“Yeah? What’s up?” she asked, keeping her eyes closed.
“I need to get you to the airport ASAP,” he said. “You’re needed somewhere else.”
Chapter Two
Port de Sóller
Mallorca, Spain
Caspian Anderson powered up the steep incline, his focus locked on the treacherous coastal trail ahead. The path hugged the edge of a sheer drop, and although it offered breathtaking views to anyone foolish enough to glance sideways, it was narrow, uneven, and in Caspian’s opinion, designed by someone with a personal vendetta against joggers.
The Mediterranean sun blazed overhead, turning Caspian’s morning run into a full-fledged endurance test. Sweat soaked through his shirt, plastering it to his back like an unwelcome second skin. He grimaced, regretting—just slightly—that he hadn’t listened to Liesel and brought a hat. Sure, he would have looked ridiculous, but at least his forehead wouldn’t be slow roasting like it was now and the back of his neck wouldn’t feel like it had personally offended the sun.
Caspian usually preferred to run earlier in the morning when the air was cooler, but today, he and Liesel had stayed in bed a little longer. While the memory of Liesel’s fingers and lips on his skin made him smile, Caspian was now paying for his tardiness. Though it was only midmorning, the heat was relentless, and the unforgiving sun was turning his eight-mile run into a real challenge. His legs felt heavy, and his hard, uneven breathing was a clear indication that his lungs were working overtime as he fought against the thick, humid air.
His Garmin watch vibrated with a gentle reminder that he should hydrate. Caspian slowed to a stop, wiped his forearm across his brow, then dropped down into a push-up position, his palms pressing into the dirt as he steadied himself for the next burn.
Fifty push-ups. Let’s go!
He powered through them, the muscles in his arms and chest straining, the intense heat pressing down on him as if he had added a one-hundred-pound dumbbell to his backpack. When he was done, he stayed on the ground for a few more seconds to catch his breath. He had two more miles to go before reaching the hotel and the pool he knew was waiting for him. The thought of plunging into the pool’s cool water was enough motivation to force him back to his feet. He stretched his legs and, as he did so, allowed himself a moment to take in the breathtaking scenery.
Caspian had heard about the Balearic Islands’ exceptional beauty, but Port de Sóller, a picturesque coastal town nestled at the foot of the Serra de Tramuntana, was even more charming than he had imagined. A thirty-minute drive from Palma, Port de Sóller was located in a small, idyllic horseshoe bay on Mallorca’s northwest coast. From his vantage point along the hiking trail, Caspian had an unobstructed view of the town and its bustling marina, where a mix of fishing boats and sleek, modern yachts swayed gently on the water. Beyond the harbor, a traditional wooden tram with four carriages rumbled along the tracks that ran parallel to the beach, shuttling tourists and locals between the port and the inland town of Sóller. A lively stretch of hotels, restaurants, and bars lined the waterfront promenade, their terraces offering a perfect view of the bay’s turquoise waters.
The previous night, he and Liesel had feasted on sharpsnout sea bream—the day’s fresh catch—and local grilled vegetables. Following the recommendation of the in-house sommelier, they had paired it with an excellent bottle of albariño. The fish, succulent, had arrived perfectly cooked, and they had savored each bite as they watched the sun dipbelow the horizon from the patio of a restaurant that had been praised by the concierge at their four-star hotel.
They had spent the last six days scuba diving, sunbathing, and yachting around the island. It had been perfect. While he and Liesel enjoyed their work with the Strategic Support Unit, or SSU—a small division within the DIA’s Defense Clandestine Service that specialized in delicate intelligence operations and was the DIA’s answer to the FBI Fly Team—after their last assignment in Bordeaux, the secluded seaside town offered the kind of peace they had both been craving. Knowing they had ten more days like these ahead of them made Caspian as happy as he’d ever been.
He reached for his water bottle, took a quick sip, then started on the last two miles of his run, wondering if Liesel was still in bed or if she had decided to hit the hotel’s small gym.
He suspected the latter.
Liesel had always been disciplined when it came to training, but recently, her routine had become restless. Even here, while on vacation, he had caught her slipping out of bed before sunrise more than once, only to return about an hour later with her shirt damp with sweat and her skin flushed from exertion. Since Caspian lived in a world where any weakness could get him killed, he understood better than most the need to stay sharp. But sometimes, watching Liesel push herself so hard, he wondered if she was overcompensating, if this was her way to prove to herself, to him, to everyone really, that she was fine.
Caspian wasn’t sure she was.
During a sanctioned operation against a North Korean sleeper cell in France—one that had been attempting to steal high-end satellite technology from an American aerospace firm—Liesel had been shot twice in Bordeaux. Once in the abdomen, and another bullet had grazed her right arm. For a while, she’d been touch and go. She’d pulled through, thanks to the brilliant French surgeon who had worked on her for hours, but Liesel had brushed off every attempt Caspian had made to talk about it. For somereason, she was acting like none of it had happened, as if she could erase the trauma by sheer force of will.
Caspian knew better than to press the matter.
She’ll talk when she’s ready.
Maybe he’d find her in the gym, maybe not. Either way, he knew one thing: Liesel Bergmann wasn’t one to let anyone, not even him, see her struggle.
As Caspian rounded a bend, something caught his eye. A large yacht was anchored in a small cove just beyond the cliffs. Even from a distance, he recognized the specific design of an Azimut.
Holy shit! That’s the S8 model,he thought, admiring the yacht.
Then he frowned. It was an odd place to drop anchor for such a large boat.
It’s way too close to the rocks. What’s the captain thinking?
Caspian had never seen a boat anchored there before. That was when it hit him. He didn’t recognize this part of the trail.
I took a wrong turn.
Somehow, he must have missed a junction and ended up on a different path. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his running shorts and tapped the screen. The signal indicator was blank. There was no service.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he studied the vessel more closely. In his opinion, the Azimut S8 was a masterpiece of modern yacht design. Its sharp, aggressive lines gave it an unmistakable presence on the water. The yacht’s hull, painted a crisp silver, had dark-tinted windows running along its length. Twin staircases led down to the swim platform, where a Jet Ski was fastened in place. If he had the money to buy a yacht, the S8 would be Caspian’s first choice. But at a price of four million euros, chances were that it would remain a dream.
