Chapter Sixteen
One Mile South of Cabrera Island
Mallorca, Spain
Verena Kaine stared at the frozen drone footage, her thumb trembling slightly over the playback control. She rewound the feed for the sixth time. Not because she needed to—she already knew what she’d seen—but because something in her brain demanded it.
Six is a clean number. A safe number. Five isn’t.
She hit play again. There. Just a blur of movement on the edge of the screen.
A figure, balanced on a ledge between two windows on the fourth floor of Kross’s hotel, was standing there, perfectly still, as if carved from the night itself.
Verena paused the frame. The resolution was poor, distorted from the drone’s speed and the low-light condition it operated in, but there was no mistaking it. The figure was a woman.
Verena leaned closer, analyzing the image again. The ledge appeared to be narrow, no larger than six inches.
Who would be crazy enough to just stand there?
She wished she could send one of the drones back for another pass, but that wasn’t an option anymore.
All three units were on an automated exit trajectory, heading two miles offshore and self-destructing in less than thirty seconds.
A miniature explosive charge set next to the battery would ensure the midair disintegration of the drones.
Their carbon fiber carcasses would scatter into the ocean like spent ash.
As it rushed toward the Mediterranean, one of the drones had briefly flown over Kross’s hotel. That’s how she’d seen the woman.
Verena dialed Kross’s number again, the third time in two minutes. Like the two previous attempts, her call was unanswered.
“Damn it!” she shouted, tossing her phone across the flybridge.
The phone sailed over the dining table and bounced off the stainless-steel barbecue before skidding to a stop near the bar fridge.
Verena clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to retrieve the phone right away.
She could feel the disarray prickling at her skin.
She wiped an invisible smear from the edge of her laptop with her sleeve. She hated mess, hated disorder.
She closed her eyes and thought about Oscar and Pam and the two other officers who’d lost their lives. All had happened in less than sixty minutes. Twenty-five percent of her European team was gone. Evaporated.
And now Kross is off comms.
Damn it! We should have been halfway to Valencia by now.
She stood and walked to the railing, her boots clicking against the teak deck of the flybridge.
Veloce bobbed gently at anchor, and all around it the sea was dark and glassy, the moonlight catching the faint swell.
Verena’s gaze drifted to the north, toward Cabrera Island, which loomed about one mile out like a sleeping beast.
The day had started so well, with Hobb being snatched cleanly off the streets of Port de Sóller.
Everything had turned to shit when Pam and Oscar had been surprised by a lone operator on the beach.
Verena shook her head. Pam and Oscar hadn’t been rookies.
In the last three years, they’d pulled off some complex operations.
But today at the beach, they’d gone down like amateurs, taken out by the same man who’d been seated at the restaurant with Sofie Bergmann, Hobb’s contact.
And now, that same man had managed to take out two more of her officers on the terrace.
Pam and Oscar had been about to engage when the police had arrived.
Verena, her eyes glued to the live feed, had seen Pam fire at the police.
That had been a fatal mistake. Seconds later, she’d been gunned down along with Oscar, caught in the open between the restaurant and the police cars.
The only good news in all of this was that Sofie Bergmann—the fucking mole they’d been after for months—had been dealt with permanently. Kross had seen to that.
Now what?
You have to call him.
Verena reached for the black phone in her pocket, her fingertips brushing the matte surface. She’d never reported a failure before. She’d had setbacks, yes, but a complete disaster like this? This was a first.
Her stomach turned.
Verena adjusted her ponytail, then straightened the files on the chart table even though they didn’t need straightening. Thinking about what she’d say to her employer, she tapped her fingers on the edge of the table once, twice, three times.
You can’t lie to him. He’ll find out everything anyway. He always does.
Her only path forward was to be honest and hope—not beg—for forgiveness.
She began to dial, her mind going back to the woman standing on the ledge of Kross’s hotel. Was she even a player? Was it possible she was simply trying to escape her violent husband or a dangerous lover she’d picked up in a bar?
No . . . she’s involved. It’s not a coincidence. She’s the reason why Kross hasn’t picked up my calls.
Then whose team was she on? Was she with the man who’d taken out her officers? Had she been to Kross’s hotel to kill him? To interrogate him? If so, who had sent her? And why?
Then a thought crossed her mind, and she froze.
Am I her next target?