by Susan Mann
“Clear!” James called.
She popped out from behind the wall.
“Cuff him and meet me on the platform,” James said. “We can catch them on one of the Jet Skis.”
“Copy.” She headed for Yuri while James strode for the stairs.
“Darius, you got eyes on the tender?” James asked as he descended the steps.
“Affirmative. I’m right overhead.”
“Copy,” she heard James say.
Quinn listened to James identify himself to the crew on the platform and explain the situation while she restrained Yuri’s hands behind his back. She picked up the Kalashnikov, flicked on the safety, and released the iconic curved magazine. A yank on the charging handle ejected the chambered round and sent it arcing through the air. She stuck the magazine behind a throw pillow on the couch and hid the rifle behind the bar.
Now that Yuri and his weapon had been secured, she trotted to the top of the steps. His back to her, James watched two crewmen tug the Jet Ski into position at the platform.
She was halfway down the steps. A metallic click from above and behind caught her attention. She craned her neck and spotted an unaccounted-for crewman standing at the back rail two decks up. He pointed a pistol directly at James’s back. The tattoo on the inside of his arm was Perun’s thunder mark.
She raised her Glock and squeezed off three shots.
Chapter Thirty-Two
James whirled around.
The gun dropped from the man’s hand and hit the platform with a clatter. He reeled backward and out of sight.
Body buzzing, Quinn bounded down the last few steps and took her place beside James.
“Thanks,” he said and kissed her.
“Always.” She heaved a breath in relief.
The two crewmen goggled at her.
James chuckled as he bounded onto the Jet Ski and straddled the seat. “I’ve guess they’ve never seen a quick-draw librarian before.” He punched the ignition and started the engine.
Quinn hopped on, sat directly behind him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Now they have. From the looks of things, they won’t forget.”
“Nope. You’re kind of unforgettable.” He gripped the handlebars and yelled, “Hang on.”
She cinched her arms around him, crushing her front to his back.
The Jet Ski leapt forward with such violence, she would have somersaulted backward into the Mediterranean had she not been holding on for dear life.
James hunched over the handlebars and slalomed the watercraft through seagoing traffic. The fine spray kicked up by the wake at their feet dampened Quinn’s legs. “Darius!” he shouted over the rushing air and engine noise. “I can’t see the yacht tender. Are you above Borovsky?” The helicopter hovered in the distance a couple hundred feet above the water.
“Affirmative.” After a beat, Darius said, “I see you. You’re a half mile out and closing fast.”
“Can you strafe the water in front of them? Slow them down?” James asked.
“Negative. Too many boats.”
The section of the motorcycle-like seat Quinn straddled was higher than James’s, giving her a good vantage point to search the area from over his shoulder. They were headed straight for a stretch of coastline where it was nothing but breakwaters protecting waterfront hotels. “Where are they going? The port’s that way,” she shouted and pointed to her left. Crashing into a wall of rocks didn’t seem like a very solid getaway plan.
James steered behind a yacht they were rapidly closing in on. They both lifted from the seat to let their legs work as shock absorbers as the watercraft bounced over the yacht’s trailing wake.
Once the yacht no longer blocked their view, Quinn spotted the tender only three hundred yards ahead. The wind swept away her whispered, “Oh crap.”
They were speeding directly toward a beach crowded with holiday sun worshipers. A line of small buoys bobbed in the water, demarcating an area for swimmers to enjoy the warm water.
“They could drown someone,” she yelled.
James had no choice but to slow the Jet Ski as they closed in on the swimming area. The beach was lined with cabanas, umbrellas, and lounges.
At the last second, Dmitri, who Quinn could now clearly see standing at the wheel, veered the tender away from swimmers bobbing in the water and toward a small dock.
The bow of the tender dropped when Dmitri cut the throttle. He spun the wheel and the boat swerved. It didn’t plow into the dock, but it came in hard enough that Borovsky tumbled out of his seat. Dmitri rushed to the side of the boat and gripped a cleat to keep them from drifting.
