ALSO BY DIANE CAPRI
THE HEIR HUNTER SERIES
Blood Trails
THE JESS KIMBALL THRILLERS SERIES
Fatal Fall
Fatal Game
Fatal Error
Fatal Demand
Fatal Distraction
Fatal Enemy
THE HUNT FOR JACK REACHER SERIES
Deep Cover Jack
Jack and Joe
Get Back Jack
Don’t Know Jack
Jack in the Green
Jack and Kill
Jack in a Box
THE HUNT FOR JUSTICE SERIES
False Truth: A Jordan Fox Mystery Serial
Due Justice
Twisted Justice
Secret Justice
Wasted Justice
Raw Justice
Mistaken Justice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by M. Diane Vogt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542045902
ISBN-10: 1542045908
Cover design by Ed Bettison
For the readers who have supported me and enjoyed my books and asked for more.
I couldn’t do this without you.
Thank you.
CONTENTS
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
“It seemed to…
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
Michael Flint
Kathryn (Katie) Scarlett
Alonzo Drake
Veronica Beaumont
Jamison (Jamie) Beaumont
Josh Hallman
Mark Wilcox
Boyd Wilcox
Ruben Vega
Kevin Hayes
Sebastian (Baz) Shaw
Jasper Crane
Madeline (Maddy) Scarlett
“It seemed to me that a careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very different ones from those which I had expected.”
—The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Sherlock Holmes in “The Crooked Man”
CHAPTER ONE
Nassau, Bahamas
Friday
Michael Flint breathed evenly as he ignored muscle fatigue and the cold Atlantic Ocean pressing his body through his wetsuit like a taunting squeeze from an anaconda. He’d seen the sea do its worst. The ocean could surely squeeze a man to death more easily than the snake. But he couldn’t think about that now. It was too late to turn back.
He’d trained smart and hard for this mission. Reminded his body of lessons learned long ago and practiced but rarely employed these days. He was more fit than he’d been in years.
His combat dive training had guided his equipment choices, too. His wetsuit snugged like a second skin, allowing unrestricted range of motion. The diving knife strapped to his leg was easily within reach. An untraceable standard Sig Sauer P226 was tucked into his suit. The pistol featured a waterproof chamber, which meant he could fire effectively underwater. He wasn’t expecting a gunfight before he reached The Sea King, but operations like these were unpredictable.
Around his waist were weights that countered his natural buoyancy and kept him effortlessly below the surface. His lips and teeth held the mouthpiece for his rebreather system in place. The device recirculated a small volume of air, scrubbing away the harmful carbon dioxide before allowing the cleaned air back into his lungs. The system was lightweight, which allowed freedom of movement, and eliminated exhaled bubbles that might otherwise announce his approach.
His exit strategy was just as sound. He wasn’t worried. He lived, as always, in the moment. Alert. Oriented. Controlled.
He breathed evenly through the mouthpiece as he swam, large scuba fins propelling him steadily forward. He glanced at his watch. He’d been swimming below the surface for thirty-seven minutes from the drop-off point. His rebreather system functioned normally and guaranteed a healthy margin of error. No need to surface yet.
At his current rate of speed, he would arrive at the luxury superyacht precisely as planned.
The Sea King rested off the east coast of Nassau, Bahamas, relaxed and alone in the sunshine like a lazy lizard. The wind was slow, the waves gentle. The yacht was capable of remarkably high speed for its size. But speed wasn’t its objective today.
Flint had studied every inch of The Sea King and its crew thoroughly for the past two weeks. As he completed his approach, another part of his brain ran through what he’d learned once more.
In the center, The Sea King rose three decks above the hull. The top deck was the owner’s private preserve. The deck below was ringed with a continuous band of mirrored windows that deflected heat without obstructing the stunning views from inside. When not in use, the helipad at the bow was designed to serve as a sundeck, often occupied by nude sunbathers. But none lounged there today.
The Sea King was famous among a certain social set. If the decks and staterooms could only talk, Flint’s client had said, scandalous secrets of internationally renowned masters of the universe would be revealed. To Flint, the depraved behavior of frivolous gadabouts was unimportant. He wasn’t here to party.
As his father had done before him, the yacht’s current owner hosted a legendary card game each week. Participation was by invitation only, for men of a certain quality. A long list of potential players lusted after a seat at the table. Some worthy, some not, waited years for the chance. For more, the invitation would never come.
