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Chapter 72
International waters off the coast of Monaco
April 11, 4:10 a.m.
I PULLED ON a black wet suit top and balaclava-style neoprene hood. The night sky was overcast. There was nothing visible anywhere around us except for faint lights a mile or more off the bow of our Zodiac raft, which floated silently.
Louis was already in his wet suit, lashing shut a rubber dry bag with the equipment we’d need. Randall Peaks was futzing around back by the engine, and I was amazed and pleased at what a Saudi prince could do when he’s grateful to someone for keeping his sixteen-year-old daughter out of the headlines.
Need a raft? No problem. Need weapons? No problem—whatever you need, Mr. Morgan. We’ll move heaven and earth to help Private in whatever—
“Ready?” Peaks asked.
“Oui,” Louis said.
“Yes,” I said, and felt myself slip toward a mind-set I was taught in the marine corps and have continued to cultivate over the years: the cold, alert, and harsh way of thinking that seems to take over whenever I’m anticipating violence.
“Hand signals from here on out,” I said.
Peaks started the electric trolling motor mounted next to the outboard, and we started slowly toward the lights. He cut the motor when we were less than five hundred yards from the 120-foot triple-deck motor cruiser. She was sleek and midnight blue, and if it weren’t for the running lights, I think we would have had trouble finding her even with the GPS coordinates we’d been given.
Peaks lowered an anchor to slow the raft’s drift while Louis and I put on swim fins, masks, and snorkels before picking up the small dry bags. We slipped over the side and breaststroked through the swells, constantly scanning the yacht’s three decks. Nothing moved until we were right on the edge of the glow cast by the running lights.
Then Whitey lit a cigarette and walked forward along the rail of the main deck. The second he disappeared around the front of the yacht, we pulled the neoprene up over our lower faces and swam cautiously toward the stern and a wooden swimming platform to which a small speedboat was tied.
We hung off the rear of the smaller craft, stripped off the snorkeling gear, and opened the dry bags. I dog-paddled around the motorboat clenching a Glock 19 between my teeth to keep it out of the salt water. I placed it on the swimming platform. Louis came up beside me.
He climbed onto the platform first and rolled over tight against the hull, just below the painted name of the yacht, which read “Predator.”
I ignored the threat and followed Louis. Barely on the platform, I smelled cigarette smoke and caught sight of Whitey coming around the port side, still on the rear lower deck, moving as if he were on leisurely patrol.
I couldn’t move without being seen. Instead, I drew up the neoprene over my face and smeared myself against the wooden platform, gripping the Glock, pressuring the trigger safety, prepared to fire.
Whitey’s footsteps came closer, and then stopped. I held my breath, listening for the sound of a gun squeaking free of a holster, or worse, a shout of alarm. Instead, he walked on.
I gave Whitey two seconds before pushing up to my bare feet. Without a word or gesture to Louis, I oozed over the stern and onto the mahogany deck, as smooth and quiet as a snake. Whitey was twenty feet away, ambling and smoking with his back to me. I stalked him.
When I had closed the gap between us to less than five feet, I coiled to strike. Whitey seemed to sense something and began to turn, the cigarette glowing in his mouth. By the time he saw me, the butt of my Glock was already chopping toward his skull.
Whitey managed a cough before I hit him just above his right eye. He dropped dumbly to his knees, probably already out cold. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I hammered him again, and he pitched sideways onto the deck. I got zip ties from the dry bag, bound him to the rail, and gagged him while Louis stood guard.
It was ten minutes to five. The first hint of dawn showed on the horizon. We had to move.
Louis led the way off the rear deck, through a sliding glass door, and into a plush living and dining area. We padded forward, pistols leading, and I thought we were being quieter than your average ninja.
Then the dog started barking.
Chapter 73
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” a muffled and frustrated man yelled in French from somewhere on the deck above us. “Goddamn, it’s just Le Blanc getting coffee!”
But the dog wasn’t listening. He was still barking, and we could hear him bounding toward the gangway, which gave us little time to prepare. I looked around, wanting an alternative to killing the dog, and saw none.
Louis, however, grabbed a cushion and a cotton throw from a love seat.
Before I could reach for another cushion, the Jack Russell terrier exploded from the gangway, back bristled, teeth as big as a Doberman’s. He took two surprisingly long jumps, ducked his head, and leaped at my throat.
I ducked, and he sailed over me. Louis swatted him out of the air with the cushion, jumped on him when he hit the floor, and wrapped up the dazed pooch nice and snug and safe in the cotton throw. We used zip ties to keep him that way, though we could not control his shrill, panicked whines, which must have been relatively normal sounds for the dog to make because the man now coming down the gangway seemed irritated but unalarmed.
