Chapter Thirty
James and Quinn walked single file down a narrow pier toward the assigned location. There, they would board the yacht tender, the motorboat that would ferry them to Perun’s Chariot. As they passed boat after boat moored in their slips, they were surrounded by a symphony of maritime sounds: the screech of seagulls, the clang of ropes against aluminum masts, the hollow pop of water slapping against fiberglass hulls.
The figure of a large man loomed ahead at the end of the causeway.
“Borovsky and his crew sure are punctual, aren’t they?” James said from behind.
“I’m okay with that,” Quinn said. “At least we don’t have to wait around and wonder if we’re being stood up.”
“Yeah,” he drawled, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “Because Borovsky would suddenly lose interest in trying to seduce a gorgeous blonde.”
Quinn twisted around, dipped her chin, and lowered her sunglasses. With a wicked glint, she said, “You never know. Maybe his stash of Viagra fell overboard.”
James barked a sharp laugh.
“Oh, snap!” Darius said exuberantly through her earpiece.
“How do you . . .” Sydney sputtered. Quinn pictured her face the color of a ripe tomato.
Quinn spun forward, added a shoulder shimmy to her walk, and turned on a megawatt smile. “Hello again, Dmitri,” she said as they neared. “Kak dela?”
He blinked in surprise. He obviously wasn’t prepared for her to ask how he was in Russian. “Spasibo, horošo.”
“I’ll assume that means you’re fine,” she said. Her smile never faded when she peeked around Dmitri and waggled her fingers at the young man in the navy blue polo shirt and khaki pants. Given his uniform and the fact he was positioned behind the steering wheel, it was clear he was a member of the yacht’s crew. Whether he and his fellow crew members were part of Borovsky’s nefarious squad or simply doing a job remained to be seen.
The crewman lifted a hand and called back, “G’day, miss.” From his youth, his uniform, his Australian accent, his tan, and his sun-bleached blond hair, she tended to believe he was simply a guy who worked on a yacht. Still, they would have to account for him and all the crew when the time came to take Borovsky into custody.
Quinn looked up at Dmitri. “Shall we?”
His apologetic grimace told her everything.
“He doesn’t want Cade coming with me, does he?” Quinn ripped off her sunglasses and poked them into Dmitri’s chest. Her tone was biting when she said, “You call your boss and tell him if Cade isn’t allowed to come with me, I’m out of here. There are plenty of people who will pay me an obscene amount of money and treat me with respect.”
Dmitri gulped, took his phone from his pocket, and made a call. He would have been surprised to know she and James understood every word he spoke in Russian. She appreciated the fact he conveyed Quinn’s words verbatim. She also felt more than a little satisfaction when Dmitri described her ire and opined his belief she would follow through with her threat.
She tapped her foot as they waited for the call to end. Would Borovsky draw a line in the sand and send her packing? James didn’t think he would, but she wasn’t so sure. What if she’d bruised his ego by standing up to him? They would have to formulate a whole new plan.
Dmitri lowered his phone and returned it to his pocket.
The suspense was excruciating. Had Borovsky’s ego or libido won out?
“Mr. Borovsky say he may come, but he must give up gun.”
Score one for libido.
“That seems fair,” she said and spun around. “Cade?”
If James balked, she would trust his judgment and reject Borovsky’s counteroffer.
His expression never changed as he set the case full of fake Zieglopam on the wooden slats, reached around, and tugged his Sig Sauer from the holster in his waistband. He handed it to Quinn, who turned and gave it to Dmitri. She gave the big man a withering stare, as if challenging him to ask from her further concessions.
Based on her interactions with Dmitri the night before, she was confident he wouldn’t be checking the thigh where her tranquilizer gun currently resided under her sundress. And with her Baby Glock secreted in a pocket in her purse designed specifically for concealed carry, she was well armed.
What she didn’t want was for James to be frisked.
