46. Exchange Rate
46
EXCHANGE RATE
Maya had participated in her share of undercover operations, but this was pushing it. The gleaming marble lobby of the Costa Bella Resort echoed with tourists’ excited whispers as Richardson led their strange procession past reception. Their tactical blacks stood out like ink stains against the resort’s cream and gold palette. Maya’s boots left faint scuffs on the polished floor, each step echoing under the murmur of fountains and soft classical music.
Richardson walked point in his carefully casual golf attire, while the admiral brought up the rear in full tactical gear. Between them, Maya, Ronan, and Axel shuffled along, hands bound.
After far too long in the same clothes, they looked exactly like captured operatives being moved under duress. Which they were, just not in the way Richardson thought.
The young woman at the reception desk kept her professional smile, but her fingers stilled over her keyboard. A bellhop nearly crashed his luggage cart. The security guard by the elevator touched his earpiece, clearly debating whether to intervene.
“Just ignore them, people,” Richardson announced loudly, playing his producer role to the hilt. “The paparazzi always find us.” He shot the guard a piercing look. “We’re working a scene here. Didn’t publicity call you?”
The man’s mouth dropped open, but his hand remained poised over the mic on his shoulder.
Richardson waved his hands impatiently. “Il film, il film. Una produzione Americana!”
The staff exchanged glances, a few of them finally smiling weakly. The security guard stood down, shoulders softening. “Ah, sì, sì. Prego, continuate.”
Richardson nodded shortly. “Grazie.” He infused the politeness with irritation.
Maya forced herself to smile, channeling every actress she’d ever interviewed during her time in LA Homicide. The metallic taste of adrenaline coated her tongue. Somewhere in this resort, Knight Tactical operatives, and Ronan’s friends, were searching for Minerva. Until they found her, everyone had to play their parts perfectly.
Beside her, Ronan stumbled slightly, his fever making him look exactly like a brooding action star who’d partied too hard.
A teenage girl darted forward with her phone raised. “Oh wow. Are you that guy from?—”
“No autographs during filming, please!” Richardson intercepted her smoothly. But Maya caught the way his hand tightened on his phone, the subtle check for messages.
If she were planning this op, she’d be waiting to hear where they wanted the captives secured. Most likely, he planned to execute the three of them, and the admiral and his wife.
Though pretending to go through the exchange and let the Knights leave, thinking they’d dodged a bullet would be the more prudent thing to do. She didn’t know the man well enough to guess.
“Method actors,” the admiral explained to the growing crowd. His voice carried the tense tones of a harried production assistant. “They insist on absolute authenticity. Real restraints, real tension ...”
Real danger, Maya thought, catching another micro-expression flash across Richardson’s face as he checked his phone again. The man was unraveling, but only someone trained to read killers would notice. The scent of his expensive cologne couldn’t quite mask the sour edge of his sweat.
Whatever he had planned, it wasn’t going well. She bit down hard on a smile. Score one for the good guys.
“Mr. Producer!” A woman in designer resort wear waved her phone. “Just one photo with your stars?”
“Oh, let them have their moment,” the admiral said before Richardson could refuse. He gestured expansively at the soaring lobby ceiling. “The lighting in this space is perfect.”
Maya stepped into another posed photo, maintaining her camera-ready smile while cataloging exits, threats, positions. Ronan jutted his chin at the east doors. Yup. She saw it. Two operatives posing as hotel staff. Another watching from the mezzanine. All looking increasingly tense. The click of tourist photos mixed with the splash of fountains, creating a surreal soundtrack to their dangerous charade.
“You’re squinting,” Richardson critiqued, his producer’s mask slipping just slightly as his phone remained silent. “Let’s move this somewhere more ... private.”
“Actually,” Ronan drawled, playing the difficult star perfectly despite his fever, “I’m feeling inspired by this space.” Hands still pinned behind his back, he turned awkwardly toward the admiral. “Didn’t you say something about the emotional resonance of public versus private personas?”
Knight launched into a long discourse on artistic authenticity that had the tourists enthralled and Richardson practically vibrating with contained tension. Maya could hear the strain in Richardson’s breathing now, the slight catch each time he checked his silent phone.
She shifted closer to Ronan, feeling the heat radiating from him. Too hot. The infection was getting worse.
“You good?” she whispered through her publicity smile.
“Just ... enjoying my acting debut.” His attempt at humor couldn’t quite hide the fever strain, but his eyes were sharp as he tracked Richardson’s increasing agitation.
Another tourist approached for photos. Richardson’s smile turned brittle as he checked his phone yet again. Nothing.
Maybe because Minerva Knight wasn’t where he thought she was.
Maya tasted copper and realized she’d bitten the inside of her cheek. Time to push.
“You know,” she announced to their audience, pitching her voice to carry. “I’m really feeling this scene. The tension, the uncertainty ...” She met Richardson’s eyes. “That growing realization when everything starts falling apart ...”
If looks could kill, Richardson would have just ended her. “Perhaps,” he said, his cultured voice carrying just a hint of strain, “we should move this somewhere more private. The lighting in the garden would be perfect for?—”
She shifted her weight, noting how Richardson’s security team had subtly tightened their formation. The man on the mezzanine had disappeared—not a good sign. Through the crowd’s excited chatter, she caught the admiral’s barely audible inhale. He’d noticed too.
Any second now.
“Actually,” she projected her voice to carry across the lobby, playing up her role as the difficult starlet, “I think we should do the confrontation scene right here.” She stepped closer to Richardson, watching his pupils dilate. “You know, the one about betrayal?”
Richardson’s phone finally lit up with a message. Maya watched the blood drain from his face as he read it.
“No,” he said softly, all pretense of the charming producer vanishing. “No, that’s not possible.”
The tourists, sensing something had shifted but not understanding what, began to back away. The security guard by the door touched his earpiece, frowning.
Through the thinning crowd, Maya caught a glimpse of Griff at the bar, casually wiping a glass like he’d worked there all his life. He met her eyes for a fraction of a second, and his characteristic half-smile appeared. Behind him, Jack materialized from the service corridor, still in maintenance coveralls, flashing the OK sign while pretending to check his phone.
If Griff and Jack were here, looking this pleased with themselves, it could only mean one thing: they’d found Minerva. She was safe.
Mission accomplished. The most important part, anyway.
The admiral’s transformation was subtle. The tension in his shoulders, coiled tight for days, eased by mere millimeters. But it was his eyes that gave him away to Maya. Behind that stern professional mask, they sparked with a fierce joy that made him look twenty years younger. For just a heartbeat, she glimpsed the young officer who’d first fallen in love decades ago.
Holding her gaze, he tapped his wrist twice. Ronan and Axel tensed imperceptibly on either side of her. They’d been waiting hours for this signal. Maya pressed the hidden catch in her restraints. Next to her, she heard the faint clicks as Ronan and Axel did the same, their restraints dropping to the tile.
Fully in control now, the admiral straightened, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty: “Minerva’s safe, Richardson. It’s over.”
The sound Richardson made was barely human—a strangled mix of rage and despair that made the nearest tourists flinch back in alarm. His carefully manicured hands curled into claws, and she saw the moment his control shattered completely.