Chapter Thirty-Eight
Valencia, Spain
Mia wore slim white pants paired with a green blouse.
Around her waist was a knockoff Louis Vuitton fanny pack.
A white scarf was draped loosely around her neck, which she thought looked very glamorous with her pair of oversize sunglasses.
She hoped that she looked like a successful yacht broker, the kind who had nothing to prove because the brokerage firm and the clients she represented guaranteed her access and respect.
Mia glanced at her phone, checking the time. By now, Verena was where she was supposed to be, nursing a latte two hundred meters from the broker’s office, waiting for the text that would launch the next phase of the operation.
She spotted Francisco Morientes a minute later.
He was in his mid-twenties, medium height but athletic, with the kind of tan that came from year-round, by-the-sea living.
His white pants and pink dress shirt looked to be freshly pressed, though the baby blue jacket slung over his shoulders was a touch much for Mia’s taste.
Still, she appreciated his confidence. This was his stage after all.
As he neared her, a huge, sincere smile appeared on his lips. “Miss Torres?”
Mia returned it, dialing up the charm. “Pleasure to meet you, Francisco. I really appreciate you making time for this on such short notice. I know last-minute visits aren’t the easiest to manage.”
He waved the concern away. “Not at all. I’m happy to show it, and proud to do so. The yacht’s basically still in showroom condition,” he said.
“Then I can’t wait to see it. My client’s eager to move fast if it fits his needs.”
Though she didn’t think it would be possible, Francisco’s smile widened.
She could practically see him calculating his commission.
He pulled out a small fob and tapped it against the gate panel.
The lock disengaged with a soft beep, and she followed him through the gate and onto the dock.
She noted how he instinctively walked to the right, leaving her the side with the view of the boat.
“This way,” he said. “It’s the best specced Absolute Navetta 52 on the market right now. It’s only been on the market for a few days, but I’ve already had serious interest.”
“I’m sure,” she replied.
“Several other brokers are scheduled to see it this week.”
“Is that so? But I’m the first to see it, right?” Mia asked, as if this had any importance.
“You are,” confirmed Francisco, solemnly. Then, with more pep, he added, “And I think you’ll be impressed.”
They passed a few smaller boats, some sailboats and an RIB, but apart from a couple snapping selfies beneath the sailcloth of a monohull, the dock was clear.
“So . . . where’s your office based, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asked.
“Monaco,” she replied.
He stopped mid-stride.
“Monaco? Really? Which brokerage?” he asked.
“Fraser Yachts,” she replied, naming the largest full-service yacht brokerage firm in the world.
Francisco’s eyebrows shot up. “No way. I was in Monaco last year and stopped by your offices. I didn’t—”
Mia cut him off. “I’ve only been with them for six weeks,” she said, her pulse spiking.
“That explains it,” he said, almost to himself. “Well . . . you have my dream job. I’d love to work in Monaco someday. How did you end up there?”
Mia offered him a polite smile as they got closer to the boat. “It’s not quite the dream you think it is,” she said.
“No? How come?”
“I’d be happy to fill you in later, if you want,” she replied, quickly glancing at her watch. “But I’ve got a noon meeting, and I’d really love to see this one.”
Francisco recovered quickly and gestured toward the Navetta, now only two berths away. “Absolutely. It’s a gorgeous yacht, and its layout is super efficient. You’ll see.”
At the base of the passerelle, he slipped off his loafers and set them neatly by a beige mat left there for that specific purpose. Mia mirrored his gesture and followed him onto the boat.
“The swim platform is hydraulic,” Francisco said, “and the owner has equipped the transom with a barbecue and a bar.”
She nodded. While she couldn’t care less about the yacht, she had to admit it was stunning. The aft deck was shaded and staged with a teak table and four chairs, connected with the galley through a pair of large sliding glass doors.
“Francisco,” Mia said, touching the man’s arm. “Quick question for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“My client is someone who values his privacy, if you know what I mean,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “So, if we were to move ahead with the purchase, and we might, because I really like what I’m seeing, I was wondering how your brokerage handles these sorts of . . . situations.”