Borovsky clambered to his feet and scrambled off the tender, leaving Dmitri to act as a human mooring line.
James steered the Jet Ski directly at the tender. Quinn’s eyes stayed pinned on Borovsky, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other. His hands had been empty when he jumped over the railing when all hell broke loose. In the time before he escaped from Perun’s Chariot, he’d apparently sought out and grabbed a briefcase. That led Quinn to believe it was crammed with incriminating evidence he needed to keep from the authorities who would inevitably swarm the yacht. The kingpin sprinted across the short, narrow causeway toward a small boathouse.
“Darius, you got eyes on Borovsky? He’s about to go inside that little building,” Quinn said.
James cut the engine and let the Jet Ski drift forward. He already had his Baby Glock trained on Dmitri, who was now lashing the tender to the dock.
“Yeah, I see him,” Darius said. “He’s through and headed for the main building.”
“Main building of what?”
“A beach resort.”
They were barreling headlong into a hostage situation. Or worse.
The front of the watercraft drifted forward and gently kissed the tender’s aft. James didn’t bother tethering the Jet Ski. He hopped onto the dock, his pistol never wavering from the center of Dmitri’s chest. He took Quinn’s hand and swung her up. She sailed through the air and alit lightly next to him.
Dmitri stood stock-still. A pistol lay on a nearby seat cushion.
Like his gun, James’s eyes never left Dmitri as he spoke. “I think it’s fair to say we’ve developed a bit of a soft spot for you. Please don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”
Uncertainty crossed Dmitri’s face as he weighed his options. His eyes flicked from James to the pistol on the seat and then to Quinn.
“Please, Dmitri,” Quinn said. “Don’t.” She considered pulling her tranq pistol and ending the standoff. Fearful her movements might precipitate a shootout, she remained motionless instead.
Quinn swallowed and braced herself for what was to come.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dmitri’s shoulders slumped in defeat and his hands rose in surrender.
Relief washed over Quinn as she dug yet another pair of plastic cuffs from her bag. While James kept his pistol trained on Dmitri, Quinn hopped into the tender and searched him. Between the Sig Sauer Dmitri had taken from James earlier, his own nine-millimeter GSh-18 pistol, and the nasty seven-inch knife sheathed at his ankle, the man was a walking armory.
Quinn directed Dmitri to sit. “You made the right choice,” she said and cuffed his wrists together through the steering wheel. “You play nice with the authorities and maybe it won’t turn out terrible for you.”
“Darius, where’s Borovsky?” James asked.
“I don’t see him. I think he’s inside the building.” A few seconds later, Darius said, “Oh, nope. I see him. Looks like he couldn’t get in. He’s still on your side of the building. Headed toward the big pile of rocks to your left.”
“Sydney, send a team to our current location to pick up Dmitri,” Quinn said. “No need to come in hot. He’s unarmed and secure.”
“Roger that,” Sydney said.
James scanned the rocks and then pointed. “There he is.” He took Quinn’s hand and hauled her ont
o the dock. “We gotta go.”
“Bye, Dmitri.”
Weapons lowered but ready, they loped across the boardwalk, through the boathouse, and past the stunned employee behind a desk. Out the front, they pivoted left and hurried along the path. Borovsky was already halfway up the bank, picking his way over the rocks at a diagonal.
“Sydney, we need you to scrub all security camera footage for this location,” Quinn said. “And send the police out to Borovsky’s yacht. Tell them four bogies are tranqed and cuffed, one’s been shot—condition unknown—and there are three trafficking victims locked in a stateroom and one hiding behind a bar on the top deck.”
“Roger that.”
Quinn heard computer keys furiously clicking.
“Darius,” James said. They came to the end of the path and followed Borovsky onto the rock pile. “What’s at the top of this bank?”
“Avenue Princesse Grace.”
Borovsky stopped unexpectedly and swung his pistol around.
They dove for cover behind a palm tree.
