Royal: A Royal Billionaire Novel (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 6)

by Blair Babylon

  Maxence couldn’t see much difference between all the other partial shots and this somewhat better one. In the low-resolution security camera footage, Dree’s kidnapper still looked like a Halloween mask of a ghoul.

  The computer algorithm must’ve been able to tell the difference, though. The next two passes of rendering over the computer-generated sketch refined the man’s face considerably, becoming less cartoonish but just as cadaverous.

  “That’s Kir Sokolov,” Maxence said. “He’s Matryona Sokolov’s younger brother. Kir was at Le Rosey with us, but he looks like he’s lost a lot of weight since then.”

  Casimir squinted at the screen. “Jesus, you recognized him from that?”

  Maxence shrugged. “Matryona introduced him to me earlier that evening, so I knew he was there.”

  Casimir rolled his eyes. “Cheater. You had me going there for a minute.”

  The five men in the yacht’s computer room watched as Kir Sokolov dragged Dree outside and shoved her into the back of a white commercial-style van.

  Micah told Twist, “Freeze it,” and raced his analyzing square over to the van’s license plate.

  They got one digit of the license plate.

  “But it’s French,” Maxence said. “It’s an EU license plate, so it’s longer and skinnier. Monegasque license plates have shorter numbers on them because we only give licenses to a few cars. The stripe on the right side of the license plate has the EU stars and an F, so it must be registered in France. Can you follow it?”

  Twist grimaced. “Your closed-circuit TV cameras on the streets are harder to hack into than your 5G network or the convention center security system. I haven’t managed to get in yet.”

  Maxence turned. “Arthur?”

  Arthur’s steely eyes slid to the corners to look at Maxence. “I would if I could, but I haven’t hacked in yet, either. We came to Twist for his expertise. This kind of hacking isn’t my field.”

  Twist and Micah stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Arthur. Micah asked him, “Oh, really?”

  Arthur glanced at them. “It’s nothing in particular.”

  Twist and Micah shared a glance before they went back to work. Twist said, “Then we’ll have to wait until your phone pings a cell phone tower, but we’ll brainstorm and try to think of something else to try in the meantime.”

  Maxence asked Twist, “How long do you think it will take to find where my phone is?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It depends on whether it’s turned on and whether somebody uses it to text or make a phone call. If someone’s removed or destroyed the SIM card, we’ll never find it.”

  Maxence remained serene, for Max was His Serene Highness, and he must not appear agitated or ready to climb up the wall of the yacht and hang from the ceiling by his fingernails, which were dirty and broken from trying to escape from the locked storage room on the container ship. He asked, “Any approximation of how long, perhaps?”

  “Ballpark?” Twist surveyed the ceiling while he mused. “Might be five minutes, might be never.”

  “How will we know?”

  Twist gestured toward the computers. “Oh, it’ll beep if your phone sends a ping to the towers.”

  The computer beeped.

  Max and Twist turned. Micah half-stood, looking at the computer screen.

  Maxence asked him, “Was that it?”

  Twist jumped to the keyboard and began typing. “Yep, looks like it. Give me a minute.” He ripped a piece of paper from a notebook and scribbled on it.

  Arthur had sauntered over and was peering over Tristan’s shoulder. “Cosine.”

  “Right,” Twist said, tapping the calculator app on his phone and scribbling faster.

  The computer beeped again.

  Micah asked, “Is the signal moving?”

  Arthur shook his head. “Same three towers.”

  Maxence stayed quiet and let the technical people do their work. His uncle had impressed upon him that a good ruler knows when to shut up and let other people do their jobs.

  “Since we have a ping,” Twist said to Arthur, “can you turn on the camera and mic from your phone? Maybe we can get some information that way.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” Arthur began thumbing his phone.

  Max’s jaw dropped. “You were watching me through my phone’s camera and listening to my conversations?”

