Chapter Thirty-Four
Quinn leapt from the Ferrari and inched toward the edge of the pavement. Standing at the brink, she cautiously peered over the precipitous drop and beheld the grotesque scene one hundred feet below. The Zonda lay on the road below, its doors gone and its front crumpled. Borovsky had been thrown from the car and now lay unmoving and in a contorted and unnatural position ten feet from it.
James stepped over next to her. “This is why you should always wear your seat belt.”
“No kidding.” Quinn turned her head toward the sound of sirens in the distance. They were faint at first, but growing louder with each passing second. “We need to get out of here.” While the U.S. and Monegasque governments were coordinating efforts, the CIA covert operatives preferred not to become embroiled with local authorities.
James turned his attention to the helicopter hovering overhead. “Darius, is there someplace we can drive to where you can land and pick us up? Ditching a stolen Ferrari that was just involved in a high-speed chase is at the top of our list of things to do.”
“Copy that. Scanning the area now.” The helicopter went higher and drifted north. After another minute, he said, “There’s a golf course not far from your position as the crow flies. I can land there.”
Quinn and James were already sprinting toward the Ferrari. She slid into her seat, strapped in, and studied the map on her phone. “Got it.”
“Meet you on the fairway of the dogleg north of the clubhouse.”
Quinn zoomed in on the satellite image while James eased the Ferrari back onto the road. “We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Roger that. I’ll keep circling until you’re in position.”
Quinn played navigator and directed James along the twisting, winding roads.
Fifteen minutes later, they turned onto a narrow road that went right through the center of the course. They cruised into the clubhouse parking lot and parked the Ferrari near a line of empty golf carts awaiting their club-wielding drivers.
James cut the engine and used the hem of his shirt to wipe down the steering wheel. Quinn copied him by swiping her skirt over her door handle and seat. Once their fingerprints were at least smudged enough to make them unidentifiable, they hopped out of the Ferrari one last time.
James hustled to the back of the car and took a picture of it with his phone.
“You want me to take one of the two of you together?” Quinn asked with a crooked smile.
After a beat, he looked at her sheepishly and asked, “Would you mind?”
Quinn chuckled and took a picture of him leaning his hip against the car. One glance at the photo of her super-sexy man next to that super-sexy car told her it would become her phone’s wallpaper the second she got the chance to change it.
She fell in step with James as they strode toward the entrance to the clubhouse.
“I want the Ferrari to get back to its owner,” James said. He swung open the door and they headed for the man behind a counter.
When they arrived, James asked him, in Russian, if he spoke English.
The man shook his head and wafted his hands through the air, clearly having not understood a word James said.
James repeated the question, this time in English but with a prominent Russian accent.
Quinn appreciated her husband’s subterfuge. When the authorities arrived later and asked the man to identify the couple who’d left the Ferrari, his first response would be, “They were Russian.”
James held the Ferrari’s key up for the man to see. “We borrowed red sports car. We leave in car park.” He set the key on the counter and wrote the car’s license plate number on an unused scorecard. “Please call police to have car go back to owner.”
With that, they turned on their heels and hurried outside, leaving the dumbstruck man in their wake. “Darius, we’re on our way,” James said and broke into a jog.
Trotting next to him, Quinn checked her phone and pointed her right. “That way.”
“I see you,” Darius said. “Heads-up.”
They hopped a chain-link fence, cut between two sand traps, and loped across a fairway. Quinn felt bad for distracting the guy in his putting stance on a nearby green, but it couldn’t be helped. Not that his, or anyone else’s, concentration would return anytime soon now that a helicopter was descending onto a fairway from right above their heads.
The second the copter’s skids touched grass, Quinn and James bent their heads and pushed through the turbulent air churned up by the whirling blades.
Quinn scrambled into the copter first, threw herself into the back seat, and strapped in. James swung himself up into the empty seat in front of her. She jammed her headset on while James hauled the door closed. Darius pulled up on a lever and the helicopter lifted off the ground.
