Private Monaco, page 20
“Get her out of here. Eject her from the course and take her pass. Now.”
The huge guy grabbed Justine, who screamed and fought against him as he marched her toward the exit. Her cries were lost beneath the cacophony of the race and hardly anyone noticed her being taken away.
CHAPTER 79
THE YAMAHA 150 outboard growled as I piloted the RIB through the port. The yacht berths were jam-packed port to starboard and bow to stern. The bay beyond was smooth as a boating lake.
The popularity of the race was advantageous to me because all the vessels gave me useful cover as I took a circuitous route to the Sunset Prince.
I steered the RIB on a wide, sweeping arc west, keeping as many boats as possible between me and the large motor yacht that was now my target. My aim was to approach the vessel from its port side because I figured if there was a shooter on board, all eyes would be on the race and the open-water side would be less likely to be watched.
I could hear the roar of engines in the distance, the rising and falling cheers of the crowds, and from the decks nearby came the excited shouts of people watching qualifying from their boats. I hoped Justine had reached Carver but couldn’t count on him or his people to take the threat seriously.
I turned north toward the Sunset Prince, a blue-and-white Beneteau 46 powerboat with four decks. I couldn’t see any obvious signs of a shooter, but I was coming at the vessel from the wrong side of the action.
When I was fifty feet away, I cut the RIB’s outboard engine and ran silent, allowing momentum to carry me toward the stern of the Sunset Prince.
Despite being within the confines of the bay, the large yacht bobbed on the waves, which would make any shot a challenge, even for an accomplished marksman. If he was on the other side of this vessel, Kendrick Stamp must have been utterly desperate to agree to do this. Roman Verde must have some powerful hold over him, and given the man’s MO in our case, Mo-bot was probably right to think they had Stamp’s wife hostage.
Momentum and tide carried me into the swimming platform attached to the stern of the yacht. I jumped onto the wooden decking and secured the RIB’s line to a cleat, before climbing a short ladder and boarding the vessel.
“Hey!” a man yelled as I climbed over the stanchions.
I turned to see a heavyset guy coming from below deck, up a gangway that led to the cabins.
I rushed him before he reached the top of the stairs and kicked his torso, sending him tumbling down into the galley below. He cracked his head against the wooden floor and his eyes rolled back before he passed out.
I hurried to the starboard side and peered around the bulkhead to see Kendrick Stamp on the high deck above the pilot’s wheel. In front of him was a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle, a sophisticated long-range gun with telescopic sight. It was mounted on a platform with side panels that concealed it from casual observers, and the platform itself was constantly moving, powered by gyroscopic servos that compensated for the movement of the boat on the water. It was an expensive, state-of-the art gun and stabilizing system. With this equipment, I had no doubt a man like Stamp would be able to assassinate Eli Carver.
CHAPTER 80
JUSTINE STRUGGLED AGAINST the large Secret Service agent, but it was hopeless. He had hold of her left wrist and had twisted it behind her back into a position that inflicted immediate pain if she deviated even slightly from where he was directing her. Any further pressure and she feared her wrist might snap.
They were moving away from the grandstand toward the nearest exit across a raised walkway. The celebratory atmosphere, roaring cars and excited crowds meant no one paid them any attention.
Justine became increasingly desperate but fought a sense of panic, which she knew could only steer her down the wrong path. Even as she was led away from her objective, with no way back to warn Carver plus the nagging suspicion Henry Wilson was working for the enemy, she tried to find calm.
“What’s your name?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard above the din.
Her captor remained silent.
Justine’s mind whirred frantically, but she fought the tumult of fears and frustrations and reminded herself that the truth was the most powerful weapon. Good people recognized the truth when it was plainly spoken.
“You know my name is Justine Smith. I work for Private, the detective agency run by Jack Morgan.”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw a glimmer of recognition in the man’s eyes.
“You know that name. I bet everyone on the Secretary’s detail knows that name because Jack saved your principal’s life at Fallon Airbase in Nevada.”
The agent’s grip on her wrist loosened slightly.
“Jack is out there right now.” Justine nodded toward the port. “He’s looking for a shooter we believe is targeting the Secretary. And I think Henry Wilson is one of his co-conspirators.”
The agent stopped moving and let go of Justine. She rubbed her arm as she turned to face him.
“Ma’am, do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”
“I don’t care how it sounds,” she replied, having to yell to make herself heard over the noise of the race. “I care about Secretary Carver’s life. You need to take me back so I can talk to him.”
The agent’s expression hardened.
“Or don’t, but have his detail move him. Get him to a less exposed location and keep him away from Wilson.”
Justine saw the conflict in the Secret Service agent. If she was an alarmist, he would face embarrassment and censure, but if what she was saying was true, the alternative would be catastrophic: the death of the man this agent was sworn to keep safe.
“This is a serious threat,” she said. “Don’t let the bad guys win.”
“My name is Greg Campbell,” he said at last. “And I think you’d better talk to the Secretary yourself.”