Borovsky fired. Bits of rock flew up in the air like tiny volcanic eruptions.
Quinn lay still and tried to ignore the rock jabbing her rib cage.
When the bullets stopped coming, she poked her head around the tree. Borovsky had disappeared.
James trained his pistol on the top of the ridge. “Darius. Sitrep.” They couldn’t move until they were sure Borovsky wasn’t waiting to pick them off once they were in the open.
“Borovsky’s standing in the middle of the street with his gun pointed at an oncoming car,” Darius said.
James and Quinn were on the move. They scrabbled over the rocks as fast as they could.
As they neared the top of the bank, Borovsky’s shouts tumbled down from above.
Darius continued his play-by-play. “He’s pulled the guy out and dumped him on the street.”
An engine roared and tires screeched. Quinn didn’t have to be told what happened.
“And he’s off,” Darius said.
Quinn and James cleared the rocks and ran across the dirt to the street. The man who had just been carjacked stood in the middle of the road, unhurt and extremely pissed. Red faced, his neck veins bulged as he screamed in Italian and shook a fist in the direction Borovsky had escaped.
Predictably, the spectacle had brought traffic going both directions to a halt.
“Darius, what kind of car?” James asked.
“I can’t tell exactly. It’s a black supercar. Ferrari, maybe. I’m too high to see the badge.”
James went to speak to the incensed victim still in the throes in his epic diatribe. James shouted a question at him in Italian. He received a dizzying, spittle-infused torrent of words in response.
Long, angry car horn blasts failed to remove them from the middle of the avenue.
Returning to Quinn’s side, he said, “No wonder he’s furious. He was driving a Pagani.”
Quinn’s eyes grew wide. “Holy crap. A Huayra?”
“Thankfully not. A Zonda.”
“Still super expensive. What do we do now?”
The driver at the front of the long line of traffic leapt out of his car. Face twisted with rage, he charged toward them, clearly intent on physically removing the human blockade. He seemed completely indifferent to the fact both Quinn and James were armed.
“We chase him,” James said. He grabbed Quinn’s hand and sprinted for the now driverless car. As it turned out, it was the same red Ferrari 458 Spider James had lusted over the night before.
James headed for the driver’s side while Quinn raced for the passenger’s. She gripped the latch and used momentum to pull the door open. She slingshot around and threw herself into the seat.
The second her door closed, the car rocketed forward. The Ferrari’s owner clawed at the door handle as it sped past.
Quinn swiveled around and watched the man run after them. After about twenty yards, he stopped and stood helpless with his arms limp at his sides. He disappeared from sight when the car made a violent left.
Once she was no longer pressed against the door by the force of the turn, she yanked the seat belt across her body and jammed the buckle into the slot.
“Darius, where’s Borovsky?” James asked.
Quinn pulled up a map on her phone. Their quarry had at least a three-minute head start. Even in a Ferrari, she wasn’t sure they could catch him.
“Working his way up the mountain, west on Avenue du Président Kennedy.”
Quinn scrutinized the map. “Got it.” She set a course and said, “Stay on this until we loop to the right. I’ll let you know when to turn again.” She scanned the sky and spotted Darius’s helicopter following Borovsky in the distance. “And, babe? If we’re going to catch him, you need to channel your inner Formula One driver.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He grinned and revved the engine. With the Spider’s top down, the screaming, powerful growl filled the air like a sonic perfume. It was intoxicating. “Oh, baby,” he rumbled.
She shot him an amused look. “I think I’m offended. I’ve only ever heard you make a noise like that when we’re in bed together.” Her elbows, pressed into the seat, stabilized her as they careened around the loop. The tires squealed in protest.
The road narrowed and grew steeper. James downshifted accordingly. “I could say the same thing about you and Double-Doubles.”
She shrugged. “True.” She checked the map and said, “Hang a left at the end of this road.” As the car climbed higher, her eyes were drawn to the impossibly blue Mediterranean. “Oooo. I know. We should eat Double-Doubles in a Ferrari.”
