Chapter Two
Port de Sóller
Mallorca, Spain
Caspian Anderson powered up the steep incline, his focus locked on the treacherous coastal trail ahead.
The path hugged the edge of a sheer drop, and although it offered breathtaking views to anyone foolish enough to glance sideways, it was narrow, uneven, and in Caspian’s opinion, designed by someone with a personal vendetta against joggers.
The Mediterranean sun blazed overhead, turning Caspian’s morning run into a full-fledged endurance test. Sweat soaked through his shirt, plastering it to his back like an unwelcome second skin.
He grimaced, regretting—just slightly—that he hadn’t listened to Liesel and brought a hat.
Sure, he would have looked ridiculous, but at least his forehead wouldn’t be slow roasting like it was now and the back of his neck wouldn’t feel like it had personally offended the sun.
Caspian usually preferred to run earlier in the morning when the air was cooler, but today, he and Liesel had stayed in bed a little longer.
While the memory of Liesel’s fingers and lips on his skin made him smile, Caspian was now paying for his tardiness.
Though it was only midmorning, the heat was relentless, and the unforgiving sun was turning his eight-mile run into a real challenge.
His legs felt heavy, and his hard, uneven breathing was a clear indication that his lungs were working overtime as he fought against the thick, humid air.
His Garmin watch vibrated with a gentle reminder that he should hydrate. Caspian slowed to a stop, wiped his forearm across his brow, then dropped down into a push-up position, his palms pressing into the dirt as he steadied himself for the next burn.
Fifty push-ups. Let’s go!
He powered through them, the muscles in his arms and chest straining, the intense heat pressing down on him as if he had added a one-hundred-pound dumbbell to his backpack.
When he was done, he stayed on the ground for a few more seconds to catch his breath.
He had two more miles to go before reaching the hotel and the pool he knew was waiting for him.
The thought of plunging into the pool’s cool water was enough motivation to force him back to his feet.
He stretched his legs and, as he did so, allowed himself a moment to take in the breathtaking scenery.
Caspian had heard about the Balearic Islands’ exceptional beauty, but Port de Sóller, a picturesque coastal town nestled at the foot of the Serra de Tramuntana, was even more charming than he had imagined.
A thirty-minute drive from Palma, Port de Sóller was located in a small, idyllic horseshoe bay on Mallorca’s northwest coast. From his vantage point along the hiking trail, Caspian had an unobstructed view of the town and its bustling marina, where a mix of fishing boats and sleek, modern yachts swayed gently on the water.
Beyond the harbor, a traditional wooden tram with four carriages rumbled along the tracks that ran parallel to the beach, shuttling tourists and locals between the port and the inland town of Sóller.
A lively stretch of hotels, restaurants, and bars lined the waterfront promenade, their terraces offering a perfect view of the bay’s turquoise waters.
The previous night, he and Liesel had feasted on sharpsnout sea bream—the day’s fresh catch—and local grilled vegetables.
Following the recommendation of the in-house sommelier, they had paired it with an excellent bottle of albarino.
The fish, succulent, had arrived perfectly cooked, and they had savored each bite as they watched the sun dip below the horizon from the patio of a restaurant that had been praised by the concierge at their four-star hotel.
They had spent the last six days scuba diving, sunbathing, and yachting around the island.
It had been perfect. While he and Liesel enjoyed their work with the Strategic Support Unit, or SSU—a small division within the DIA’s Defense Clandestine Service that specialized in delicate intelligence operations and was the DIA’s answer to the FBI Fly Team—after their last assignment in Bordeaux, the secluded seaside town offered the kind of peace they had both been craving.
Knowing they had ten more days like these ahead of them made Caspian as happy as he’d ever been.
He reached for his water bottle, took a quick sip, then started on the last two miles of his run, wondering if Liesel was still in bed or if she had decided to hit the hotel’s small gym.
He suspected the latter.
Liesel had always been disciplined when it came to training, but recently, her routine had become restless.
Even here, while on vacation, he had caught her slipping out of bed before sunrise more than once, only to return about an hour later with her shirt damp with sweat and her skin flushed from exertion.
Since Caspian lived in a world where any weakness could get him killed, he understood better than most the need to stay sharp.
But sometimes, watching Liesel push herself so hard, he wondered if she was overcompensating, if this was her way to prove to herself, to him, to everyone really, that she was fine.
Caspian wasn’t sure she was.
During a sanctioned operation against a North Korean sleeper cell in France—one that had been attempting to steal high-end satellite technology from an American aerospace firm—Liesel had been shot twice in Bordeaux.
Once in the abdomen, and another bullet had grazed her right arm.
For a while, she’d been touch and go. She’d pulled through, thanks to the brilliant French surgeon who had worked on her for hours, but Liesel had brushed off every attempt Caspian had made to talk about it.
For some reason, she was acting like none of it had happened, as if she could erase the trauma by sheer force of will.
Caspian knew better than to press the matter.
She’ll talk when she’s ready.
Maybe he’d find her in the gym, maybe not. Either way, he knew one thing: Liesel Bergmann wasn’t one to let anyone, not even him, see her struggle.
As Caspian rounded a bend, something caught his eye. A large yacht was anchored in a small cove just beyond the cliffs. Even from a distance, he recognized the specific design of an Azimut.
