14. Alexei #2
“I want men on that beach when Lola gets there.” I’m already giving orders before I’m fully on the deck of the yacht.
“I have a guest coming aboard who must remain anonymous. That means no paparazzi shots, not even idle tourist snaps. I want eyes on any boat that gets close. No marinas and no casual chat with the locals when anyone goes ashore for resupply. Clear?”
“Crystal.” Andrew nods. “I do need to know if there is an additional security threat to plan for.”
“My guest is Ofelia Borovsky.”
His eyes widen.
My mouth twists at the corner. “She’ll be accompanied by two of her own security detail. Women, handpicked by Makari Tereschenko, so they’re competent. Any questions?”
“Ah.” Andrew clears his throat. “You said she wants to remain anonymous. Does that include . . . ?”
“Her father?” I suppress the urge to laugh at the alarm on his face. “Yes, it does. But Borovsky isn’t your problem. Just stay focused on security here and leave Roman to me.”
“Copy that.” To his credit, Andrew turns away without any further comment, but I don’t miss his tension.
I could reassure him further, but I’m not beneath hijacking his fear of Roman’s wrath, if it means ensuring his vigilance about Ofelia’s safety.
Privately, I find his visible nerves amusing. Unlike Andrew, and everyone else, Roman doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest. I’d prefer not to piss him off, but that’s out of respect for my sister, not because I’m afraid of him.
The truth is that I’ve faced a lot worse in my life than Roman Borovsky.
And while his story is known, at least in part, by everyone in our world, mine is known barely at all, and understood even less.
I like it that way.
Stories are meant to have a hero’s journey. My only journey was a one-way ticket straight to hell, without a hero in sight.
Least of all me.
And nobody knows that better than Ofelia.
I grip the railing, staring across the cerulean water to the isolated cove where she’ll arrive.
The galley is stocked with every gourmet delight Chef could come up with, and the guest suite is equipped with clothing and enough luxury items to last Ofelia a year, if she chooses to stay that long.
And face it, asshole: you hope she does.
I’m honest enough to admit it’s crossed my mind. More than once.
When I commissioned the Quantum Drift, I had a salon custom fitted with a Steinway grand piano. I told myself it was a nice touch for corporate guests.
Then I had an electronic lock put on the door and conveniently forgot to give Andrew the code.
Nor is it any coincidence that the designer clothes now hanging in the guest suite are all in Ofelia’s size—and still have tags on them.
My own yacht, the Guapa, has the same custom-built piano room, retrofitted when I upgraded it a couple of years ago. Along with a similarly stocked wardrobe.
Yeah, the thought of having Ofelia alone on one of my yachts has crossed my mind once or twice over the years.
Once or twice, huh? More like every idle moment, asshole.
It’s no wonder I built back my empire so fast. Sometimes it’s felt like work is the only refuge from the memory of her body beneath my own in that cell. The darker the work, the further I can drive the fantasies away.
The nights, however, are another thing entirely.
Sleeping is when the fantasies become nightmares.
I shift restlessly off the railing, walk to the bar, and reach for the vodka bottle. Then I think better of it and take out my laptop instead.
I wouldn’t give Mak the satisfaction of admitting it, but the truth is that working on Lars’s Helsinki project has saved my sanity in the time since my self-imposed exile.
In fact, I’ve enjoyed it so much that I’ve expanded on the original idea to the point where Lars has refused to take my calls, telling me to just send updates to the team instead.
And since my conversation with Mak, I’ve had another idea brewing in the back of my mind that just won’t quit.
“I suggest you learn how to code yourself into invisibility,” he said. It was a lighthearted comment he no doubt meant as a warning, but it got me thinking: What if there was a platform that enabled people to do exactly that?
Not people, exactly.
Criminals.
Assassins.
People who need to be able to disappear, at least for a while.
There have always been fixers out there, who people like me go to for a new identity.
Even Mickey and Lars, with a full geek squad, need fixers for the actual documents.
Increasingly, however, the documents themselves are symbolic, just a gateway to the complexities of biometric identification and the seemingly endless online trail we all leave behind in our day-to-day lives.
But what if that trail could be erased?
It’s an idea that just won’t let me go. And I’ve learned over the years that when an idea keeps coming back to me, teasing the edge of my brain, I need to pay attention to it, even if only to decide it has no legs.
This idea has legs.
I know it. I can feel it. But like lightning just over the horizon, I can’t fucking see it.
And when I do catch glimpses of the possibilities, the scope of the concept is so great it’s intimidating, even to me. It’s the kind of idea that means server centers. An army of geeks to rival Roman’s Mercura setup.
A complete life shift.
Big ambitions for a criminal on the run from countless enemies.
I start writing code, then stop, erase, and begin again, but it’s no use.
The concept buzzes around the electrodes of my brain like a particularly annoying mosquito, loud enough to drive me mad but never quite drawing blood.
Finally I throw the laptop aside, resisting the urge to look at my phone for the hundredth time.
Surely she should be here by now?
Just as I decide I can’t take another minute of waiting unless I have a stiff drink in my hand, Andrew appears at the door to my suite. “Boss,” he says. “They’re here. I’m sending the tender now.”
“Don’t bother.” I’m already heading for the ladder. “I’ll take it myself.”