  Arthur rolled his eyes. “Just because I could doesn’t mean I did. Your life is far too boring to watch like the telly. And it was for your own good.”

  “After we recover Dree, you will disconnect my phone and any other computer of mine from yours, and you will keep your malware to yourself, Arthur.”

  “Fine, fine,” Arthur grumbled.

  Micah packed his computer into his messenger bag, but he was eyeing them when he thought they weren’t looking.

  “Can you see her?” Maxence asked, praying that he could see or hear Dree and that she was all right. “Can you hear anything?”

  Arthur shook his head. “Just darkness.” He held the phone to his ear and closed his eyes. “Maybe there’s something, but it’s muffled like the microphone is buried somewhere.”

  Damn.

  Twist shoved the paper at Micah. “Double check the math.”

  Maxence’s ragged fingernails bit his palms and re-opened one of the scabs across his fingers that the bandages didn’t cover.

  Micah scrutinized the paper and tapped a few numbers into his phone before he stood. “The location is just outside of Cap-d’Ail.”

  “Great,” Arthur said. “Twist can pinpoint the phone’s location as more pings come in, and he can call us with her exact location while we’re en route. Come on, Casimir and Max.”

  The three of them began walking toward the door in the rear of the yacht.

  “Wait,” Twist said, pointing at Maxence with his pencil. “He’s the Prince of Monaco—”

  “A prince, not the Prince,” Max corrected him. “I’m not the sovereign. It’s just a courtesy title.”

  “Okay, but this is nuts. You’ve got two princes and a billionaire earl who are personally going on a rescue mission. That’s insane. Shouldn’t one of you be able to call the police or some special forces or professionals or something?”

  Maxence shook his head. “I’m having a security problem. I can’t trust anyone who works for Monaco or France right now with anything. Monaco’s Secret Service and God only knows how many other departments have been infiltrated or compromised by my Uncle Jules, the Russian mafia, or more likely, both of them.”

  Casimir said, “I’m just a California lawyer. I’m not a working member of the Dutch royal family, and I have no authority. The Netherlands is too far away to call for back-up, anyway. It would take hours.”

  “We don’t have hours,” Maxence said, his chest tight.

  Micah leaned over to stare at Arthur, who had stepped behind Casimir. “Arthur? How about you?”

  He’d been looking down at his phone. “What-what?”

  “No, I’m serious. Why are you three rescuing somebody? Arthur, don’t you know someone in Britain’s State department or something?”

  Arthur chuckled. “Earls and dukes don’t rule Britain anymore. The government frowns on private armies. We’re just window dressing these days.”

  “Don’t you know someone, though?”

  Arthur shook his head, looking for all the world like he was just another clueless rich guy. “No one to speak of.”

  Maxence almost choked. Yeah, Arthur couldn’t speak of anyone he knew.

  It was probably also true that Arthur shouldn’t call anyone to do something for him, either, so the UK government maintained plausible deniability for his actions.

  Casimir said, “So it’s us, and it’s now or never.”

  Arthur asked, “When are you going to have the exact location?”

  “I’ve already got the address,” Twist said, pointing to a screen showing a satellite image of a white rectangle surr
ounded by circular bushes or trees. “It’s a warehouse just outside of the town, rented to a Russian financial services company, the Red Flag Financial Group.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes. “The subtlety of those Russian bratvas knows no bounds.” He turned Maxence away to leave the yacht. “Text me the coordinates.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Twist said, grinning. “How’s about I come along? You guys look like you could use an extra hand or two.”

  “Yes, two,” Micah added. “And if you need more hands than that, we’ve got a few friends two yachts over who might be interested in coming along.”

  Arthur frowned. “It might get dangerous.”

  Twist didn’t stop grinning, and one of his dark eyebrows twitched up. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Slowest Escape Ever

  Dree

  Dree Clark was still trussed up like a caterpillar that was trying to turn into a butterfly, and she was still fuming mad.