“Now you’re talking.” A smile curled on his lips. “If the time we ate them in a town car is any indication, it’ll be really fun.”
“TMI, people,” Darius grumbled. “Sheesh.”
“Sorry,” Quinn said even though she wasn’t.
At the end of the road, James made the left. Now that the road was wider, he opened up the engine. He swerved the Ferrari in and out of traffic, blowing past every car ahead of them as if they were standing still.
They steadily climbed and left Monaco behind. Looking down, Quinn took in the entire principality nestled against the mountains at the edge of the sea.
She was well aware they were on a desperate chase to apprehend a powerful Russian crime boss. And it wasn’t exactly what she should be thinking about given their current situation. But she couldn’t get over how incredibly hot James looked as he maneuvered the Ferrari through the winding, twisting roads of the French Riviera. With the wind tousling his hair and the way his body was fully engaged in handling the precision machine—it all made her heart rate skyrocket.
She wrangled her inappropriate thoughts, returned her focus to their task, and checked their progress on the map. Unless Borovsky was as good of a driver as James, which she severely doubted, they had to be getting close. Plus, they were practically under the helicopter. “Darius, we’re in the red Ferrari. How far behind are we?”
“Less than a mile. You’re gaining on him, and fast.”
James barely slowed as they raced up on a nasty hairpin turn. Quinn swallowed a yelp when the back end of the Ferrari wiggled as he accelerated out of the turn. A glance into his face told her he was having the time of his life.
Quinn’s palms, on the other hand, were sweaty. Only the short guardrail flashing past her side of the car stood between them and a steep drop down the mountain.
“He hit traffic and turned onto another road,” Darius said and told them where to turn.
“Is it a dead end, I hope?” James asked.
Quinn checked the map. “No. Sorry. It leads to a major road.” She slipped the phone under her thigh and searched for the back of the black Pagani. “I wonder if he knows that or took a wild-ass guess.”
“Don’t know. All I know is this needs to end before he gets on that main road.”
The Ferrari went faster than she’d thought possible.
“Thanks. Now we need to get him to pull over.”
“Maybe we can give him a little encouragement.” Quinn pulled out her Glock and held it out the window. “I hate the idea of putting a bullet hole in a quarter-of-a-million-dollar car.”
“More like a half million. At least.”
She groaned. “Not helping.” With the engine behind the driver, the back of the car was substantial and there wasn’t much of a back window. She pulled the gun back inside the Ferrari. “He probably wouldn’t even realize a bullet hit it. I’d just be wasting ammunition.”
“The road curves too much for us to pull up next to him. I can’t see oncoming traffic.”
Quinn surveyed the road ahead. “At that next right-handed bend, I’ll see if I can get a shot at the passenger side.” A car passed them going in the other direction. “As long as it’s clear.” With both hands on her Glock, she rested her forearms on the top of the car door and trained her sights on the Zonda.
James adjusted the Ferrari’s speed so she could have a clean shot as the Zonda came out of the bend. It went into the turn and was obscured by the top of a tree.
It flashed into the open.
Quinn fired three quick shots.
The passenger-side window shattered.
The Pagani swerved toward the sheer face of rock on the other side of the road.
A delivery truck came around the blind corner from the other direction. The driver blasted the horn and slammed on the brakes.
The Pagani swung across the road and missed the truck. Borovsky overcorrected and ran out of road. The supercar crashed through the low stone wall and sailed over the edge.
James brought the Ferrari to a stop.
The sickening sound of a massive crunch and shattering glass came from below.
And then there was silence.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Quinn leapt from the Ferrari and inched toward the edge of the pavement. Standing at the brink, she cautiously peered over the precipitous drop and beheld the grotesque scene one hundred feet below. The Zonda lay on the road below, its doors gone and its front crumpled. Borovsky had been thrown from the car and now lay unmoving and in a contorted and unnatural position ten feet from it.