Holy shit! That’s the S8 model, he thought, admiring the yacht.
Then he frowned. It was an odd place to drop anchor for such a large boat.
It’s way too close to the rocks. What’s the captain thinking?
Caspian had never seen a boat anchored there before. That was when it hit him. He didn’t recognize this part of the trail.
I took a wrong turn.
Somehow, he must have missed a junction and ended up on a different path. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his running shorts and tapped the screen. The signal indicator was blank. There was no service.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he studied the vessel more closely.
In his opinion, the Azimut S8 was a masterpiece of modern yacht design.
Its sharp, aggressive lines gave it an unmistakable presence on the water.
The yacht’s hull, painted a crisp silver, had dark-tinted windows running along its length.
Twin staircases led down to the swim platform, where a Jet Ski was fastened in place.
If he had the money to buy a yacht, the S8 would be Caspian’s first choice.
But at a price of four million euros, chances were that it would remain a dream.
The distant hum of an outboard motor made Caspian shift his gaze.
A dinghy was approaching the yacht, cutting through the water at high speed.
Caspian noted there were three men aboard the dinghy as it neared the Azimut.
The driver, a thickset man wearing sunglasses and a gray windbreaker, kept one hand on the throttle while scanning the water ahead.
Another man, also wearing a gray windbreaker, was seated at the front, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
The third man, at first glance, seemed like just another passenger.
He sat in the middle of the boat, his body slightly slouched, as if he was tired from the bumpy ride.
Caspian was about to jog to the previous junction, hoping to get back to his regular trail, when the yacht’s sliding doors opened, and a woman stepped out onto the teak deck.
She was tall and dressed casually in a flowing, floral-patterned dress.
Her long black hair was tied in a ponytail.
In her right hand she held a large glass filled with a green liquid.
Caspian watched her as she took a sip, her gaze drifting out over the water toward the approaching dinghy.
When the dinghy was about a hundred feet from the Azimut, all hell broke loose.
The man in the middle exploded into action, kicking the driver in the face with brutal force. The driver’s head snapped back, and the boat lurched sideways. Before the man seated at the front could react, the kicker launched himself overboard in a desperate, almost suicidal dive.
And that’s when Caspian saw it. The kicker’s hands were tied behind his back.
What the hell?
The man at the front of the dinghy pulled a pistol from inside his jacket, but the driver, who was still reeling from the kick, shouted something.
A brief argument ensued before the armed man dropped the gun onto the boat.
Then, in a move Caspian hadn’t expected, he dove into the water after the prisoner.
Caspian watched as the two figures broke the surface moments later.
The rescuer, breathing hard, hooked an arm under the prisoner’s shoulder and dragged him toward the dinghy.
The driver, who had picked up his colleague’s gun, leaned over the side, grabbed a fistful of the prisoner’s shirt, and yanked him up.
The combined force of the driver and the rescuer was enough to haul the prisoner over the gunwale and onto the deck of the boat.
A savage punch cracked across the prisoner’s face as soon as he tried to push himself upright.
The driver barked something at the prisoner that Caspian couldn’t quite make out, then restarted the outboard engine.
Caspian could see the restrained man struggling to sit up, but a second punch, this one delivered by his rescuer, sent him sprawling sideways.
He teetered at the edge of the gunwale, nearly plunging overboard again.
At the last second, the rescuer caught him by the collar and shoved him back onto the dinghy’s deck.
And that’s when Caspian got his first good look at the prisoner’s face.
His gut clenched.
Like millions of others, Caspian knew who the man was.
Paul Hobb.
A journalist. And a damn good one. The kind who dug into things people wanted to stay buried. The kind who made enemies. While Caspian didn’t personally know the reporter, someone he trusted—and loved very much—did.
Florence Aldrich, the nineteen-year-old he had saved—or doomed, some people could claim—in Zermatt the year before.
Caspian had a complicated relationship with Florence, but he had kept an eye on her since she had moved back to New York. He knew she had befriended Paul Hobb after the reporter had taken an interest in her story and what had happened to her and her family in Switzerland.
The odds of this being related to Florence have to be low, right? Hobb’s a shit disturber. There are plenty of people who hate him.
Despite the heat, a chill ran down Caspian’s spine.
But what if it is related to her? What if Florence is in danger?
After what had transpired in Zermatt, he’d made a solemn promise to himself to always look after Florence, even if she’d been crystal clear that she didn’t want to ever see him again.
He didn’t blame her. After what he had done to her family, how could he?
Whatever Florence thinks of me, it doesn’t change anything. I need to find out who these people are.
Caspian tracked the dinghy as it covered the last fifty feet to the Azimut.
The rescuer stepped on the bow, coiled a docking line in his hand, then tossed it toward the yacht’s stern.
The black-haired woman caught it, looped it around a cleat, and pulled it tight.
The dinghy’s driver eased off the throttle and let the watercraft drift the last few feet until it bumped gently against the Azimut’s swim platform.
The rescuer leaned down and grabbed Hobb’s arm.
The journalist shifted his weight, using what little balance he had left to stand.
He let himself be guided off the dinghy and onto the swim platform.
Caspian could tell Hobb’s legs were wobbly, but the journalist managed to stay upright.
Caspian was still processing what he had just witnessed when he heard something behind him.
He froze, listening. More sounds were coming his way.
He wasn’t alone.