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

by Blair Babylon

  Matryona slowed to a walk. “I think we can catch her.”

  Dree flipped herself forward, rearing up and lunging to try to get to the door in the most pathetic slow-speed chase ever.

  Matryona reached inside her coat pocket and came up with a gun in her hand, which she aimed at Dree.

  Dammit. She’d almost made it.

  At least she was going to die during an escape attempt instead of like a victim. At least she’d chosen that.

  She tried harder to get to the door anyway. From the long way down the cavernous warehouse and with that short barrel on the handgun, Matryona might take a few shots before she managed to hit Dree.

  Industrial shelving units rose in front of her. She flipped over and wiggled between them, blocking Matryona’s line of fire.

  Outside the garage door at the far end of the warehouse, the wind roared like a tornado was touching down.

  Two tornados, actually.

  Kir, Matryona, and the other two guys turned away from Dree toward the whirlwind.

  She scooted faster even though the side door was probably thirty yards away, desperately trying to escape during the chaos because she wasn’t going to get a fourth chance.

  Outside the tall rolling door of the warehouse, a sleek black helicopter touched down, and the prop wash from its rotors sprayed dirt and gravel from the parking lot into the warehouse like a massive dust storm.

  And then another one landed.

  Kir and Matryona threw up their arms to cover their eyes.

  People leaped out of the helicopters.

  Gunfire cracked at the far end of the warehouse, and bullets pinged off the cement and steel, ricocheting through the air.

  Dree stayed where she was.

  Maybe those jerks would all kill each other.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Warehouse Outside of Nice, France

  Maxence

  Maxence leaped out of the first helicopter before the skids touched the gravel parking lot.

  Casimir jumped down beside him, landing lightly on his toes, his handgun pointing at the ground in front of him.

  Before they’d left the yacht, Twist had led them to a small closet behind his computer equipment and begun distributing guns.

  Maxence hadn’t asked questions.

  Micah had been texting frantically for the prior several minutes, his thumbs moving over his screen interspersed with mumbled comments into the dictation box. “Okay, they’re in. We’ve got two more guys going.”

  After Twist made sure Maxence, Arthur, and Casimir were versed in gun safety and knew how to load their weapons with the occasional sarcastic glance between him and Micah, Twist wrapped two more handguns in towels and packed them into a backpack.

  At first, Maxence was confused as to why Twist would require two extra weapons, but you never knew with Americans. Maybe he could shoot with his feet.

  When they walked out on the floating wooden dock, two more exceptionally tall, fit men were standing on the back of a yacht two boats down, waiting for them. Maxence recognized Blaze Robinson and Logan Bell, two other American scholarship kids from Le Rosey making their way in the world without a fortune to back them up.

  Blaze Robinson was another Midwestern American like Twist, dark-haired and dashing with a strong jaw and cheekbones reminiscent of generations of Norwegian farmers. His pale, Nordic blue-fire eyes were another genetic remnant of his Viking ancestors who’d looked to the sea and new lands.

  The other guy, Logan Bell, was yet another American who had managed to grow an inch taller than the rest of them, topping out at six-foot-five, and he had the robust, muscular physique of a Nebraska corn-fed Angus bull. His sandy-brown hair fluttered in the breeze, and his bright emerald eyes snapped with a green fire of excitement.

  Twist handed over the backpack. Blaze glanced inside and grinned.

  It was interesting how Twist and Micah had been able to drum up two more tall, strapping men with a taste for havoc at a moment’s notice. Maybe they shouldn’t call them the scholarship kids. They were more like the scholarship mafia.

  After the seven of them had assembled, Arthur arranged for a second helicopter to also meet them on the helipad on the roof of the Monaco Yacht Club, and no one asked any questions about where the helicopters came from or why Arthur was able to call them.

  The short flight lasted ten minutes, with Arthur texting Twist, who was riding on the other helicopter, the whole time.

  From the air, the warehouse looked entirely unremarkable, practically indistinguishable from the fifteen others within a few blocks’ radius, which was probably the point. The gray gravel parking lots over yellow-beige dirt did not vary, nor did the corrugated steel roofs that reflected the late morning sunlight.

