the door, but he doubled over rather than pushing through. A quick rabbit punch knocked him out.
“I repeat. What the hell is going on?” The voice in my ear was still talking. “You’re not in direct contact, are you Achilles?”
Direct contact was a literal description of what I was doing, but Rider didn’t need to know that. “Hold on, sir.”
I got busy stuffing three oversized sailors into three undersized wardrobes. The result wasn’t pretty, but I got all the doors closed and locked with keys from their pockets.
Time to deal with Rider, one way or another. I considered switching off the mike now that I was alone, but it was about to get hairy, and I knew I might need support. “Sir, I’m aboard the yacht where we believe Ivan is meeting Emily.”
“What do you mean you believe ?”
Their syntax was so similar that I wondered if Rider was secretly Oscar’s father. “Emily was brought here, we believe, as part of Ivan’s plan to influence the London mayoral election, but I don’t have visual confirmation. The Anzhelika is the size of a football field, so I’ve changed into a crew uniform to facilitate the search. I need to get on that now, sir.”
“You do that. Don’t plan to disembark while Ivan’s still breathing.”
Chapter 15
“I’VE BROUGHT SOMETHING with me, a little show and tell that I guarantee will change your life,” Michael told the mayoral candidate, his tone making it clear that his words should not be construed as hyperbole.
Lounging before a gas-and-glass fire pit at the aft end of the Daisy Mae’s big deck, Kian Aspinwall appeared as relaxed as a politician in the midst of a high-profile campaign can be. He wore a pink button-down beneath a blue linen blazer, and boat shoes on bare feet. Keeping his eyes on Michael’s, and flashing a pleasant smile that showed plenty of perfect teeth, he replied, “I’m intrigued.”
So was Jo. She’d crept to a perch that gave her line of sight on the conversing couple from a neighboring yacht. From that vantage point, her directional microphone delivered their words as clearly as if she’d been seated with them. She was reveling in her good luck when Michael lifted his tan leather bag and said, “Let’s move to the table.”
Her heart sank, her lips mouthing, “Merde.” That ruined everything. When they moved back toward the main saloon, she’d lose sight and sound. Even worse, there was no location on her yacht that gave a downward angle on that table. To see what was in the bag, she was literally going to have to jump ship — silently, invisibly, and immediately.
Jo jammed her equipment back into her purse. As she slipped off her boots and socks, the internal monologue began. What are you doing Jo? My job. Don’t think about the risks, just do it.
She backed up to the far railing, took a deep breath, and then started sprinting. Five strides to gain speed, then up onto a footstool with her left, then the guardrail with her right, followed by an open-air dive — arms forward, legs up, eyes locked on the guardrail of the Daisy Mae’s top deck some ten feet away. If she missed, she’d likely drop three stories to the water. Noise. Injury. Attention. Failure. She let the consequences fly by as fast as the scenery, maintaining her focus on victory. As soon as her fingers touched precious chrome, Jo used core strength and momentum to pike her hips up, flipping her legs over like she’d done a thousand times on the uneven bars. She released her grip on the rail as soon as her ankles broke the vertical plane, and a split second later landed — on her ass rather than her feet. Her pride took a hit, but she was none the worse for wear.
After scrambling to her feet, Jo pulled the monocular and directional mike from her bag, and scurried to the far edge. Peering over, she found the corner of the wall separating the saloon from the aft deck. She wriggled under the guardrail on her belly at that spot, and then
“I repeat. What the hell is going on?” The voice in my ear was still talking. “You’re not in direct contact, are you Achilles?”
Direct contact was a literal description of what I was doing, but Rider didn’t need to know that. “Hold on, sir.”
I got busy stuffing three oversized sailors into three undersized wardrobes. The result wasn’t pretty, but I got all the doors closed and locked with keys from their pockets.
Time to deal with Rider, one way or another. I considered switching off the mike now that I was alone, but it was about to get hairy, and I knew I might need support. “Sir, I’m aboard the yacht where we believe Ivan is meeting Emily.”
“What do you mean you believe ?”
Their syntax was so similar that I wondered if Rider was secretly Oscar’s father. “Emily was brought here, we believe, as part of Ivan’s plan to influence the London mayoral election, but I don’t have visual confirmation. The Anzhelika is the size of a football field, so I’ve changed into a crew uniform to facilitate the search. I need to get on that now, sir.”
“You do that. Don’t plan to disembark while Ivan’s still breathing.”
Chapter 15
“I’VE BROUGHT SOMETHING with me, a little show and tell that I guarantee will change your life,” Michael told the mayoral candidate, his tone making it clear that his words should not be construed as hyperbole.
Lounging before a gas-and-glass fire pit at the aft end of the Daisy Mae’s big deck, Kian Aspinwall appeared as relaxed as a politician in the midst of a high-profile campaign can be. He wore a pink button-down beneath a blue linen blazer, and boat shoes on bare feet. Keeping his eyes on Michael’s, and flashing a pleasant smile that showed plenty of perfect teeth, he replied, “I’m intrigued.”
So was Jo. She’d crept to a perch that gave her line of sight on the conversing couple from a neighboring yacht. From that vantage point, her directional microphone delivered their words as clearly as if she’d been seated with them. She was reveling in her good luck when Michael lifted his tan leather bag and said, “Let’s move to the table.”
Her heart sank, her lips mouthing, “Merde.” That ruined everything. When they moved back toward the main saloon, she’d lose sight and sound. Even worse, there was no location on her yacht that gave a downward angle on that table. To see what was in the bag, she was literally going to have to jump ship — silently, invisibly, and immediately.
Jo jammed her equipment back into her purse. As she slipped off her boots and socks, the internal monologue began. What are you doing Jo? My job. Don’t think about the risks, just do it.
She backed up to the far railing, took a deep breath, and then started sprinting. Five strides to gain speed, then up onto a footstool with her left, then the guardrail with her right, followed by an open-air dive — arms forward, legs up, eyes locked on the guardrail of the Daisy Mae’s top deck some ten feet away. If she missed, she’d likely drop three stories to the water. Noise. Injury. Attention. Failure. She let the consequences fly by as fast as the scenery, maintaining her focus on victory. As soon as her fingers touched precious chrome, Jo used core strength and momentum to pike her hips up, flipping her legs over like she’d done a thousand times on the uneven bars. She released her grip on the rail as soon as her ankles broke the vertical plane, and a split second later landed — on her ass rather than her feet. Her pride took a hit, but she was none the worse for wear.
After scrambling to her feet, Jo pulled the monocular and directional mike from her bag, and scurried to the far edge. Peering over, she found the corner of the wall separating the saloon from the aft deck. She wriggled under the guardrail on her belly at that spot, and then
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