Free Sleepwalker by Karen Robards

fascinated, the thief came up behind her as she fished the keys out of the cubbyhole beside the steering wheel where they were always kept.
    “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
    “Nope. Wait, where are you going?” He turned to look after her as, securing the keys just in case it should occur to him that he could leave her behind, she jumped off the boat. As soon as the Playtime hit open water, any of Uncle Nicco’s guys who were anywhere near the vicinity would know what was up. That white hull would be way visible, and the sound of the motor would carry. To prevent them from instantly jumping on the Jet Skis or the runabout and giving chase, she needed the keys to every other watercraft in the building. Running from vehicle to vehicle, thankful she knew where everything was kept, she snatched them up.
    “I was starting to get a little worried there” was how the thief greeted her when, after having untethered the boat, she leaped back aboard the Playtime, keys jangling all the way.
    “If I’d wanted to hand you over to the security guys, I wouldn’t have told you to run through the tennis courts, now, would I?”
    She pushed past him, pulling out the exhaust knob, which ventedany fumes that might have built up around the engine. Having thus prevented the boat from potentially blowing up, she shoved the Playtime ’s key into the ignition and deposited the other keys on the wooden dashboard.
    He watched her. He had, she noticed, set the suitcase down beside the mate’s chair nearby. She had bad news for him: the chance that he was going to get to keep so much as a dollar of that money was slim to nonexistent. But given the circumstances, she decided to clue him in later.
    “I hate to remind you of less happy times, but at that point I was holding a gun to your head. Your cooperation was kind of expected.”
    Before she did anything else, Mick hit the button on the remote that started in motion the garage-type door that opened onto the lake. It made enough noise going up to make her stomach roil and set her teeth on edge. Casting anxious glances over her shoulder at the door behind them, knowing the lock wouldn’t hold for long if any of the guys really wanted in, she turned the key in the ignition. Compared to the grinding of the door, the engine’s gentle purr as it started up was little more than a whisper. Uncle Nicco kept his toys in tip-top shape, and this, a vintage, lovingly restored, thirty-six-foot Chris-Craft cabin cruiser, was one of his summertime favorites.
    “Speaking of, give me my gun.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, she held out her hand imperatively.
    He gave her a long look. “I don’t think so.”
    “It’s mine. I want it back.”
    “You’ll get it back. When I’m sure you won’t use it on me.”
    He was standing beside her now, at the helm, watching her work the twin throttles, which could be tricky. The deck behind her was open; the cabin was below, reachable by narrow stairs behind a door to her left. With a tiny galley and head, Playtime slept six, in very tight quarters.
    “You say that like you think you’re the one in charge here. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m driving the boat.”
    “You want to get out of the way, I’ll be glad to take over.”
    “This thing is forty years old. It’s temperamental. For example, if you don’t handle the throttles just right, the engine floods. That happens, and we’re not going anywhere. You want to take that chance?”
    He didn’t say anything, which she took as a no. She was too busy maneuvering the boat away from the dock to smirk at him.
    The heavy metal door in front of them rose slowly, so slowly that she was practically dancing in place with anxiety as the smooth black surface of Lake Erie was revealed what seemed like an inch at a time. A path across the water gleamed ice-blue with reflected moonlight, beckoning her to follow it to safety. The city proper was to the north, accessed by water via the Detroit River.