  Arthur and Casimir stepped out of the first helicopter after Maxence, aiming their handguns at the dirt and gravel in front of their feet. The prop wash from the helicopter blades fanned dirt toward Maxence, stinging his cheeks.

  Casimir said, “We’re going to look pretty stupid if we go in brandishing guns just to retrieve your phone, but here we go.”

  The second helicopter landed farther down in the parking lot, skidding in like a skier snowplowing to a stop. Four men streamed out of that helicopter and crouched as they ran toward Casimir, Arthur, and Maxence.

  Twist jogged to a stop beside Arthur.

  Maxence asked him, “You’re sure this is the right location?”

  Twist said, “This is where the signal is coming from, and I’m still tracking it. Your phone is in there. I don’t know about anything else.”

  Maxence nodded, and the seven men fanned out as they hurried toward the warehouse, guns clenched in their hands.

  A bearded man peered at them from around the edge of the open commercial-sized garage door. He shouted something back into the warehouse as he yanked a gun out of the back of his pants and aimed toward them.

  Beside Maxence, Arthur shouted, “Gun!” and dropped to the ground, his weapon still trained on the guy who’d spotted them.

  Maxence threw himself sideways as the other men did the same, bringing his weapon to bear in the direction of the gaping garage door.

  A gunshot blasted from inside the warehouse.

  A bullet whizzed past Max’s ear.

  The seven of them scattered, diving for the sides of the open door.

  Arthur crouched beside Max on one side of the cavernous garage door. “They don’t think we’re here for a misplaced mobile phone, either.”

  The helicopter pilots slammed the doors on the choppers, and the aircraft rose into the air and tilted as they sped away.

  Damn. Max hoped Arthur could recall them.

  Casimir and Twist pressed themselves against the wall on the other side of the open garage door. Caz’s brows were lowered, and his mouth pressed in a grim line. Twist’s electric blue eyes were bright with adrenaline, his dark hair whipping around his head as he checked their surroundings for attackers.

  Micah, Logan, and Blaze stood behind them, scanning the parking lot and environs for movement.

  More gunshots blasted. Bullets buzzed from the entrance.

  Casimir turned back to the guys behind him and said, “I think there were six of them with guns. Maybe a few other guys, too, without weapons.”

  “And seven of us with guns,” Twist said. “I like our odds.”

  Arthur shook his head. “Frontal assaults get everyone killed. It’s better to infiltrate, not charge them. Is there any other way into this place?”

  Maxence pointed to the side and whispered to Arthur. “I’ll go around this way. If I can find another door, I’ll sneak in and look for Dree.”

  “Good man. We’ll keep them busy here.” Arthur dropped to the ground and belly-crawled to peer around the edge of the garage door.

  Twist did likewise on the other side of the opening.

  Behind Casimir, Micah and the others motioned toward the far corner, indicating they would go around the warehouse in the other dir
ection.

  Arthur shot two rounds into the warehouse as Maxence picked his way around the corner, trying to be quiet.

  More gunshots. Inside, a man screamed.

  The sun was nearly directly overhead, and only wispy winter clouds trailed in front of it. Maxence’s shadow pooled around his feet, crawling over the gravel like a dark cloud.

  Halfway down the sheet metal wall of the warehouse, a steel side-door interrupted the corrugated metal.

  Maxence edged along the side of the building, checking behind him and holding the gun down and aimed in front of his feet.

  As he neared the door, Micah and the other two turned the corner around the far side of the warehouse.

  Maxence waved them up, standing plastered to the wall beside the door and waiting.

  They moved quickly, all of them holding their guns expertly with straight arms and pointed at the ground in front of them as they moved.

  After Maxence had been kidnapped as a child, he’d taken self-defense classes in hand-to-hand combat and weapons training, but he’d thought such skills were somewhat rare. Perhaps all Americans were taught to do that, or maybe just these particular few happened to know what they were doing.

