I stand holding the tiny tracker until there’s a knock on the door and a sharp question in Italian.
“Give me a minute!” I snap. Then I’m overcome with terror at the thought of what will happen if Capo or his men discover this device.
I look frantically around the small lavatory for a hiding place, but the knock is coming on the door again, louder this time, and I decide there’s really only one thing to do.
I swallow the tracker in one gulp.
I yank the hoodie back over my head, take a breath, smooth my hands down my stomach to calm myself, then open the door and stare up into the glowering face of one of the black-suited triplets. His hand rests menacingly on the butt of his sidearm.
“Had to go number two.” I push past him to go back to my seat.
The assassin takes a long, narrow-eyed look around the bathroom, then closes the door and moves silently past me toward the back of the plane. I stare out the window and watch a rugged coastline rise up to greet us. In a few minutes, we’ve landed at a small airport and are taxiing off the runway and toward a gate.
A cell phone rings behind me. It’s answered with a curt “Ya.” There’s a short silence, then a deferential “Si, Capo. Certo.”
Then one of the assassins is lifting me to my feet with a hand wrapped around my upper arm.
“Ouch! You’re hurting me!” I try to yank away, but his grip is steel. He gives me a quick, hard shake that makes my teeth clatter.
He tells me in Italian how he’d love to hurt me in other ways, to which I furiously respond, “Capo will kill you if I come to him with even a bruise!”
It’s a long shot, but it hits the mark. The assassin’s nostrils flare and his lips thin, but his grip loosens so it’s no longer cutting off circulation.
“Be nice,” I add bitingly, “or I’ll tell him some pretty lies about what you did to me in the bathroom.”
He smiles, a dark, lazy smile that makes my skin crawl. In succinct English, he says, “Who do you think gets his leftovers, bitch?” He drags me closer as I try to pull away. Into my ear, he says hotly, “The three of us share them. You’re a little old, but you’ll do.”
He grabs my other arm and pushes me in front of him down the aisle. I stumble but quickly regain my balance, throw him a poisonous look over my shoulder, then stand with my arms folded protectively over my chest in the galley near the cockpit door.
All three men in black come to stand in a row in front of me and stare at me with identical small, knowing smiles.
It’s so creepy, I have to look away, even though it makes me feel like a coward.
“First dibs,” one of them says to the others.
Their smiles grow wider when they see my expression. Then I grow so angry, I want to spit.
“Well, I hope you like AIDS,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster, “because I’ve been HIV-positive for eight years, and it’s recently taken a turn for the worse.” I motion to my mouth. “I get these sores. Painful, pus-filled things, and skin rashes like you wouldn’t believe, and right now I’ve got a really nasty yeast infection—”
“We’re allowed to subdue you if you fight,” interrupts the one I think is their leader. “What do you think, Sal? Is she fighting?”
My blood runs cold, but Sal merely shakes his head. “She’s just scared.”
“Ya,” says the leader, softly. “Scared.” He adjusts a thickening bulge in his crotch, and I want to throw up.
Mercifully, I’m saved from any further conversation with the sicko squad when the cockpit door opens. The pilot emerges, tall and slim with hair the color of cast iron, and a nose that’s been broken more than once. He looks sharply at the four of us. His gaze lingers the longest on me.
“Change of plan.” He turns his attention back to the assassins. “You’re to take a Cessna from here. It’s already fueled up and waiting down the tarmac. No need to go in the terminal, just head straight over to gate forty-two. It’s a two-minute walk south.”
Two minutes. A lot can happen in two minutes. In two minutes, a person can die of a heart attack, achieve an orgasm, post a Facebook status update, fall in love.
In two minutes, a person could find a way to escape from her captors.
But no. I have to see this through, because Reynard’s life is in the balance and maybe, maybe there’s a way for me to escape or make a new plan after I know Reynard is alive and safe. Until then, I’m stuck.