His Baby Glock was strapped to one ankle while his tranquilizer gun was holstered at the other. If he had to give those up, too, James would pull the plug on the op. Tranquilizing Borovsky’s men, and possibly yacht crew, was an integral part of their plan. Otherwise, they would be outnumbered.
If Dmitri had an order to search them, he ignored it. He tucked James’s Sig into his front waistband and hopped into the yacht tender. Carrying an unholstered weapon in such a fashion was a good way to accidentally shoot off the family jewels. Quinn chose to keep that tidbit to herself.
She lightly touched the crewman’s proffered hand as she stepped onto the tender. As she did so, she noted the absence of tattoos on his arms, Perun’s thunder mark in particular. That made her think it was even less likely he was a Borovsky acolyte.
James hopped on with the case of fake Zieglopam in hand. They sat on the cushioned seats and watched Dmitri and the cute Aussie unwind the ropes from the cleats tethering the boat to the pier. Dmitri shoved the boat away from the dock while the crewman started the motor. Seconds later, they were slowly cruising toward the port’s exit.
They motored past a cruise ship docked at the entrance of the harbor and out onto the open water. The crewman pushed the throttle forward and sped up. As they skimmed over the waves, Quinn couldn’t help but marvel at the breathtaking beauty of the Côte d’Azur. The buildings and houses climbed the mountains until it grew too steep and the sheer rock won.
It was moments like that where she sometimes had a hard time wrapping her head around the fact it wasn’t all a dream. She was on the French Riviera, with an incredibly handsome and sexy covert operative who had somehow fallen in love with her. And married her, no less. Now they were a jet-setting couple who traveled the world trying to make it a safer place. Never in a million years, as she sat in a library school classroom learning the correct way to catalog a DVD, would she have believed such things were possible.
She sighed, wishing she could snuggle into James’s side and share with him all the things flashing through her mind. The stolen moment of squeezing his hand while Dmitri’s head was turned would have to suffice.
She dragged her attention away from the coast, pushed her existential musings aside, and scanned the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of Perun’s Chariot. From satellite images, she knew it would be one of the larger boats they would encounter, but not so large that it would attract attention, something Borovsky eschewed. The monstrous yachts half the size of the Titanic with swimming pools and helicopter pads tended to end up on lists on the Internet.
The Aussie angled the tender directly toward a sleek, modern yacht gleaming in the bright afternoon summer sun. It was about two hundred feet long with three discernable levels. A couple of Jet Skis tied at the back of the yacht were dwarfed by its size.
Quinn tore her eyes away from Perun’s Chariot and surveyed the proximity of the other boats anchored nearby. They were, after all, off the coast of a playground for the rich and famous. It only made sense the area was teeming with pleasure vessels. Still, Borovsky stayed true to his penchant for secrecy. Perun’s Chariot was anchored farther away from the rest.
The helmsman steered toward the aft swimming platform, where Borovsky stood waiting. Next to him, two crew members dressed identically to the tender’s Aussie pilot stood ready to spring into action and secure it. Ivan Ovechkin, Borovsky’s ever-present shadow, stood behind his boss.
The Aussie expertly guided the boat into place and cut the motor. His crewmates had it tied to the platform in no time. Their efficiency was impressive.
Borovsky beamed at Quinn and extended a hand to help her out of the tender. “Welcome aboard my humble boat. You look lovely.”
Touching Borovsky wasn’t her favorite thing, but to not accept his offer of help would be impolitic. She took his hand and stepped up onto the platform. “Thank you. And you’re being too modest. This magnificent yacht is hardly humble.”
Her compliment clearly pleased him. “I call it home.”
James bounded out of the tender like a sure-footed mountain goat and took his place beside Quinn.
Borovsky’s lips pursed with disdain when he laid eyes on James for the first time.
James stretched to his full height, a good four inches taller than Borovsky, and stared him down.
It wouldn’t have surprised her if, at any second, the two men engaged in a measuring contest. She was certain who would win that contest, not that she was biased or anything.
Borovsky’s gaze traveled to the case James carried. “I assume that is my drug your lackey has there.”