  Micah, Blaze, and Logan made it to the door, but they stayed on the other side. The door had a square window on its upper half, and someone might be watching the window or notice their shadows if they tried to cross.

  Maxence turned the knob gently and found the door unlocked. He tried to ease the door open, but something heavy was lying against it.

  The door flipped toward him in his hand.

  He jumped back as cardboard boxes tumbled out. Pottery spilled out of the boxes, the dull red and blue ceramic vibrant in the sunlight.

  One of the vessels cracked. White powder leaked onto the yellowish clay dirt.

  More shouts sounded inside.

  Maxence dropped to one knee and peered around the edge of the door.

  A few of the guys pointed at the opening door, but more gunshots were streaking in through the truck entrance, so they turned back and began firing again toward the opening at the end of the warehouse.

  Still crouching, Maxence ran inside, keeping behind the boxes and shelves near the wall.

  Micah Shine, Blaze Robinson, and Logan Bell slunk in behind him, holding their guns aimed at the far end of the warehouse.

  Near the open garage door, the people inside the warehouse traded shots with Arthur, Casimir, and Twist, who were providing cover and misdirection. Everyone inside was focusing on the gunfight.

  The warehouse was enormous, a corrugated-metal cavern reminiscent of an aircraft hangar, and it was filled with a sickly sweet smell that was rapidly being overpowered by the acrid, sulfurous stink of gunpowder. Sallow sunlight leaked through yellowed skylights in the roof, and the shadows were pale gray with the sun high in the sky.

  At the rear of the warehouse, doors stood ajar that must have led to storerooms and office space.

  Maxence’s heart seized and seemed to stop beating for a moment. That office space and storeroom area must be a rabbit warren of closets and shelves and niches that would take hours to search, even if they were sure that Dree was here.

  Or they might’ve already killed her, and his phone was in a desk somewhere, luring them into this trap.

  But Maxence couldn’t leave.

  He walked near the wall, dodging behind shelves and a forklift and watching behind himself in case the people at the other end looked back and started shooting at the lone guy sneaking around the back of the warehouse.

  A little bit of movement off to his left drew his attention. Blaze and Logan were also creeping among the shelves, boxes, and bins, while Micah stood sentry near the door they’d come in.

  The three of them moved toward the enclosed area, Maxence looking back at the front, then at the doors in front of them, then looking back, and he slid around a shelving unit.

  What looked like an enormous white bag stuffed with potatoes fell toward him, flopping against his legs and then sagging to the floor.

  Dree Clark looked up at him like her head was sticking out of the top of the bag. “Augustine? I mean, Maxence! Oh, my God!” she whispered.

  Black mascara smudged under her eyes, and the fine spider silk of her blond hair had become a pale yellow, matted mess.

  She had never been more beautiful in his eyes.

  He dropped to his knees beside her. “Are you all right?”

  She scream-whispered, “Hell, yeah! Get me untied!”

  White cord wrapped her body, binding her arms to her chest and her legs together. He shoved Twist’s gun in the back of his pants and hoped he didn’t shoot himself in the ass while he yanked at the rope. “Jesus, this is tight. I don’t have a knife.”

  He bent to grab Dree and heaved her tubular form over one of his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Her head hung down his back. She made a little “Eep!”

  Turning, he sprinted back toward the door of the warehouse.

  Micah saw him coming and started windmilling his arms at Blaze and Logan.

  Feet pattered behind him, and Maxence and the three other guys sprinted out of the side door.

  As they ran back toward the parking lot, Arthur was talking into his phone.

  The helicopters fluttered to the ground past the far corner of the warehouse, beyond the direct lines of fire from the garage door.

  The door’s wide opening gaped between Maxence’s party and the chopper.

  More bullets screamed out of the opening.

  Arthur dropped to the ground again and shot into the warehouse, squeezing his gun again and again. “I’m covering you! Run!”

  Gunshots exploded in the air as Maxence sprinted across the open space, carrying Dree toward the helicopter.

  Micah, Blaze, and Logan fired into the door as they ran, keeping the other side busy.