We exit the plane. The morning is cool and bright, the salt air bracing against my heated cheeks. There are a few airport workers within sight, a luggage handler unloading bags onto a conveyor belt, a guy with neon signaling sticks and headphones steering a twin-engine jet into a nearby gate, a woman driving by in a pushback tug. The urge to scream to all of them for help is almost overwhelming.
I choke it back with thoughts of how Reynard sounded on the phone, that bloodcurdling shriek he made when Capo did whatever horrible thing he did to cause it.
Waiting for us at the Cessna is another man in a black suit. They seem to be in endless supply. He motions for us to come quickly, but as soon as we’re at the steps that lead up into the plane, he stops us and produces a long, black plastic wand from behind his back.
A metal detector.
With brisk efficiency, he swipes it over my head and neck, my chest and arms, my stomach and back, then stops abruptly at my waist when the wand emits a frazzled squawk.
He yanks up my hoodie and stares at my belt.
Then he glares at my three companions. “You fucking idiots.”
“What?” says the leader, offended. “We searched her!”
“Not good enough.” New guy rips off my belt and throws it on the tarmac.
I stare at it in disbelief. Another GPS?
I decide that if I ever see him again, Ryan and I are going to have a nice, long talk about this “trust” thing he keeps harping on about.
The man proceeds to slowly wand down both my legs, then around my feet, where the wand squawks again. Muttering curses, he straightens and glares at me. “Take the boots off.”
I do as I’m told and shuck them off. He kicks them aside, then begins another careful full body wanding until he’s satisfied I’m clean.
Thank God the wand doesn’t penetrate flesh, because I don’t want to imagine what horrible thing would happen to me if my bare midriff gave off an alert.
I’m roughly loaded onto the plane. There are only enough seats for me, the three assassins, the pilot—who’s already seated—and the new guy. After a short wait on the runway and clearance from the tower, we take off once more, banking hard into the glare of the morning sky.
God, if you’re up there, now would be a good time to prove it.
The small plane lands on a tiny island, deserted except for the concrete strip of runway and the black helicopter waiting at one end. No one has spoken for the duration of the flight, so I have no idea where we are or where we’re going, but if the next leg of the journey involves a helicopter, it must be close.
The pilot coasts to a stop at the end of the runway but keeps the engine running, the props spinning.
“Out,” commands the lead assassin, opening the small door.
He barely moves aside to let me pass, so I’m forced to press against him. He grins down at me, leering, and I quickly jerk away and hop down to the cracked runway.
It’s obvious he’s not worried about me escaping at this point, which makes sense. Unless I had a mind to drown myself, I’ve got nowhere to go. There’s nothing on this island except sand, scrub brush, and seabirds wheeling overhead, their lonely cries like the wails of lost children.
The assassins follow me out of the plane, one by one. They lead me over to the helicopter as the Cessna turns around. The plane takes off again as I’m climbing into the chopper. I watch it go, getting smaller and smaller until it’s just a glinting speck against the sky.
Blue as a dragonfly’s wings, that sky. Blue as my lover’s eyes.
The chopper starts up with a mechanical roar and a burst of wind, the blades rotating until they’re a silver blur above us. When we lift off, I’m praying again, only this time with all my might.
For a long time, there’s nothing below us but water. Endless water, in every direction. But then I glimpse a spot of white in the distance against the unceasing navy blanket, and it all makes sense.
As we fly closer, the size of the yacht grows and grows until we’re hovering over it, and I get a better sense of how massive it truly is. I’ve seen city blocks that are shorter. The helipad we’re headed toward is on the lowest of the vessel’s six decks, to the rear of an oval swimming pool which is situated at the extreme forward tip. There’s another helipad on the aft deck, an enormous bridge deck topped with bulbous satellites, and a tender on the starboard side that’s about the size of an average ski boat, only it looks miniscule in comparison to the sheer enormity of its berth.
The megayacht’s name is spelled out in italic lettering on one section of white siding:
Sea Fox.
“She has a two-seater submarine, too,” says the lead assassin, startling me. When I stare at him, he smiles. “In case Capo wants to take you for a deep-sea dive after dinner.”
