said, retrieving a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
“Devo, Luc, and François?”
She nodded and sunk into a chair.
“And that disappoints you?” I asked. “You expected a whirlwind romance from those characters?”
She started to answer but then we both heard it, the commotion outside. Something chaotic, people shouting, the noise of urgent footsteps rattling on the dock.
And then I remembered something, something tickling me from the recesses of my memory last night. A noise, a pop—
“Wonder what the ruckus is,” Winnie said.
—a burst, muted and distant, several in succession—
“The bloody hell?” she said.
—a gunshot? Had I heard gunshots?
And then the unmistakable sound of the yacht’s door swinging open, the pounding of footsteps entering the yacht, men’s voices shouting something in French. Winnie and I jumped to our feet.
Just as three commandos, in full combat gear, rushed into the cabin and trained assault weapons on us.
CHAPTER 18
THREE OF THEM initially, then three more spilling in behind them, dressed in blue, combat helmets with face shields, dark masks covering everything from their necks to their noses, bulletproof vests, weapons galore on their belts, thick gloves, and heavy combat boots.
“ Allongez-vous face contre terre! Face contre terre! Down!” Their assault weapons swept across the room. One of them motioned to the floor, lest we misunderstand, while others fanned out throughout the yacht.
“Face contre terre!” One of the soldiers moved toward me and I crouched down. He pushed me flat to the floor and I lay still. Winnie had done the same thing.
Shouting, from other parts of the yacht. Bursting through a door—the bedroom door. Serena’s inquisitive voice. More shouting. I caught Winnie’s eye. She was staring forward intently, perfectly still and perfectly terrified.
Chaos all around us. Serena and Bryah, pushed into the room at gunpoint and forced to the floor beside us, Serena in a T-shirt and panties, Bryah stark naked.
“What’s going on?” Serena shouted. The soldier behind her put a foot on her back.
“Silence!” he ordered.
I said, “Just do what they say—”
“Silence!”
That soldier stood sentry over us, training his gun on our backs, while the others stormed the various rooms of the yacht.
“Qui est-ce qui est dans le yacht? Comment?”
Comment? How many? I thought he was asking how many people were on the yacht. I didn’t know, other than the four of us. Devo, Luc, François, and Damon were gone. The fat American?
“Quatre ou cinq,” I answered. Four or five.
The soldiers called out to each other, announcing each room clear, I assumed, but I really didn’t know. I didn’t know much of anything. I was in a foreign country where an armed militia was overtaking our yacht. What in the world had happened?
The fat American, in a T-shirt and boxers, his hair standing on end, was pushed into the main cabin and forced to the carpet as well. The soldiers gathered and seemed satisfied that they’d rounded us all up. They went to each of us and grabbed our hands and fastened them behind our backs, some kind of a hard rubber restraint. Handcuffs, but not like the police used. At least not in America. But this wasn’t America.
I was lifted off my feet and pushed forward. Each of us was forced up the stairs and onto the dock. Outside, the air was clammy and the sun was low in the east. What would ordinarily be a sleepy dawn was a frenetic scramble of people and vehicles.
It was as if France had declared war on tiny Monaco. Gray helicopters hovered low overhead. A couple of planes that looked like fighter jets circled the sky. Official-looking cars swamped the harbor. The same military group, wearing combat gear and brandishing assault weapons, was pulling people out of all the other yachts moored in the harbor. The entire dock was lined with people lying flat on their stomachs in handcuffs.
We soon joined them—and this
“Devo, Luc, and François?”
She nodded and sunk into a chair.
“And that disappoints you?” I asked. “You expected a whirlwind romance from those characters?”
She started to answer but then we both heard it, the commotion outside. Something chaotic, people shouting, the noise of urgent footsteps rattling on the dock.
And then I remembered something, something tickling me from the recesses of my memory last night. A noise, a pop—
“Wonder what the ruckus is,” Winnie said.
—a burst, muted and distant, several in succession—
“The bloody hell?” she said.
—a gunshot? Had I heard gunshots?
And then the unmistakable sound of the yacht’s door swinging open, the pounding of footsteps entering the yacht, men’s voices shouting something in French. Winnie and I jumped to our feet.
Just as three commandos, in full combat gear, rushed into the cabin and trained assault weapons on us.
CHAPTER 18
THREE OF THEM initially, then three more spilling in behind them, dressed in blue, combat helmets with face shields, dark masks covering everything from their necks to their noses, bulletproof vests, weapons galore on their belts, thick gloves, and heavy combat boots.
“ Allongez-vous face contre terre! Face contre terre! Down!” Their assault weapons swept across the room. One of them motioned to the floor, lest we misunderstand, while others fanned out throughout the yacht.
“Face contre terre!” One of the soldiers moved toward me and I crouched down. He pushed me flat to the floor and I lay still. Winnie had done the same thing.
Shouting, from other parts of the yacht. Bursting through a door—the bedroom door. Serena’s inquisitive voice. More shouting. I caught Winnie’s eye. She was staring forward intently, perfectly still and perfectly terrified.
Chaos all around us. Serena and Bryah, pushed into the room at gunpoint and forced to the floor beside us, Serena in a T-shirt and panties, Bryah stark naked.
“What’s going on?” Serena shouted. The soldier behind her put a foot on her back.
“Silence!” he ordered.
I said, “Just do what they say—”
“Silence!”
That soldier stood sentry over us, training his gun on our backs, while the others stormed the various rooms of the yacht.
“Qui est-ce qui est dans le yacht? Comment?”
Comment? How many? I thought he was asking how many people were on the yacht. I didn’t know, other than the four of us. Devo, Luc, François, and Damon were gone. The fat American?
“Quatre ou cinq,” I answered. Four or five.
The soldiers called out to each other, announcing each room clear, I assumed, but I really didn’t know. I didn’t know much of anything. I was in a foreign country where an armed militia was overtaking our yacht. What in the world had happened?
The fat American, in a T-shirt and boxers, his hair standing on end, was pushed into the main cabin and forced to the carpet as well. The soldiers gathered and seemed satisfied that they’d rounded us all up. They went to each of us and grabbed our hands and fastened them behind our backs, some kind of a hard rubber restraint. Handcuffs, but not like the police used. At least not in America. But this wasn’t America.
I was lifted off my feet and pushed forward. Each of us was forced up the stairs and onto the dock. Outside, the air was clammy and the sun was low in the east. What would ordinarily be a sleepy dawn was a frenetic scramble of people and vehicles.
It was as if France had declared war on tiny Monaco. Gray helicopters hovered low overhead. A couple of planes that looked like fighter jets circled the sky. Official-looking cars swamped the harbor. The same military group, wearing combat gear and brandishing assault weapons, was pulling people out of all the other yachts moored in the harbor. The entire dock was lined with people lying flat on their stomachs in handcuffs.
We soon joined them—and this
Similar Books
