB cut power, now coasting toward them.
    On the bow, Lance handed Kristen the sharp knife. He held the anchor line taut for her to cut. Then the anchor chain was sliding over the bow rail with a strident grating noise, and Tara was yelling at Dave, “Go, go!”
    Dave shoved the engine into forward with all seventy-five horses the rental boat’s outboard had to offer. He saw Kristen and Lance go tumbling toward the stern as the boat started up. Probably a good thing, Dave thought—they’re safer down low on deck. He hunched beneath the steering console, stretching an arm up to grip the wheel. Tara kneeled on deck, one hand on her Glock, the other steadying herself on the rail.
    Aware they were hopelessly outclassed by the RIB’s superior horsepower, Dave pointed their craft toward the island, using the dash mounted compass to verify that they were heading toward shore. Dave knew that with every boat length closer to land he brought them, the more witnesses there would be in the form of other boats, canoes, kayakers and paddlers.
    Then Dave heard Tara shout,