His smile turns evil. Heart pounding, I look away.
We land on the helipad with a gentle bump.
A manservant in a white uniform opens the door from the outside. Ignoring everyone else, he gestures at me to disembark. I do, with the assassins following at my heels. We’re led off the deck and through an outer lounging area of tables, cushioned sofas, and a large, built-in fire pit. Then we enter the yacht through electrically operated sliding-glass doors.
The first thing I hear is opera music. Muted and beautiful, it plays over hidden speakers and instantly makes my stomach curdle. I force back memories of the last time I heard opera and try to remain calm.
I fail. Every part of my body that has sweat glands is working overtime.
The interior of the yacht is decorated in muted earth tones of sand, brown and gray, with ultramodern furnishings and a lot of polished wood. Colorful, contemporary art adorns the walls. We head toward a glass staircase in the center of a lobby-like area, and I follow the manservant as he mutely motions me on.
Why doesn’t he speak?
“Loose lips sink ships,” says one of the men behind me with a low, sinister chuckle. I realize he’s read my mind at the same time I realize the probable meaning of those words. The manservant is missing his tongue.
Breathe, Mari. Just breathe. One foot in front of the other.
We walk for what feels like a lifetime, navigating through a warren of rooms—each more spectacular and luxurious than the last—until we arrive at a pair of mahogany doors flanked by marble statues of roaring lions, fangs bared, crouched to pounce. The manservant raps twice on the doors, waits until he hears a murmur from within, then pushes open the doors and stands aside.
The suite is vast, maybe five thousand square feet from glass wall to glass wall, with a private outside deck at the opposite end. It’s tall, too, three stories capped with the brilliance of a modern, sculpture-like chandelier suspended from clear cables so it appears to float in midair.
The floor is white marble, the view is of sparkling ocean, and the man looking out the windows across from me with his hands in his trouser pockets and his back turned in my direction is Vincent Moreno.
My heart stutters. For one long, breathless moment, I’m transported back in time to that fateful night, the last time I saw my sister alive, when I was so near death and a dragonfly saved me.
Reynard saved me. I owe him my life. That’s why I’m here.
The thought gives me strength as Capo turns around and meets my eyes.
Our gazes lock.
I’m certain one of us isn’t leaving this room alive.
He’s wearing a crisp white linen suit, which sets off his dark tan. The collar of his shirt is open, revealing a strong neck. A small gold medallion nestles in the hollow of his throat. He’s calm and spotless, and I hate him so fiercely, it’s like I’ve swallowed fire.
His lips curve upward. “Mari. You made it.”
His gaze flicks over me, taking in my tangled hair, rumpled clothing, and bare feet. “Though worse for wear, it would appear.” His gaze slices to the three assassins, who’ve taken up positions against the wall to my left and stand with hands clasped behind their backs, faces impassive.
He wanders across the room, in no particular hurry, stopping midway to inspect a bowl of green grapes set out on a glass coffee table. He selects a few, then continues toward me, popping a grape into his mouth.
My hands shake so hard with the urge to curl around his throat that I have to flex them open to get them to stop.
When Capo’s within arm’s reach, he pauses. He lifts his chin at the manservant, who bows and silently backs from the room, closing the doors behind him. Then he stands looking at me for a while, obviously relishing the moment.
“Were you treated well by my men?”
“What difference does it make?”
A fleeting frown crosses his face. I can’t decide if it’s irritation or something else.
“I asked you a question, Mariana. Answer it.”
It serves no point to bicker or refuse, so I do as he instructs and glance at the row of assassins behind me. I point at the one closest. “That one called me a bitch and hurt my arm.” I point at the one on the other end. “And that one said he wanted first dibs on me.”
In the middle of bringing a grape to his mouth, Capo pauses. He looks at the men. “Santino. Fabrizio. Is this true?”
Neither man hesitates to answer. In unison, they say, “Si, Capo.”
