“Of course. People need to learn what happens when they cross the Sokolov bratva. Then they will be afraid of us, and no one will cross us again.”
“You aresuchan idiot, Kir,” Matryona said. “Why can’t you ever come up with any options other than justkillingpeople? When you kill somebody, there’s a body we have to dispose of. When the police find it, then there’sevidenceon the body of where it was, which isthis warehouse,where we have our stock for half of Europe. If we can make her disappear butnotkill her, then we don’t have a body to hide, and maybe her living body will make some money for us.”
Dree didn’t like any of those options.
She was going to have to escape again.
Chapter Eleven
THE MONACO YACHT CLUB
Maxence
Later, after a touch-and-go at the palace where Tommaso insisted on interrogating Maxence about his health before he would step back and allow the chopper to leave, the helicopter touched down on the roof of the Monaco Yacht Club.
Members of the hospitality staff stood on the side of the helipad to greet them, because while Tommaso might be able to keep a secret, the concierge grapevine was real.
Arthur and Casimir sequestered and questioned several of them, looming over the liveried staff members and demanding answers to queries they had no right to ask, like which berth was registered to Tristan King’s yacht and what gossip they had heard regarding the attack at the Sea Change Gala the night before.
One of the other staff immediately whisked Maxence off to a hospitality suite where he could compose himself, lest the other club members see him in such a state of disarray, whispering, “We are very,veryglad to see you’ve returned, Your Highness. Is there anything I may supply you with? Coffee? A meal?”
“Coffee and food to go,” Maxence told him. “For four.”
Showering while Dree was still out there somewhere—possibly kidnapped, possibly lost, possibly dead—seemed like the most ridiculous waste of Maxence’s time, but Arthur and Casimir were on their way to Tristan’s yacht to try to track her cell phone. Nothing could be done until they found a cell phone signal, or until it had been determined that they could not.
Max scrubbed the sour fear-sweat off his skin in a scalding hot shower, nearly raking his fingernails over his scalp as he washed the stinking salt out of his hair.
Three minutes later, he was out of the shower and slapping the water off his body with a towel with one hand while he tried to yank clean underwear and his dark gray trousers up his legs with the other.
He did manage several decent swipes with the stick of deodorant before he dragged the black tee shirt over his head, and he bandaged the palms of his hands that had been scraped raw by the sharp rust on the ship’s railing.
His valet had included other items: a black jacket, a small bottle of his cologne, and a toothbrush and toothpaste tab. Max made a mental note to give Tommaso a raise.
As Maxence left the hospitality suite, the staff member shoved two white paper bags into his hands. “Be careful with them. We sealed the lids as well as we could. His Highness Prince Casimir said to tell you ‘Row B, berth five.’”
“Thank you.” Maxence raced out of the yacht club toward Tristan’s yacht.
Tristan “Twist” King’s yacht was small by billionaires’ standards, which were the standards of the boats around his. At first glance, it looked like a tugboat among tankers.
Tristan’s boat would have been considered large at many yacht clubs around the world. It appeared to have two decks, most likely one or two downstairs bedrooms and a living room upstairs. The radar array on top suggested it was equipped to cross oceans.
Maxence sprinted down the jetty and vaulted over the low gate onto the boat that he hoped did indeed belong to Tristan King. He yelled, “Arthur! Caz! Where are you guys?”
Arthur stuck his head out of the door on the yacht’s upstairs deck. “Up here! My God, Max, you have to see Twist’s computer set up. I think I’m in love. Don’t tell Gen.”
Maxence took the stairs two at a time. “Did you find Dree yet? Is she okay?” He flung open the door to the upstairs room on the yacht.
Arthur ushered him inside, chortling with excitement. Maxence hadn’t seen him this gleeful since England had last beaten Australia in the Ashes cricket tournament.
The darkened room was plastered with computer screens. Loading bars ran across several of the monitors. Lines of code scrolled on others.
Max stared at the computer screens tiling the room. “It really is a slippery slope from a double-monitor to an evil mastermind’s lair, isn’t it?”
“They’re great screens,” Arthur told him. “Excellent resolution.”
Maxence distributed the coffee and breakfast sandwiches. “But did you find her yet?”
“We’re working on it,” Arthur said, waving him off while he opened the lid of his coffee to examine it. “Twist has procured next-gen chips from Intel and somewhere else in Korea. His graphics cards are like something out of a science fiction movie, and he hastwoof them!”
