Page 150 of Rescuing You

Fat raindrops plopped on his windshield. Any second, the skies were going to open up.

Michael parked in an alley and fast-walked in the rain back to the lot. He hopped a fence and approached the hotel from the side, keeping close to bushes and trees that, with the help of the stormy darkness, would hide him from lookouts.

The hotel was bed-and-breakfast-sized, three stories high and probably held no more than four rooms per floor. The crumbling and dilapidated exterior told him this was no four-star property, but he doubted Waleed and company had chosen it for luxury.

As Michael reached the back of the property, his suspicions were confirmed. It wasn’t the rooms Waleed had wanted but the private dock. Sailboats, fishing boats, and a few personal watercrafts—Jet Skis or WaveRunners or the like—bobbed on the choppy swells.

His gaze snagged on the vessel at the far end. It was larger than the rest but too short to be considered a yacht—maybe thirty feet from stem to stern. Beneath the deck, Michael assumed there was a galley and perhaps a bedroom. Perched a few steps above the deck, a small glassed-in cockpit.

Unlike the rest of the boats, lights glowed from within this one. And it was crawling with men.

He sent a pin to his team and tapped his earpiece. “They’re on a boat at a private marina, preparing to leave.”

“Don’t engage,” Brock said.

Michael counted four men on the deck, one more in the cockpit—all armed, he assumed. He could be rash sometimes. But he wasn’t stupid.

“How far out are you?”

“Rain and traffic are slowing us down,” Brock said.

Stone added, “Five minutes.”

But the men on deck were unwinding ropes. Pulling buoys into the watercraft.

The engine rumbled to life. Water bubbled behind it.

The boat backed out of the slip.

“They’re moving!” he shouted. “You’re gonna need a boat. A fast boat.” He scanned the private marina once more. “There’s nothing here that’ll work.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. But there was nothing large enough for the whole team.

Staying low, he jogged toward the dock, looking at the only options faster than the boat now motoring away. Jet Skis.

He bolted toward the hotel’s rear door.

“We’re headed to the marina,” Stone said. “We’ll secure a boat there. We’ll contact the Hellenic Coast Guard. I know you like to go it alone, but⁠—”

“Call in all the help you can get. Call the US Navy if you want. We have to stop them.”

“Uh, not sure the Navy’s anywhere nearby, but⁠—”

“I’m getting a Jet Ski,” Michael said.

“No!” Brock’s command was sharp. “Stay there.”

Michael reached the hotel door and yanked. It was locked. He muted his earpiece and pounded until a clerk yanked it open.

Michael had no idea what the man was shouting at him in Greek. “I need the keys to one of the Jet Skis. Now.”

“No, no. We don’t rent in storms⁠—”

“It’s an emergency. I don’t have time to explain.”

The man stepped back, only then seeing the Glock Michael had pulled from its holster. His eyes widened and his arms went up like this was a stickup from an old Western.

Michael lifted his own hands. “I’m not going to hurt anyone. I need those keys, though. Now.”