In the next instant, Capo pulls a silver handgun from under his jacket and fires off two rounds, one in each of the assassin’s foreheads. Blood and brain matter splatter the wall in a lurid, chunky pattern of red.
I jump and scream as the assassins crumple to the ground.
“What about Salvatore?” Capo calmly asks, casually waving the gun at the assassin who’s still standing. “Did he behave?”
Salvatore hasn’t moved, not even to look at the bodies of his compatriots on the floor. Blood—not his own—drips down his cheek.
“H-he didn’t do anything,” I whisper, my stomach violently churning.
“Good.” Capo slides the pistol back into its holster inside his jacket and pops the grape into his mouth.
I manage to make it to a wastebasket near the potted palm to my right before I vomit.
In between heaves, I catch a glimpse of a small, round object at the bottom of the trash can, glinting metallically among the putrid yellow bile.
30
Mariana
“All right now,” says Capo in a soothing voice, gently patting my shoulder. “Take it easy. Just breathe.”
I rock back to my heels, wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. “Don’t touch me!” I say hoarsely.
His sigh sounds disappointed. “Oh, Mari. You always were a bleeding heart. So easy to hurt. So quick to love.” His voice changes, hardens somehow. “That was your downfall, you know.”
My downfall? What’s he talking about? I stagger to my feet, shrugging off his hand in disgust and contempt, and turn to look at him, keeping my gaze off the floor and the widening pools of red around the lifeless bodies. “I’ve brought the diamond. Where’s Reynard?”
Capo gazes at me for a long time, a strange, probing expression in his eyes that’s especially unnerving because it’s a look I don’t recognize. Without glancing away from me, he instructs Salvatore to leave us alone.
“Si, Capo.” Salvatore ignores the bodies on the floor and exits through the mahogany doors as if nothing is amiss.
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe this is situation normal and bodies aboard the Sea Fox drop like flies.
Something about the name of the yacht bothers me, but I’ve got bigger problems to think about. When Capo just stands there sta
ring at me, I ask again. “Where is he?” A touch of hysteria raises my voice.
Capo wordlessly holds out his hand and makes a “give me” gesture. I pull the Hope from the pocket of my hoodie where I’ve been carrying it and set it into his open palm.
He looks down at it. “What’s on it?” he asks with a curled lip.
“Dried milk.”
He cocks one dark brow at me and waits for more of an explanation. When it doesn’t come, he shrugs, removes a jeweler’s loupe from under his coat, then holds the diamond up to the light and peers at it through the magnifier. Satisfied, he makes a low sound in his throat.
He pulls a silk handkerchief from another pocket, wraps the diamond in it, and returns it to his pocket. “Have you ever wondered, Mariana,” he asks thoughtfully, “what stayed my hand all these years?”
His eyes are dark brown, like mine, only his reflect no glimmer of light or mercy.
“Stayed your hand?” I repeat in confusion, resisting a primal urge to back up.
Haltingly, as if he can’t help himself, he reaches out and touches my hair. I notice his hand is slightly trembling. Now there is a light in his eyes, but it’s got nothing to do with mercy.
“From what I’ve always wanted,” he whispers. “From what I’ve always really wanted from you.” His fingers tighten around a strand and pull.
My swallow is a loud gulp. The taste of vomit is sharp in my mouth, stinging the back of my throat. There’s a rancid stench in my nose I can’t get rid of. I jerk my head to free my hair, but he doesn’t let go, and so several strands are torn from the root. He stands there gazing at them in a weird kind of fascination while I curse and press a hand to my stinging scalp.
“Where is Reynard?” I say loudly, hanging on to my control by the slimmest of threads.
“Where I’ve always been, my darling,” says a familiar voice to my right. “Wherever you needed me.”
I whip my head around. There he stands in his typical blue suit, smiling his typical warm smile, healthy and whole, not a mark on him.
“Reynard!” I sob in relief and fly into his outstretched arms, slamming into him so hard, he staggers back a few steps.
Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set Page 87