CHAPTER 81
I STARTED UP the gangway toward Kendrick but was surprised by a man who thrust a pistol in my face. It was Michel, the man I’d chased from the Automobile Club. His face was twisted into a vicious snarl.
“Up,” he said. “Slowly.”
He stepped back and allowed me to climb the narrow steps that led to the pilot’s deck. I moved at a deliberate, steady pace.
“Up,” he said, gesturing at another short run of steps that would take me to Kendrick Stamp.
I did as Michel said. As I reached the upper deck, Stamp looked around. He seemed haunted and I could sense the conflict within him. He didn’t want to be there, and his eyes blazed with hatred when Michel climbed the stairs to join us, his gun on me the whole time.
We had a clear line of sight to the Monte Carlo Casino grandstand from up here, and I watched the crowd rise from their seats as a qualifying car sped round the Louis Chiron bend.
Michel approached me, brandishing his gun. “You’ve caused nothing but trouble.”
“You don’t have to do this, Kendrick,” I said to Stamp. My attempted intervention earned me a smack from the gun, which made the world turn white with pain and set my ears ringing.
Once the pain had subsided, I stood tall and glared at Michel.
“Take the shot,” he ordered Stamp. “Or your wife dies.”
He produced a cell phone.
“One call from me and you’ll never see her again,” Michel said. “You want to live with the guilt of knowing you could have saved her?”
Kendrick looked at me and his eyes welled with tears. I could see the turmoil within him. Like me, this man had devoted his life to protecting and serving others. His record in the Marine Corps and FBI suggested someone with a strong sense of right and wrong. Being faced with this choice must have been tearing at his soul.
“Don’t take the shot,” I said. “We can find Angie and get her back.”
Kendrick frowned at my use of his wife’s name, and Michel hit me again. This time he opened up a nasty gash on my forehead and, as blood ran into my right eye, I felt the pull of unconsciousness. I fell to my knees and put out a hand to steady myself. The world swam and the pain was excruciating, but I rode the waves of agony until they settled.
Kendrick Stamp looked down at me. I saw nothing but conflict in his eyes. This was a good man torn between doing what was right and what was necessary.
I locked eyes with him and shook my head slowly. Tears overflowed and wet his cheeks as he turned to face the shore. He wiped his face, before pressing his right eye to the scope.
“You can watch your friend, the Secretary of Defense, die,” Michel said to me. “And then I’ll send you to Hell to join him.”
He pressed the muzzle of the pistol to my temple. He would kill me the moment Kendrick hit the target.
CHAPTER 82
SECRET SERVICE AGENT Greg Campbell made good on his word and led Justine back to the entrance to the stand.
“She’s good,” he said to the two agents posted by the stairs, and they nodded him and Justine through.
“Thank you for doing this,” she said, as they started up the steps.
“You’d better be on the level,” Greg replied.
“I am,” Justine assured him.
They went up and over the rear of the stand, and when they reached the top of a run of steps on the other side, Justine got a proper view of the Louis Chiron chicane and the port beyond. It was a magnificent spot from which to watch the race, which was also broadcast on two big screens set a short distance away from either side of the stand.
“He’s down at the front,” Greg said. He took hold of Justine’s arm, gently this time. “You’d better not be a nut.”
“I’m not,” she replied, and he released her and followed as she started down the steps.
She saw Eli Carver in the very first row, glancing around excitedly. The next car was approaching the bend and Justine felt the phenomenal vibration of its engine as it neared. There was a roar as the car changed gears, and a magnificent Formula One car entered the Louis Chiron chicane in front of the grandstand. For a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist as the sound and presence of the supercar cast everything else into shadow and silence. Reality returned only when it growled by, shifting gears as it sped out of the turn.
Justine’s eyes flicked from the fast-disappearing car to Eli Carver, but she caught someone else looking directly at her: Henry Wilson, sitting two seats away from his boss.
“What’s she doing here?” he yelled. “Get her away from the Secretary.”
The sound of the cheering crowd died away and Henry’s voice seemed loud in the lull that followed.
“I said get her out of here!”
Carver turned and was initially puzzled to see Henry shouting at Justine. He looked from one to the other, bemused. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Secretary, this person is a threat to your—” Henry began, but Justine cut him off.
“Eli,” she said, making a conscious decision to use familiarity to remind him of their friendship, “we have reason to believe there is an imminent threat on your life. Jack is—”
Justine didn’t get the chance to complete her sentence.
There were two loud cracks as a pair of bullets struck the grandstand directly below where Carver was sitting. Justine only recognized them as gunshots because she was expecting violence, but most of the nearby spectators looked around in confusion, and people a few rows away from Carver didn’t even register what had happened because of the general noise and commotion.
Carver’s Secret Service detail knew exactly what had happened. The agent nearest the Defense Secretary leaped to protect him and yelled, “Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Another agent shouted, “We gotta get Apollo to the secondary location.”
Justine felt Greg’s hands on her arms. He steered her toward the guard that had suddenly formed around Carver. She felt herself being swept away, following the phalanx out of the stand through a side exit at the end of the front row.
