His arms slipped off the rusty railing, then his fingers.
He landed in a heap on the deck, relieved neither of his legs had snapped, and covered his head to protect himself from their impending attack.
One hard blow slammed into Max’s side, crashing into his ribs, but a man’s voice started shouting in the Monegasque language for the others to stop.
No other kicks landed on him.
Maxence parted his arms and looked up.
Michael Rossi, the human bulldog who had assassinated Max’s cousin Nico, stood spread-armed like he was holding the others back. The sun shone on Rossi’s bald white scalp, making it look like a skull.“Stop!”
One of the other guys demanded what the hell Rossi thought he was doing.
“He is a prince of Monaco,” Rossi said. “It is a sin to spill royal blood.”
That argument hadn’t been used for several centuries and certainly hadn’t held up during the French Revolution, but Max was willing to go with it. He wasn’t going to push his luck by agreeing, though.
Some of the other guys laughed, but a few of them looked confused enough that no one else moved forward.
Maxence took his arms away from his head and tried to put a stern but regal expression on his face. He just hoped he didn’t end up looking constipated. He settled for the blandly serene look that Flicka cultivated for times when the paparazzi might be lurking even though it wasn’t an official photo opportunity.
Rossi turned and offered Maxence a hand up.
Max accepted his assistance without allowing his utter shock to register on his face. “Thank you.”
Rossi said, “You landed a respectable punch back at your holding cell. Lopez is still staggering around like he went five rounds with Mike Tyson.”
Maxence nodded. “I did what I had to. I hope he’s okay.”
Rossi clapped his hand on Maxence’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine. You just rang his bell a bit.”
Quentin Sault rushed up and pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Maxence. “What’s he doing out of the storage room?”
Rossi laughed. “He knocked Lopez out with one punch when Lopez was bringing him a sandwich and a bottle of water.”
Quentin Sault said, “Shoot him.”
Rossi’s jaw dropped. “Just because the prisoner got a jump on Lopez doesn’t mean we shouldshoothim. He’s a crew member!”
Sault glared at Rossi. “I didn’t meanLopez.I meantGrimaldi.ShootMaxence Grimaldiin the head and throw his body over the side.”
Chapter Five
NARCOTICS SMELL LIKE ACID AND POISONOUS PLANTS
Dree
The warehouse smelled like narcotic drugs.
As a nurse who worked in a hospital’s emergency room, Dree Clark had been around a lot of narcotics in her life. Considering that most pharmaceutical tablets were coated with a colored layer to differentiate one drug and dosage from another, you think they wouldn’t have much smell at all, but they did. There was a bitterness to narcotics, a smell of acid and salt, and a hint of an orange poisonous plant warning you not to eat it.
Despite the boxes stacked on shelves to the ceiling marked with innocuous logos and words likecandlesandsouvenir keychains, the warehousereekedof it.
Dree didn’t mention that, of course. There was no way she was going to tell the drug dealers she knew she was standing in the middle of tons of their stash.
She’d kept her hands on the laptop’s keyboard, just in case those jerks were distracted enough that she could send an email to somebody or notify the cops or something through the computer. But even though Kir continued to indulge in his tantrum about her not knowing Francis’s passwords and the driver was just standing around looking bored with his hands in his pockets, one or the other of them was always looking at what she was doing.
So she watched them out of the corner of her eye and tried to figure out who on Earth she would even contact with a computer anyway.