  Arthur dropped the magazine out of his gun’s handle and slapped a new one in to reload. He followed them, shooting into the warehouse as he ran.

  Micah, Blaze, and Logan veered off, running flat out for the second helicopter.

  Casimir and Twist were already sitting in the first chopper and stretched out their arms when Maxence got there. He shoved Dree forward with his shoulder, flipping her into the back seat. They caught her and dragged her into the cabin by the cord binding her like she was an enormous fish he’d reeled in. Max clambered in just as Arthur vaulted into the front seat, and they slammed the doors as the helicopter shot upward.

  Maxence had Dree’s feet in his lap because her head was oriented at the other end of the seat, resting on Casimir’s thighs. Max grabbed her ankles and knees because those were the only parts of her he could reach, and he desperately needed to hold onto her. “Dree? Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right!”

  The motor of the helicopter strained as they cleared the trees. The aircraft was rated for four people but now carried five large men and one soft, curvy, enraged woman, her mouth gaping widely as she yelled something they couldn’t hear over the deafening howl of the engine and rotor blades.

  Arthur scrambled to distribute hearing protection headphones to everybody while cramming one on his head.

  As soon as Max had his headset on, Arthur kept handing back headsets and said, “I think I hit at least one of them in the leg. Twist might have hit two. He’s a frightening good shot for a prep school kid. I’ll use my phone to call for ambulances. I have a lovely little bit of code on it that blocks my location and identity.”

  Twist said, “Nice. I’d love to take a look at that.”

  Luckily, there were enough headphones to go around, and Casimir jammed one on Dree’s head over her ears as she lay across their laps.

  She shouted, “Get these ropes off of me! I swear to Jesus and Mary and all the saints, if I ever see any of them again, anytime and anywhere, I am going to rip their hearts out with my fresh manicure and eat them without smearing my lipstick!” Dree’s voice thundered through their headphones,
and everyone scrambled to turn down the volume on their headset.

  “Who did you hit?” Maxence asked Arthur. “Was it Kir Sokolov?”

  “I don’t know. It was one of those wankers who were shooting at us. He looked portlier than Kir did in the photos.”

  Dree yelled, “I will rip off their legs and beat them to death with their own hairy thighs!”

  Twist strained in his seat to reach his back pocket, and then he flipped open a tool, exposing a wicked knife blade that he carefully inserted between the cord and Dree’s plump arm. As soon as he turned the knife, the edge caught the rope, and it popped, unraveling around her.

  Dree shook off the coils. “Oh, thank God. And thank you, new guys I have never met.”

  Maxence laughed. “Dree, may I present three of my old school chums and a truly exceptional helicopter pilot, whom I had never met before today.”

  The pilot wiggled his gloved fingers in a wave from the front seat. “Je m’appelle Otto.”

  “Howdy, Otto.” Dree lifted her head and asked Max, “Are these guys royal people or priests?”

  That got a laugh.

  Arthur chuckled very Britishly. “I can guarantee that’s the first time I’ve ever been mistaken for a priest. Wait, no it’s not. But it’s nothing to be spoken of.”

  Dree said to Arthur, “Your voice sounds familiar.”

  “We spoke on Maxence’s phone during the Sea Change Gala, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m pretty glad we did if it led to y’all getting me out of that mess.”

  Maxence made the introductions around. “The English gentleman in the front seat is Lord Arthur Finch-Hatton, Earl of Severn. He lives just outside of London, and his wife was delivered of their first child and heir to his earldom just over a month ago.”

  “Oh, congratulations!” Dree called up to him, even though everyone could hear her just fine through their headphones.

  Arthur puffed up in his seat like he might explode from paternal pride. “We thank you.”

  “And the gentleman under your head is Prince Casimir van Amsberg of the Netherlands. He will never be the king because his older sister is the Crown Princess and seems to truly enjoy having babies. I believe they are up to, what, five? And every time his sister, whom we call Princess Anastasia the Nefarious, feels broody, Caz drops another spot in the line of succession.”