“I understand. Listen, Miss Torres—”
“Mia, please.”
Francisco smiled, then said, “We have plenty of clients who are in the same situation, Mia. This isn’t a problem for us.
Over the years, we’ve figured out legal ways to keep the names of our customers buried.
It’s a bit more expensive, maybe another percent and a half, but for certain people, it’s well worth it.
And for added privacy, we keep all records of our transactions on a private server that isn’t connected to the internet.
Nothing, and I truly mean that, gets uploaded to the cloud. ”
“That’s great to hear. And what about the payments?” Mia asked.
“Well . . . there are two options. Our brokerage deals with local banks here in Valencia, but for our clients who prefer a tad more discretion, we’ve partnered with a Swiss bank that can handle the financial transactions, but only if the money comes from outside Spanish borders.”
Now it was her turn to smile. “That’s perfect.”
“Great. Should we start with the upper deck?” Francisco asked, his hand already on the polished steel handrails.
“Actually,” Mia said, “would you mind showing me the twin cabin first? I know it’s a strange request, but my client has two grandkids, and that third stateroom is a big factor for him.”
Francisco nodded. “Completely understandable,” he said. “It’s more generous in size than people expect. Let me show you.”
They entered through the galley and walked through the salon, which was bright and modern. Francisco led the way down the staircase. Directly ahead was the VIP stateroom. At the bottom of the stairs, Francisco turned and gestured to the right. “The twin’s just here. Across from the guest head.”
He stepped aside, holding the door open.
“After you,” he said.
“Not at all,” Mia replied. “Please, you go in first. It will give me a better feel for the space.”
Francisco chuckled and stepped inside. That was all the time she needed to pull the garrote out of her fanny pack. A second later, she stepped behind him and looped the garrote over his head.
And then she pulled. Hard.
Francisco was about to turn around when something looped around his neck and then bit into his skin with shocking speed.
At first, he thought it was a stray fishing line he hadn’t seen, but then something slammed into the back of his knee, as if someone had hit him with a hammer, and he buckled forward.
The thing around his neck, whatever it was, dug in deeper, tearing his skin.
He clawed at it, but there was nothing to grip.
It wasn’t a rope . . . it felt like a guitar string, but sharper. Much sharper.
He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t speak, but he tried to call out anyway.
No sound came out but a single low wheeze of air.
Only then did Francisco realize he was no longer standing.
He was on his stomach on the floor between the two berths.
A knee drove into the small of his back, pinning him, then his head was yanked back, arching his spine unnaturally.
Torres? Was Torres doing this? Why?
His thoughts scrambled, and his vision blurred at the edges. He spent every ounce of strength he had left trying to wedge his fingertips underneath the wire cutting through his neck, but he just couldn’t get his fingers to grip on anything but flesh and blood.
Jana.
Her face came to him in a rush. She was smiling, and not just with her mouth but with her eyes, too, the way she did when they talked about moving to Monaco or about buying their own boat someday.
She’d said they’d be unstoppable. And he had believed her.
He still did.
Twenty-three.
Mia stood still for a moment, listening.
The twin cabin was silent now, save for the subtle hum of the yacht’s systems as the air-conditioning kicked in. Francisco lay face down at her feet, one arm curled under his torso, the other stretched toward the edge of one of the berths, as if he was still reaching for help with his bloody hand.
She didn’t feel bad for him. Not exactly.
He hadn’t deserved to die. But he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had shaken the wrong hand.
Mia crouched over him and rolled the body onto its side, just enough to reach into his front pants pocket.
His phone came out easily. She slid it into her bag.
His key fob was a bit harder to pull out, but at least he had kept it in the same pocket, so she didn’t need to roll the body to the other side.
She took a long look around the cabin. It was a bloody mess, but there was no sign of struggle outside the twin cabin. The garrote had done its job. It had been a while since she’d used one, but it was always great fun. Definitely more so than a gun.
Mia straightened her blouse, then grabbed her phone. She opened the secure messaging app and typed a short message to Verena.