Flint was not
welcome. Which was why his preparations had been especially thorough.
In a casino bar, he had befriended the ship’s private chef. Plied with enough alcohol, the chef had confirmed The Sea King’s custom interior layout, which Flint had retrieved from the manufacturer’s secret archives. With a high-powered telescope and secure military satellites, Flint had spent two weeks studying The Sea King’s activities.
The chef had drunkenly confirmed other details. The regular crew numbered ten, all weapons trained. Two were dedicated to security. The security team was identifiable by the black name tags they wore on their starched white uniforms. But it was their ruddy seaworn faces and bulging muscles that distinguished them as the ones most likely to win in close-quarters combat.
Flint had watched as wealthy visitors were ferried from the island to the helipad at The Sea King’s bow several times. Occasionally, women who didn’t behave like wives were included. Up to twelve guests could be luxuriously accommodated overnight. Daytime visitor capacity was 120 souls.
He’d learned The Sea King’s systems and routines, charted its timetables, placed trackers on the ship’s vehicles.
In short, over the past fourteen days, he’d identified, eliminated, and minimized risks until nothing but irreducible dangers remained.
Two hours before he entered the water, Flint had watched the helicopter deliver just five gamblers for the high-stakes poker game. With the crew and the owner, there were a total of sixteen people on board. Sixteen men. No girlfriends, no hookers, and certainly no wives or children.
Today’s batch were longtime gamblers, but they were not the best of the best. Which was how the yacht’s owner liked it. These players were the perfect patsies.
Just as Flint’s client had been.
Should the patsies ever realize they’d been cheated, they’d have no legal recourse.
Not that his client wanted to make a legal claim for his losses. Far from it. Attention to his plight from the courts or anyone else was the last thing he wanted. Which, in addition to extraordinary competence, was why he’d hired Flint. Discretion.
His client had lost a family heirloom. A not-so-small piece of jewelry. More specifically, an amber and gold pendant. The pendant was priceless because it had been a gift. From Nicholas II. The last Russian czar.
The client’s great-grandmother had been a young violinist. In the dark months before the Russian Revolution, she had performed a private concert for the Romanovs and their guests.
Czar Nicholas II had been so moved by the performance, his own children so entranced by the girl’s artistry, he had taken the pendant from his wife’s neck and bestowed it upon the young musician.
Hers was the last concert ever performed for the czar’s family. Months later, the Romanovs were executed in a grim stone cellar.
The girl went on to become famous, for a time. She wore the Romanov pendant during every performance for the remainder of her career.
The pendant had been passed down through her family, until Flint’s client inherited it. Because of its provenance, the pendant was appraised at eight million dollars, but it was not insured. Money could never replace the heirloom.
Flint patted the cheap replica stashed in the waterproof pouch in his wetsuit. The genuine Romanov pendant was resting inside the safe in The Sea King’s private office, deep within the owner’s suite on the top deck.
All Flint had to do was exchange the fake pendant for the real one. When he thought of the mission like that, it seemed simple enough.
He kept up his rhythm, syncing his breathing to his power strokes with his arms and legs. The Sea King’s hull appeared dead ahead, relaxed and waiting in the sparkling water.
He glanced at his watch again. The first scheduled break in the poker game had ended fifteen minutes ago. They should be well under way again in the glass-enclosed salon on the main deck.
Flint approached the yacht’s aft, where the full-beam beach club featured a fold-down swim platform, deployed when guests were present. The platform was the easiest, fastest place to breach The Sea King from the ocean and the area least likely to be occupied during the intense poker game.
He stayed well below the surface and swam around the underside of the platform. There were no feet dangling in the water. He approached the platform’s right side and slowly lifted his head from the water. The platform was unoccupied.
Rattan furniture with thick white cushions and ocean-blue pillows was arranged on the teak wood floor to provide seating for six. Two club chairs, a love seat, two end tables, and an ottoman in the center completed the grouping. All as expected.
Flint removed his fins and attached them to his belt. He dropped his weights into the ocean, then lifted himself out of the water and onto the swim platform, keeping out of sight of a closed-circuit security camera.
He backed against the hull and grabbed his gun. From the same waterproof pouch he pulled a towel and wiped down his wetsuit. The last thing he needed was a trail of wet prints leading anyone to him. Satisfied, he tucked the towel under one of the cushions.