  Writhing her hands to loosen the rope hadn’t worked. Rubbing the rope on the floor had only given her a carpet burn on her arm. She’d tried to wiggle her legs to see if she could get a loop off over her feet, but she’d only succeeded in dropping several coils lower on her legs and binding her ankles more tightly.

  She was still lying on the floor of the closet, but she couldn’t see Matryona and Kir Sokolov anymore. They had walked off somewhere else, probably to inspect some of their disgusting illegal drugs.

  The hard floor was pressing on her hip and making it begin to hurt, so she wiggled around until she was lying on her back and staring up into the darkness of the closet. Nothing was going on over at the computer anyway.

  The top of the closet was dark, and the air had the sickly sweet smell of dead mice.

  She couldn’t hear them talking at all anymore.

  Dree flipped her legs over like a snake whipping around and nudged the closet door a little bit, expecting someone to yell at her to stop it.

  But no one did.

  So she did it again.

  And still, no one yelled at her.

  Dree wiggled until she was on her tummy and slithered up to where the door was cracked open to peer out again.

  Beyond the warehouse office closet was a dead forest of the legs of chairs and desks, grungy carpeting, and trash cans, but she didn’t see any human feet.

  Dree rolled over on her side so she could twist her head to look up.

  Still nobody.

  No one seemed to be in the office. They’d just left her there in the closet and gone somewhere else.

  Dree scrunched forward and shoved the door open more forcefully with her shoulder.

  Still, nobody said anything, and Dree couldn’t hear anybody talking or walking around.

  Dree crawled forward by rolling her shoulders and pushing with her knees with her butt in the air. Considering that she was still wearing the white ball gown from last night, she probably looked like the stupidest inchworm that had ever inched.

  But she was on the move.

  Slowly, she slithered, inch by inch, crawl by crawl, scoot by scoot, shoving herself across the carpeting and toward the door that led to the warehouse.

  Her cervical spine hurt from holding her head up, so she tucked her chin down and put her forehead on the floor for more leverage with each push.

  She had no idea what her plan was once she reached the door or escaped, but she could figure that out once she was outside. Surely, there were some cement parking blocks or something out there. She could use a rough edge to wear through the rope.

  She reached the doorway that led to the storeroom where, mercifully, some dolt had left the door ajar instead of locking it.

  Thank God for stupid people.

  Kir had probably left it open. Dree hoped Matryona slapped him upside the head for being so stupid after they figured out she’d escaped.

  Or worse.

  Dree crept out of the office, sticking close to the wall as she inched toward the door that led out to the warehouse. She would figure out how to deal with the doorknob when she got there, but she needed to get there first.

  Maybe she could pull herself up like a cobra rearing to strike and twist it open with her mouth. Putting her mouth on a doorknob was gross, but escaping was more important right now. She could gargle with bleach later. Or holy water.

  The cold cement and small stones sliced Dree’s shoulders and knees through the thin silk of her ball gown as she belly-crawled.

  A chilly wind blew through the storeroom, twirling around the legs of the tall shelves stacked with paper-wrapped bundles and office supplies. The bitter acid stink of narcotics was stronger in there.

  They must be using the storeroom to aliquot the bulk drugs into smaller bags for distribution. Dree hoped that the dust on the floor wasn’t fentanyl, but it couldn’t have been. If it were, she would already be dead.

  Dree kept inching. The platinum cross necklace Maxence had given her for Christmas swung with each of her undulations.

  Something sharp on the cement tore the fragile silk of her dress.

  Garbage littered the storeroom’s floor. Her forehead was lying on a cigarette butt before she realized what it was, and she lifted her head to try to get away from it.

  Unfortunately, cigarette butts weren’t the only thing littering the floor. Dried oil spills stained the cement, and a dead mouse was lying on its back under a storage rack.

  Shockingly, narcotics traffickers didn’t use hospital-level hygienic practices. Filth came with the drug-dealing territory.

