Page 46 of Every Last Breath

The team would track the helo with the drone flying high enough to remain undetected. With an unknown flight time, they’d need to follow in person as well, at a distance. They were excellent operatives, and there was no one more skilled at directing field missions than Sanborn. Her backup would be there when she needed them.

The landscape shifted, and they coasted in the air over the great blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Nestled against Cole, keeping up their cover, she hardened herself. Meditation had helped her get through the Farm, the covert CIA training facility at Camp Peary, Virginia. She’d learned the tools of espionage and how to recruit assets, sharpened the self-defense skills Cole had taught her.

Now she cleared her mind, concentrating on breathing, letting the edginess rev inside. No distraction. Her focus crystallized.

Cole settled against her, body tense, his gaze on the water.

Hours later, fading sunlight winked across the amber water in a backwash of diamonds. The helo approached a leviathan luxury yacht shimmering on the horizon. Two hundred feet of glass and steel gleamed like something out of a Bond movie.

The helicopter descended as her nerves rose.

Maddox scanned three decks. Six guards in black suits patrolled the main level, automatic weapons for accessories. There’d be more bodyguards on the other levels.

The chopper touched down on a helipad. Training hammered her instincts, every muscle tight. Two guards carrying HK MP7s—serious firepower—hustled to open her door.

Outnumbered and outgunned, the odds were seriously stacked against them.

Every mission was a gamble. The outcome came down to training and determination. She had both. And this time, she had Cole, a man who redefined the very nature of beating the odds.

* * *

International Waters, Atlantic Ocean

7:10 p.m. EDT

Briny air prickled Cole’s senses, ratcheting him up on high alert.

He extended a hand, helping Maddox out of the helicopter. A warm gust of wind caught her dress and sent the side slits billowing, flashing her long, lissome legs. She’d covered the bruise on her thigh with makeup. Brown ringlets were piled on her head in a fancy updo, tendrils brushing her strong, slim shoulders.

The dress was provocative yet classy. In it, she was the most elegant, jaw-dropping creature alive. Having her on his arm, even as they walked into the lion’s den, filled him with inexplicable pride.

Two armed guards in black suits greeted them with instructions for them to lift their arms for a pat down. The guys had the rough and tough look and stench of mercenaries.

Cole went first, extending his arms. He’d been frisked before, but these guys were thorough, venturing closer to his crotch than any in prior experiences, even checking inside his shoes. The pen in his jacket pocket garnered a casual glance before it was returned, and his prayer beads were dismissed entirely.

There wasn’t much clothing on Maddox to check. The guard kept a neutral gaze, running his hands down the sides of her rib cage and over her flat stomach.

Cole’s whole body tightened as he resisted the urge to clock the guy just for putting his hands on her. The bottom of her dress danced and twirled in the wind, displaying too much skin for his comfort. The guy did a double take. Cole moved in, roping a possessive arm around her waist.

The guard checked Maddox’s purse, removed a lipstick, and felt the handbag’s lining. Once satisfied, he returned her things and said, “This way.” He escorted them down a flight of stairs to the main deck and opened glass doors to the interior of the yacht.

They strolled into a swanky room that dripped money, boasting leather seating, an art deco dining table long enough for twelve, a crystal chandelier, plush carpet, and a gleaming ebony piano.

Off to their right, a wrought-iron spiral staircase led to the lower level.

Four bodyguards armed with submachine guns, slung over their arms under their jackets, circulated through the room. They were spread far apart. If necessary, Cole could pick one off and secure a weapon. The furniture in the room was solid, would provide cover under fire.

He noted anything in the room he could use as a weapon. Lead crystal ashtray. Champagne flute. Decorative marble obelisk on the side table. Cord from a lamp. Dining chair.

What Systema martial arts lacked in artistic fluidity it made up for in cold, buttery efficiency.

Piano music floated through the luxurious space from the far side of the room. The haunting melody tugged at his mind. Something familiar. The open top of the Steinway obscured the face of the musician, but Cole zeroed in on another exit behind him that should lead to the front of the yacht.

A stocky guy paced beside the piano, drinking champagne. His poorly tailored tux was atrocious. Looked as if a bicep might bust free any minute, while the jacket draped his plump midsection rather than being tapered to fit. The extra girth would slow the guy in a fight. Cole could take Nervous Guy with little effort, but he had a beefy companion built like a brick shithouse. Probably plus-one security. That guy would require work, but Cole would have speed on his side.

The oaf in the ill-fitted tux caught sight of Maddox, stopping in his tracks. He ogled so hard and long, his gaze Velcroed to her body, Cole felt violated for her. Any excuse would do to introduce the guy to his fist.

A third man with an athletic build, about their age—early thirties—prowled the room with singular focus. He made no eye contact with Cole, unnatural purpose in how he observed the room. Not as if afraid but as though completely resolved and considering when to strike.