Events had moved beyond her control, but at least Carver was safe for now. She hoped the same was true of Jack.
CHAPTER 83
“YOU MISSED,” MICHEL said bitterly, and his face reddened with fury as he watched the commotion on the grandstand.
I couldn’t make out the details, but I was pretty sure the press of bodies was Carver’s close protection detail taking him to safety.
Kendrick Stamp unclipped the rifle from the gyroscopic platform and turned it on Michel.
“I missed that target,” he agreed. “But I won’t miss this one.”
He pulled the trigger and shot Michel in the chest. The force of the high-caliber slug delivered at deafeningly close range drove Michel across the deck, and he collapsed against the other side, pawing weakly at the hole in his chest.
Stamp put the rifle down and helped me to my feet.
“Thank you,” I said.
His eyes shimmered with tears. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for my wife.”
“I appreciate it nonetheless,” I told him.
“I missed on purpose. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shoot him. I swore an oath.” He hesitated. “Help me find her. Please.”
“Do you have any leads?”
He nodded. “They let me speak to her this morning. I was hooded, but she was there with me, in person, in a house or warehouse. It was definitely inside. I felt the breeze when they took me out afterwards.”
“Any ideas on the locality?” I asked, wiping blood from my eye.
“After the shooting at the hotel, they came and took me. Put a hood on me and moved me somewhere about twenty minutes’ drive away. They turned and doubled back so much, I can’t tell you the direction of travel. I spoke to Angie inside and then they led me away and brought me here by boat. I was still hooded, but the boat was waiting right outside the location. There were steps down and sand, so wherever she is it has to be on the waterfront. Angie is somewhere over there.”
I walked over to Michel, who was taking rapid shallow breaths. He groaned as I approached, and I ignored his pathetic attempts to fight me off as I reached into his pocket for the phone he’d threatened Stamp with earlier.
I stepped away and used it to call Justine. She answered almost immediately.
“Hello?”
“Jus, it’s me.”
“Jack, thank God! When Carver was shot at, I feared the worst.”
“I’m okay,” I assured her. “Where are you?”
“In some sort of equipment store with Secretary Carver and his people,” she replied. “They’re preparing to evacuate him.”
“The threat here is over. I don’t know if there are others, but Kendrick Stamp did the right thing and missed on purpose,” I said, looking at Stamp, whose eyes shone with fear and uncertainty about his decision.
I knew exactly how he felt, having lost Justine to these men a few days earlier.
“I need you to ask Carver to run a trace on the last five numbers into and out of this phone. And I need it now. Angie Stamp is being held hostage somewhere in Monaco, and I’ve promised we’ll find her, so I need the location of any device that’s had contact with this phone.”
“I’m on it,” Justine said, before hanging up.
I turned to Stamp, who signaled to Michel. His eyes were glassy and his bloody chest was still. He was dead. I felt no pity for a person who’d been part of such evil.
“We need to be ready to move,” I told Stamp as I crouched to pick up Michel’s fallen pistol, a Dan Wesson DWX, which was an excellent close-range weapon.
Stamp grabbed the sniper rifle, and took an ammunition box from beneath the gyroscopic platform.
“I’m ready,” he said.
“Good. Let’s go,” I replied, and we headed for the RIB.
CHAPTER 84
JUSTINE STOOD BESIDE Greg Campbell in a corrugated-steel equipment store built beneath the grandstand. She’d been bustled into the room by the big Secret Service agent who had followed his colleagues. They’d done a magnificent job of clustering to shield Carver and had got him to this secondary location in under a minute.
The atmosphere in the equipment store was tense. The ranking agent in charge coordinated with the extraction team via radio, urging them to make ready. Justine heard an announcement on the public address system in French and English, saying qualifying had stopped pending the resolution of certain technical issues. She wondered how many people who’d been sitting near Carver would know the true meaning of the phrase “technical issues” and whether news of the shooting would spread. Even if it did, members of the public who reported an unconfirmed assassination attempt on social media would likely be dismissed as conspiracy cranks. There would undoubtedly be race footage of Carver being hurried from the stand, but TV companies might not release it, and even if they did, the Secretary’s media team could say the two events were unrelated. The public would only know about the assassination attempt if Carver or the US government wanted them to.
The sour note in the room was the presence of Henry Wilson, who stood in the opposite corner near the door. He didn’t take his eyes off Justine and Greg, and prior to Jack’s call, Justine had been wondering what to do about this man who probably wanted her dead.
She clasped her phone tightly and made for Carver, who seemed bewildered. He sat on a metal equipment chest and caught his breath. His detail bristled as she approached, and a couple of agents stepped toward her.
“Please stay back, ma’am,” one of them said.
“She’s okay,” Greg told his colleagues, but his words didn’t really register because Wilson yelled over him.
“Get this woman out of here! She poses a security risk.”
“Henry?” Carver said.
“I think she’s been working with the people behind all this,” he replied. “The people who just tried to shoot you. She knew about the attack in advance. She caused a distraction when it happened.”
