“Actually,” Mia said, “would you mind showing me the twin cabin first? I know it’s a strange request, but my client has two grandkids, and that third stateroom is a big factor for him.”
Francisco nodded. “Completely understandable,” he said. “It’s more generous in size than people expect. Let me show you.”
They entered through the galley and walked through the salon, which was bright and modern. Francisco led the way down the staircase. Directly ahead was the VIP stateroom. At the bottom of the stairs, Francisco turned and gestured to the right. “The twin’s just here. Across from the guest head.”
He stepped aside, holding the door open.
“After you,” he said.
“Not at all,” Mia replied. “Please, you go in first. It will give me a better feel for the space.”
Francisco chuckled and stepped inside. That was all the time she needed to pull the garrote out of her fanny pack. A second later, she stepped behind him and looped the garrote over his head.
And then she pulled. Hard.
Francisco was about to turn around when something looped around his neck and then bit into his skin with shocking speed. At first, he thought it was a stray fishing line he hadn’t seen, but then something slammed into the back of his knee, as if someone had hit him with a hammer, and he buckled forward. The thing around his neck, whatever it was, dug in deeper, tearing his skin. He clawed at it, but there was nothing to grip. It wasn’t a rope ... it felt like a guitar string, but sharper. Much sharper.
He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t speak, but he tried to call out anyway. No sound came out but a single low wheeze of air. Only then did Francisco realize he was no longer standing. He was on his stomach on the floor between the two berths. A knee drove into the small of his back, pinning him, then his head was yanked back, arching his spine unnaturally.
Torres? Was Torres doing this?Why?
His thoughts scrambled, and his vision blurred at the edges. He spent every ounce of strength he had left trying to wedge his fingertipsunderneath the wire cutting through his neck, but he just couldn’t get his fingers to grip on anything but flesh and blood.
Jana.
Her face came to him in a rush. She was smiling, and not just with her mouth but with her eyes, too, the way she did when they talked about moving to Monaco or about buying their own boat someday.
She’d said they’d be unstoppable. And he had believed her.
He still did.
Twenty-three.
Mia stood still for a moment, listening.
The twin cabin was silent now, save for the subtle hum of the yacht’s systems as the air-conditioning kicked in. Francisco lay face down at her feet, one arm curled under his torso, the other stretched toward the edge of one of the berths, as if he was still reaching for help with his bloody hand.
She didn’t feel bad for him. Not exactly.
He hadn’t deserved to die. But he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had shaken the wrong hand.
Mia crouched over him and rolled the body onto its side, just enough to reach into his front pants pocket. His phone came out easily. She slid it into her bag. His key fob was a bit harder to pull out, but at least he had kept it in the same pocket, so she didn’t need to roll the body to the other side.
She took a long look around the cabin. It was a bloody mess, but there was no sign of struggle outside the twin cabin. The garrote had done its job. It had been a while since she’d used one, but it was always great fun. Definitely more so than a gun.
Mia straightened her blouse, then grabbed her phone. She opened the secure messaging app and typed a short message to Verena.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Valencia, Spain
Caspian pulled the vehicle Samantha Ranger had set up for him—a black Audi Q5—into a curbside slot near the south end of Passeig de Neptú. He kept the engine running as he checked his surroundings through the side mirrors. After a minute, he shut it off and stepped out into the Valencia midday heat. Across the street stood La Pepica, a paella institution that had been open since 1898 and had seen everyone from Hemingway to royalty walk through its doors.
The eleven-mile drive from Manises Airport had taken just over thirty minutes, which wasn’t bad considering the traffic along the A-3 and the midday surge along the Avenida del Puerto. Caspian hadn’t expected to be here alone, but with Liesel’s injuries, that’s how it was going to be.
Thanks to Nicklas Drescher’s fast coordination, a BND operator stationed in Istanbul who had clearly been ready to intervene had reached Liesel within minutes of Caspian alerting Ranger. The contact had exfiltrated her from the alley and gotten her to a private clinic on the Asian side of the city. The doctor—who Caspian had no doubt had been well compensated for his effort and discretion—had worked quickly. While Liesel’s blood loss had been significant, the wounds were noncritical. She would need rest and probably rehab, again, but she was alive.
And out of the fight,he thought.