On the inside, she bristled at Borovsky’s overt slight. Outwardly, she smiled and said sweetly, “Until your money is transferred into my account, my associate is holding my drug.”
“Then we should get down to business. Afterward, we will dine alfresco and enjoy the view of the coast. My chef has created a delightful menu for us to enjoy.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Quinn said with as sincere a smile as she could muster. She was more than happy to get their business out of the way first. The sooner the money was transferred into Victoria Chamberlain’s Swiss bank account, the sooner they could put their plan of capturing Borovsky into motion and get off that “rust bucket,” as her dad would call it.
To that end, Quinn kept a running total of people on Perun’s Chariot. So far, in addition to Borovsky, Ovechkin, and Dmitri, she counted four crew members.
“I am glad you approve.” Borovsky started up a steep set of steps. “Follow me.” He led the way, with Quinn, James, and Ovechkin following. Dmitri brought up the rear.
“So, Perun’s Chariot,” Quinn said as they went up one level. “Are you a modern-day fan of an ancient Slavic god?”
“You certainly have been checking up on me.” From the grin Borovsky shot her, he obviously took her question to mean she was enthralled by him and thirsted to know everything about him. In truth, she was simply compelled to search out the answer to the question she’d pondered while tracking him down. “I grew up near Peryn. As a boy, I was fascinated by the shrine discovered there and learned all I could. One day, the grandmother who raised me showed me a carving in a doorframe of our house. It was a thunder mark. Do you know it?”
“I do. It must have worked since the house hadn’t burned down.”
“Indeed. As for the yacht name, I cannot ride in a chariot of fire as Perun did, but I can in a chariot that takes me across water.”
“You’re so sweet to honor your grandmother.”
Borovsky preened at her ego strokes as they walked past an informal outdoor sitting area, through an open sliding glass door, and into a living room. With a gray, white, and black color scheme, the room was sophisticated and expertly decorated.
Yuri sat on a couch and watched a soccer match on the TV attached to the wall at the opposite end of the room. He leapt to his feet when the group entered.
“Margarita, we will take appetizers and drinks on the sundeck,” Borovsky said in Russian to a teenager about the same age as Mila positioned behind a bar to their left.
“Yes, sir.”
“Dmitri, Ivan will accompany me. You may join Yuri and watch the match if you wish.”
Dmitri accepted and offered his thanks.
Quinn now knew where Yuri and Dmitri would be planted for an indefinite chunk of time.
The group skirted along the end of a formal black lacquer dining table and ten chairs. “Will the men we played poker with last night be joining us for dinner?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Borovsky said. “I believe they will be visiting one of the other casinos tonight.”
She wanted to account for Viktor, but asking too many questions could raise suspicion. “I’m sure they’ll have fun.”
“My master suite is ahead.” Borovsky indicated with a wave of his hand. “Perhaps I can give you a private tour after our business is concluded.”
Quinn managed to not throw up.
“Perhaps,” she said with a smile she hoped conveyed flirtation, not revulsion.
They climbed another narrow staircase, this one circular, and arrived in yet another parlor dominated by black and white.
A shock of brick-red hair caught Quinn’s eye. She did a double take.
Mother Olga lounged on the couch with her feet tucked up under her, reading a book.
Quinn’s stomach dropped.
Quinn had worn an auburn wig and glasses during the raid in Saint Petersburg. She’d also run off with four of Olga’s kids and clocked her in the head with a library stool. Would she recognize Quinn’s face?
Thankfully, Mother Olga was so absorbed in her book she gave them only a cursory glance as they trooped through the room.
“Olga is my cousin,” Borovsky said, as if he wanted to assure Quinn she didn’t have any competition. That, of course, was inconsequential to Quinn. It made sense that Mother Olga had a new gig, so to speak. She not only worked for her cousin, she was there supervising the kids forced to work on the yacht. Quinn’s jaw clenched when she realized the raid in Saint Petersburg had apparently only been a minor inconvenience to Borovsky’s organization. She hadn’t thought it possible, but the desire to shut down Borovsky and his empire became even stronger.