  Dree hunched her way through the storeroom, winding around dead insects and rodents and spilled white powder, until she reached the door.

  This door, too, was unlocked and cracked open.

  Kir Sokolov really was a dumbass. If Matryona shot him in the head, the collective IQ of her organization would probably rise ten points.

  When Dree couldn’t nose her way through the door, she curled her feet around and managed to wedge her toes in the crack where the door met the frame and pry it open a few more feet. Something scraped behind the door when it moved.

  She stopped shoving it for a minute and listened to what was going on out in the warehouse, which was just more arguing in several different languages, primarily Russian. The door moving on its own didn’t seem to have raised an alarm.

  And that was probably because Kir Sokolov had been too stupid to set a guard over her. Matryona Sokolov couldn’t be expected to think of everything. Kir wasn’t pulling his weight in their organization. Matryona probably had to keep her brother in the organization for family reasons.

  One of Dree’s uncles who owned a cattle farm had an adult son who was a screwup. Michael was the baby of the family, and his mama and daddy had babied him his whole life. He’d gotten thrown out of college for dealing weed, and he wasn’t even making a profit on it because he was smoking too much of his own wares.

  His mama and daddy kept getting him one job after another with family members, trying to straighten him out, but he was just lazy and didn’t want to do what needed to be done.

  When Dree had been in high school, Michael had come to stay at the sheep ranch and help herd the sheep. Predictably, within a week, he’d lost the sheep. Dree and her brothers had to go out on the ATVs to find them.

  Once again, they’d sent Cousin Michael back to his parents in disgrace.

  Kir Sokolov was the same kind of screwup as Michael had been. Dree pitied Matryona Sokolov for having to put up with him, even though Dree was very thankful for his ineptitude at that moment.

  Dree inched out of the door, trying not to move it as she slithered along the floor. A door wiggling for no reason might attract their attention.

  As she emerged from the storeroom, the huge, rolling garage door was at the far end of the warehouse, dozens of yards away.

  Matryona and Kir Sokolov and several of their lesser goons were standing and arguing beside a commercial shipping truck tha
t had driven into the warehouse.

  “They will never know if we cut the cocaine with ground-up fiberglass,” Kir said. “Their noses are already calloused like a foot. Fiberglass will just shoot right up there.”

  “But what about their lungs?” Matryona asked him. “What do you think inhaling fiberglass dust is going to do to their lungs?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Idiot. Our customers give us money. We don’t want our customers to die because then they will stop giving us money.”

  If Dree ever escaped, she was going to send Matryona a letter of condolence for having to put up with that jerk. Kir was as vicious as he was stupid.

  They were all standing around down there at the end of the warehouse, so there was no way Dree could inch her way out of that garage door without being seen. She needed another escape route.

  About halfway down the side of the warehouse wall, however, a normal-size door was half-hidden behind a stack of cardboard boxes.

  Getting to and through that door was slightly more plausible than crawling past all those people at the end of the warehouse.

  Dree continued at her frantic snail’s pace. Every foot of crawling took a lot of effort and abraded her knees, but she went slightly out of her way to scoot behind bins and a forklift because it kept her out of sight for those few minutes.

  She finally reached the far wall and had perhaps thirty yards to go to the door.

  The floor out in the warehouse was worse than the storeroom. Torn bits of paper littered the edges of the room, but the cigarette butts, caked grease, and insect husks were just too much. Evidently, the Sokolovs were not only hiding from the police but also from France’s workplace hygiene inspectors.

  As Dree flipped away from a disgusting used cigarette that somebody had been sucking smoke through with their gross mouth, her bound legs, which had the maneuverability of a mermaid tail on land, flapped into a pile of discarded soda cans.

  The empty aluminum cans clattered to the cement with a ruckus.

  Down at the other end of the warehouse, Kir and Matryona came running.

  Kir pointed at Dree humping along the floor. “She’s trying to escape again! Stop her!”