Chapter Nineteen
One Mile South of Cabrera Island
Mallorca, Spain
Verena glanced at her watch. Again. Twenty-four seconds had passed since the last time she’d checked. She resisted the urge to adjust the bezel. She’d already done it twice. Once more would make it three. She didn’t like the number three.
She pressed her hands to the sides of her thighs to stop them from fidgeting.
How much longer would she have to wait? It had been almost four hours since her call with her employer.
Four hours since he’d barked at her to stay put, to stay on the yacht, and to await further instructions.
He hadn’t given her any clarification. Just to shut up and wait.
That’s what he’d told her. Shut up.
Never in five years had her employer spoken to her that way, with such venom. But then, she’d never fucked up this bad before, had she? But tonight . . . tonight had unraveled.
She’d lost four officers. That represented a full quarter of her European personnel. And Kross, her most valuable asset, was still in the wind. The best-case scenario was that he’d been compromised. The worst . . . she shook her head, thinking of the woman she’d spotted on the ledge.
Verena paced the flybridge, counting her steps. Twelve paces from the upper helm station to the stern rail. Twelve back.
Twenty-four total.
She repeated the loop, then forced herself to stop on the fourth pass.
Four was a clean number, safer than five.
Grabbing the rails, she stared north toward the black silhouette of Cabrera Island.
The Faro de Punta de n’Ensiola lighthouse blinked in the distance, its pattern perfectly measured.
Every five seconds there was a crisp white pulse that Verena found hypnotic.
Same length. Same space between. No variation. Per-fec-tion.
Apart from her, there were only four people left on Veloce. The skipper, Justin Burton, was manning the helm and the comms. The chef was asleep in his cabin, and Bernard, the only security officer she had left, was in the engine room guarding a sedated Paul Hobb.
Hobb . . . he’s a problem I should have dealt with when I had the chance.
She had kept him alive solely because her employer had rescinded his own directive.
This was a contradiction that had shaken her more than she was willing to admit, especially when she added this to the fact that when she’d reported the woman outside Kross’s hotel room, her employer hadn’t even acknowledged it.
Verena looked at her watch and cursed. We should have left hours ago.
If they had done so, they would be in international waters by now, well beyond the reach of the local authorities.
Instead, they were exposed and waiting for what felt increasingly like a setup.
She’d instructed Burton to disable the AIS—Automatic Identification System—that transmitted the yacht’s identity, position, and speed to nearby vessels and coastal authorities.
By turning it off, the Veloce was invisible to commercial and civilian maritime traffic, but anyone looking for them with intention—like the Guardia Civil or the Spanish Navy—would find them.
Turning off the AIS bought them time; it didn’t guarantee them immunity.
“Ma’am.” Justin Burton’s voice came in through her earpiece. “I’ve got a contact approaching. It just popped up on radar. It’s coming around the cape near the lighthouse. It’s moving fast. Could be a Rodman-55 from the Guardia Civil.”
Verena squeezed the railing harder. “How long until they’re on us?” she asked.
“Two minutes. Three tops. What are your orders?”
Running was pointless. She knew that. The Veloce, despite its sleek design, would top out at thirty-four knots.
If the incoming vessel was indeed a patrol boat, it would overtake the Azimut within minutes, even if she ordered Burton to start the engines and punch the throttles.
Worse, fleeing would draw even more scrutiny.
Better to stay and to appear cooperative.
“There’s not much we can do,” Verena said. “If they want to board, we’ll let them. Make sure all the paperwork is in order, Justin. I’ll meet you on the main deck.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Justin, keep your firearm handy.”
There was a beat of hesitation, then Burton said, “Verena, I’m not getting into a firefight with the Guardia Civil.”
Verena made a face. What was her skipper thinking? Did he expect her to simply surrender to the authorities? With that damn reporter in the engine room?
He’s getting cold feet.
She would have to keep an eye on him.
“Neither am I,” she lied. “But what if it’s not the Guardia Civil?”
There was another pause. “Understood. I’ll meet you on the main deck.”
Verena reached into her pocket, retrieved her compact encrypted radio, and turned the dial to the frequency she shared with her security team.
“Come in, Bernard,” she said.
“I’m here,” the security officer replied.
“We’ve got a contact approaching fast. Could be the Guardia Civil, or something else. I’m not sure. In any case, stay with Hobb. If they come aboard, Justin and I will try to appease them. But if things go sideways . . . we might have to go to plan B.”
Bernard grunted. “And . . . what’s plan B exactly?”
Verena looked once more at the lighthouse, the beautiful, tireless blinking rhythm soothing her.
“We fight our way out,” she replied.
“Understood. I’ll be ready,” Bernard replied.
She descended to the main deck and thought she could hear the high-pitched whine of marine turbines grow louder.
She hesitated. Then pulled out her phone.
Though this was the last thing she wanted to do, she had to let her employer know what was about to happen.
For the second time that night, she dialed his number.
It didn’t even ring. An automated voice answered, “This number is no longer in service.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Fuck me,” she whispered.