Borovsky pointed at another dining table, this one only slightly less formal than the previous one. “We will be dining here tonight.”
No, we won’t, she thought with no small amount of satisfaction.
They ascended one more set of stairs and arrived on the uppermost level of the boat.
Furniture had been arranged into a sitting area in the middle of the sundeck. Quinn took the seat on the couch Borovsky indicated and he immediately claimed the spot beside her. James sank into the low armchair on Quinn’s end of the couch and set the case on the deck at his feet. Ovechkin sat in an identical chair directly opposite him.
“Wow,” Quinn said, glancing around at the amenities. “Another bar and a hot tub, too. Perun’s Chariot is incredible. It’s like a floating mansion.”
“I enjoy it.” Borovsky rested his arm atop of the back cushions and scooted closer to her. “I am hoping you will join me for an extended holiday once our business is concluded.”
She smiled, even as she swallowed her disgust. “Speaking of business, shall we get started? Then we can discuss other things.”
Margarita appeared with a tray and set it on the low, square table at the center of the seating area. The plate was covered with a variety of fruits, cheeses, and crackers. Two small cut crystal bowls were filled with two different kinds of caviar.
She had no desire to try either, especially the slightly larger orange eggs. They looked like the salmon eggs she used as bait to catch rainbow trout on family fishing trips in California’s Sierra Nevada mountains. She’d had no desire to eat them then. A fancier presentation didn’t make them any more appealing now.
“Both vodka and champagne, Margarita,” Borovsky said. To Quinn, he said, “Many people drink champagne with caviar. I think good vodka is better. If you have not tried it, you should.”
She preferred her fish eggs baited on a hook. “I’ll take it under advisement,” she said in an easy tone.
While Margarita went behind the bar and gathered bottles, glasses, and flutes, Borovsky looked at the case on the deck. “May I see?”
“Of course,” Quinn said. “Cade?”
James set the case on his thighs and opened the top so that the contents faced them.
“This is the remainder of Zieglopam we synthesized,” Quinn said, “along with a cell phone tag we assembled. The complete formula and schematics are on the thumb drive.”
“And you have not retained any of this information for yourself ?”
“I didn’t say that.” When his brows pulled together in a frown, she asked, “You wouldn’t give up your one and only copy, would you?”
He turned thoughtful. “I must admit I would not.”
“You have my word. I won’t sell it to anyone else.”
“Very well.” Ovechkin handed Borovsky an electronic tablet. “If you will give me your account number, I will transfer the thirty million euros right now.”
This was it. She reached into her purse, took out a piece of paper with the account number on it, and handed it to Borovsky.
Heart thumping, she watched him tap the screen. A moment later, he said, “It is done.”
Through her earpiece, Sydney said, “The money is in the account. We got him.”
Now came the dangerous part.
“Ready to move on your signal,” Darius said.
Borovsky’s tone was merry when he said, “Now we celebrate with vodka, champagne, and caviar.” He picked up the bottle of champagne Margarita had brought to the table a moment before and filled two flutes.
James closed the case and secured the clasps. Resting his arms on top of the case, he said, “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll go watch the match with Dmitri and Yuri.”
What James was actually going to do was tranquilize and secure them—and anyone else who needed to be subdued—before returning to her so they could take down Borovsky together.
“That is an excellent idea, Cade,” Borovsky said. The man looked like he was seconds from strutting around the deck like a peacock. “You will accompany him, Ivan.”
Even better, Quinn thought. While James was busy with the three bodyguards, she could take Borovsky out by herself with one shot from her tranquilizer pistol.
Movement at the top of the stairs drew her attention. Quinn glanced over to see a middle-aged man in a thick bathrobe and flip-flops walk toward them. Since he had a beach towel slung over his shoulder, Quinn assumed he was on his way to the hot tub.
Her blue eyes locked with the man’s emerald-green ones.
The world tilted.
The man was Rhys Townsend.