The distant hum of an outboard motor made Caspian shift his gaze. A dinghy was approaching the yacht, cutting through the water at high speed. Caspian noted there were three men aboard the dinghy as it neared the Azimut. The driver, a thickset man wearing sunglasses and a gray windbreaker, kept one hand on the throttle while scanning the water ahead. Another man, also wearing a gray windbreaker, was seated at the front, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The third man, at first glance, seemed like just another passenger. He sat in the middle of the boat, his body slightly slouched, as if he was tired from the bumpy ride.
Caspian was about to jog to the previous junction, hoping to get back to his regular trail, when the yacht’s sliding doors opened, and a woman stepped out onto the teak deck. She was tall and dressed casually in a flowing, floral-patterned dress. Her long black hair was tied in a ponytail. In her right hand she held a large glass filled with a green liquid.
Caspian watched her as she took a sip, her gaze drifting out over the water toward the approaching dinghy.
When the dinghy was about a hundred feet from the Azimut, all hell broke loose.
The man in the middle exploded into action, kicking the driver in the face with brutal force. The driver’s head snapped back, and the boat lurched sideways. Before the man seated at the front could react, the kicker launched himself overboard in a desperate, almost suicidal dive.
And that’s when Caspian saw it. The kicker’s hands were tied behind his back.
What the hell?
The man at the front of the dinghy pulled a pistol from inside his jacket, but the driver, who was still reeling from the kick, shouted something. A brief argument ensued before the armed man dropped the gun onto the boat. Then, in a move Caspian hadn’t expected, he dove into the water after the prisoner.
Caspian watched as the two figures broke the surface moments later. The rescuer, breathing hard, hooked an arm under the prisoner’s shoulder and dragged him toward the dinghy. The driver, who had picked up his colleague’s gun, leaned over the side, grabbed a fistful of the prisoner’s shirt, and yanked him up. The combined force of the driver and the rescuer was enough to haul the prisoner over the gunwale and onto the deck of the boat.
A savage punch cracked across the prisoner’s face as soon as he tried to push himself upright. The driver barked something at the prisoner that Caspian couldn’t quite make out, then restarted the outboard engine. Caspian could see the restrained man struggling to sit up, but a second punch, this one delivered by his rescuer, sent him sprawling sideways. He teetered at the edge of the gunwale, nearly plunging overboard again. At the last second, the rescuer caught him by the collar and shoved him back onto the dinghy’s deck. And that’s when Caspian got his first good look at the prisoner’s face.
His gut clenched.
Like millions of others, Caspian knew who the man was.
Paul Hobb.
A journalist. And a damn good one. The kind who dug into things people wanted to stay buried. The kind who made enemies. While Caspian didn’t personally know the reporter, someone he trusted—and loved very much—did.
Florence Aldrich, the nineteen-year-old he had saved—or doomed, some people could claim—in Zermatt the year before.
Caspian had a complicated relationship with Florence, but he had kept an eye on her since she had moved back to New York. He knew she had befriended Paul Hobb after the reporter had taken an interest in her story and what had happened to her and her family in Switzerland.
The odds of this being related to Florence have to be low, right? Hobb’s a shit disturber. There are plenty of people who hate him.
Despite the heat, a chill ran down Caspian’s spine.
But what if it is related to her? What if Florence is in danger?
After what had transpired in Zermatt, he’d made a solemn promise to himself to always look after Florence, even if she’d been crystal clear that she didn’t want to ever see him again.
He didn’t blame her. After what he had done to her family, how could he?
Whatever Florence thinks of me, it doesn’t change anything. I need to find out who these people are.
Caspian tracked the dinghy as it covered the last fifty feet to the Azimut. The rescuer stepped on the bow, coiled a docking line in his hand, then tossed it toward the yacht’s stern. The black-haired woman caught it, looped it around a cleat, and pulled it tight. The dinghy’s driver eased off the throttle and let the watercraft drift the last few feet until it bumped gently against the Azimut’s swim platform. The rescuer leaned down and grabbed Hobb’s arm. The journalist shifted his weight, using what little balance he had left to stand. He let himself be guided off the dinghy and onto the swim platform. Caspian could tell Hobb’s legs were wobbly, but the journalist managed to stay upright.
Caspian was still processing what he had just witnessed when he heard something behind him.
He froze, listening. More sounds were coming his way.
He wasn’t alone.
Chapter Three
Port de Sóller
Mallorca, Spain
Caspian jumped off the hiking trail without hesitation, tucking his body low and letting gravity take him down the slope. He stopped his roll twenty feet down, his body flat against the uneven terrain. He winced as the sting of fresh scratches burned where some thorny underbrush had raked against him. His sweat made the dirt cling to his exposed skin, and a fine dust coated his clammy forearms, legs, and neck as he lay immobile. With his ears tuned to his surroundings, he pushed away the discomfort and focused on controlling his breathing.
