Mallorca, Spain
Verena’s heart was beating so fast she thought it might punch through her sternum. The Rodman-55’s powerful spotlight had snapped on a few seconds earlier, and now its beam was pinned on her. She raised an arm to shield her eyes from the cone of blinding white light, but it didn’t dull the sting.
A voice barked commands in rapid-fire Spanish through a bullhorn.
“This is the Guardia Civil. We will be boarding your vessel. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
Any remaining hope that Verena had that this might have been a regular maritime inspection vanished. Though she spoke Spanish fluently, she decided she wasn’t about to reveal that fact to the boarding party.
Twenty seconds later, the hull of the patrol boat nudged against the Azimut’s.
Verena scowled and shouted in English over the engine noise. “Careful there! Any damage will come out of your pocket!”
Moments later, four figures stepped aboard—three men and one woman—all in Guardia Civil uniforms. They wore dark green coveralls, black bulletproof vests, ball caps, and bright orange personal flotation devices. The woman carried a shotgun, and one of the men held a compact submachine gun. The other two had holstered sidearms.
No one was pointing a weapon at her yet, so she took that as a small victory.
“Can you turn this away from me?” Verena asked in English, motioning toward the spotlight. “It’s blinding me.”
An officer with a well-groomed beard stepped forward. “I’m Capitán Molina. You the owner?” he asked in heavily accented English.
Verena gave a dry laugh. “I wish. It’s a charter. Captain Burton has all the documentation,” she said.
She gestured for Burton, who was standing beside her, to hand over the papers.
“It’s a two-week charter, Capitán,” Burton said, offering the charter agreement. “We’re scheduled to return to Valencia in nine days.”
“This vessel was seen near Port de Sóller this morning,” Molina said, flipping through the manifest.
As he spoke, Verena noticed that two of the officers were fanning out across the deck.
“That’s right,” she said. “We anchored about two miles south of there. Gorgeous diving site.”
“Are you aware an American journalist was abducted in Port de Sóller earlier today?”
“Today?” she repeated, feigning surprise. “In Port de Sóller?”
Molina gave no reaction. He just stared at her. He was tall, trim, and looked to be in his late twenties. Verena wished she knew what Molina had been told aboutVeloceand what his orders were. She assumed that if the Guardia Civil knew Hobb was aboard the yacht, they would have sent more than one patrol boat and maybe even a chopper for support.
“How many people aboard?” Molina asked.
“Three. Myself, Captain Burton, and the chef. He’s asleep in his cabin.”
“So . . . you’re the only guest? Miss . . . ?”
“Verena Kaine.”
“It’s a large yacht for just one person.”
“Didn’t realize that was a crime,” she replied.
Molina flipped another page on the manifest. “This shows six guests and two crew members.”
Verena shrugged. “Yeah ... well, they’re in Palma. Club-hopping is my guess.”
“Are there any weapons on board? Anything me and my team should be made aware of?”
She tilted her head, as if offended. “Of course not!”