The owner’s suite was on the upper deck, two decks above him. Careful to avoid the security cameras, he moved into the ship along a corridor and took the rear stairs to the main deck. He flattened himself against a pillar and peered around its edge into the giant glass-walled salon.
Views of the vast ocean through the mirrored windows were breathtaking, but the six poker players seated at arm’s length around a circular table were intent on the game. Stacks of poker chips rested at each player’s right arm. No one spoke.
The dealer was a man from Long Island, New York. Flint recognized him from his dossier. A man of loose morals and questionable business practices. The stack of chips at his elbow was taller than any of the others. His reputation for expert gambling seemed well displayed.
Flint silently continued to the next set of stairs and climbed to the upper deck. He adjusted his grip on the gun. The Sea King’s security crew relaxed procedures while the yacht was at sea, knowing they could easily hear any approaching conveyance, in the unlikely event one should arrive. As expected, the owner’s suite entrance door was wide open.
Flint eased up to the side of the doorway. All he heard was an occasional exclamation from the gamblers below and the distant throb of the yacht’s engines, idling to provide power for climate control, lighting, kitchen equipment, and the like.
He had to keep moving. The longer he spent on the ship, the greater the chance of discovery and failure. Timing was always everything.
CHAPTER TWO
Flint looked around for threats and, seeing none, slipped carefully inside the owner’s suite. So far, so good.
Every inch of the suite screamed wealth and privilege. The Sea King’s multimillion-dollar purchase price had paid for custom interiors well beyond what many seafaring monarchs could afford.
He ignored the grandeur and passed through the lounge area to a short corridor. Two doors led off to bedrooms, but at the far end was the office. He checked behind him and moved into the passageway. His footsteps seemed loud to his hypersensitive ears inside the confined space. The gamblers were below him. He had to hope the yacht’s builders had been generous with the sound deadening between decks.
Wood creaked ahead of him. A door popped open. A crew member in a white suit stepped out, a silver tray with the meal’s remains held in both hands. His eyes widened at the same time Flint reversed his grip on the gun and threw a straight-arm punch.
The man’s mouth had barely begun to open when Flint’s knuckles hammered into his jaw. His head twisted sideways. His eyes rolled up and his body leaned backward.
Flint grabbed the tray with his free hand and shoved it against the collapsing man, pushing him to increase his backward momentum.
Flint quickly checked the room beyond the open door. The bed was unmade. He must have been cleaning the owner’s suite.
Flint lowered the unconscious man to the floor. “Marco,” according to his name tag. F
lint placed the tray on the bed and dragged Marco into a closet. He closed and locked the door. Marco would be out for a while. By the time he regained consciousness, Flint planned to be long gone.
He listened hard. The players were still gambling and the engines were still rumbling. He heard no one headed in his direction.
Back in the corridor, he removed his tools from his pack and advanced toward the closed door. The office was the owner’s exclusive domain, according to his chef. Entry was restricted to two people, the owner and his head of security. A biometric panel controlled the lock.
Flint grinned when he saw the setup. It was just as the drunk chef had described.
A retina scan was required to unlock the office. Retina scanning had an error rate of one in ten million. Impossible odds, even for those seeking vengeance against a cheating gambler. Thus, it could be relied on to thwart the average burglar.
But while retina scanners seemed cool in the movies, they were finicky technology. Simply put, they weren’t reliable. Bright or inconsistent lighting, such as on this yacht, could cause malfunctions. If either the owner or his security chief developed any one of a number of eye conditions, the scanner would fail.
Which meant the retina scanner could lock the owner out of his own office as easily as it kept others out. Unacceptable.
The owner was wise enough to know the scanner’s weaknesses. He would also know that tech-savvy governments now chose iris recognition instead of retina recognition for reliability.
All of which meant that sophisticated individuals clever enough to use a retina scanner for security locks also had a backup system.
Like an iris scanner coupled with a fingerprint or palm-print scanner.
Or, like The Sea King’s owner, all three.
Flint grinned again. With advance planning, these backup systems could be hacked. And he was nothing if not an advance planner.
His preparation time had been well spent. More than once in the past two weeks, he’d crossed paths with the yacht owner in the VIP men’s lounge at the casino. He’d acquired samples of the owner’s fingerprints and palm prints. He’d captured high-resolution images of both of the man’s irises. He’d requested duplicates of all three biometrics from the lab. The entire process required a man with Flint’s talents and connections, of course.