As they ascended, Quinn looked down at the statue-like golfers gaping up at them. They stared up at the sky like they were watching an alien spacecraft lift off.
James settled his headset on his ears and said into the microphone, “Thanks for the ride.”
“Any time. Where to?”
“Let’s check out what’s happening on Borovsky’s yacht,” Quinn said.
“On it.” Darius turned the helicopter back toward the coast.
Quinn glimpsed the scene of the car crash as they flew over it. She spotted a police car, fire engine, and ambulance. Her eyes were drawn to the spot on the road where Borovsky had landed. “How much you want to bet Borovsky’s body is under that tarp?”
James looked down. “Not gonna take that bet. I’d lose.”
A moment later, they were racing over the Mediterranean.
Darius flew them over Perun’s Chariot. Two red police boats were tied to either side of the yacht. Uniformed officers swarmed the boat. Peering down at the place where their meeting with Borovsky had gone sideways, she hoped the police approached Margarita and her wine bottle-cum-weapon with caution.
“It looks like local LEOs have the situation under control,” James said. “I don’t think there’s anything else for us to do.”
“In that case, I’m gonna get us on the ground,” Darius said.
While Darius communicated with the heliport, Quinn said to James, “I know why we can’t, but I wish we could be in on bringing Olga and Townsend and the rest in.”
“I know. Me too.” James twisted at his waist and faced her. “The boats will have to dock at the port to offload them. Is there someplace nearby there where we can hang out and watch? Where we can blend in with a crowd?”
Quinn had her phone out before he could finish asking his question. “There are several restaurants with tables outside right along the edge of the port. Depending on where they dock, we might be able to see some of it.”
“Restaurants, huh?” James said with a smile. “I could eat. Darius?”
He landed the helicopter and cut the engine. “I won’t say no to dinner.”
“Hey, Sydney,” Quinn said as they strode across the helipad. “Want to meet us at the brasserie at Port Hercule in about fifteen minutes?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Darius completed the necessary paperwork, and the three took a taxi to the port. They spotted Sydney already sitting at a table in the outdoor seating area and joined her.
Quinn sat and was powerless to do anything other than simply stare out at the tall, gently swaying sailboat masts. In the previous three hours, she had met with a Russian crime boss, engaged in a gun battle on a super yacht, chased said crime boss by both Jet Ski and supercar, witnessed him plunge over a cliff to his death, and then been whisked away via helicopter from a mountaintop golf course. To now be sitting in a restaurant where the sounds of normal life surrounded her—the hum of voices, the occasional eruption of laughter, the thumping beat of music—it was jarring.
James’s hand rubbing her shoulder pulled her from her reverie. “Quinn, you okay?”
She smiled and fingered the menu on the table in front of her. “Yeah. It’s been quite the day.”
“It always takes me some time to regain my equilibrium once a job is over,” James said. “It’s weird to suddenly be normal again.” He was always so perceptive to her emotional state, especially when it came to all things spy.
“Oh good,” Sydney said. “It’s not just me. I mean, you guys were the ones out there dodging bullets and zooming around on a Jet Ski and driving a Ferrari and flying a helicopter and stuff—which was super badass, by the way. I was only running comms, and I feel weird.”
“You handled yourself really well, Sydney, especially injecting the Zieglopam and all that,” James said. “The next time we need a scientist on an op, we’ll be calling you.”
Her eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Really? I’m just a lab rat.”
“So?” Quinn said and lifted a shoulder. “I’m a librarian.”
Sydney tipped her head and looked at Quinn with a thoughtful expression. “Good point.”
Their server arrived, and a minute after they ordered, a police boat drove toward the dock. While the view from the brasserie allowed Quinn to observe it cruise through the port, she wouldn’t be able to see the boat’s occupants disembark from her current vantage point.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said and jumped from her chair. She skirted between two potted plants and hustled down the street toward the two police cars awaiting the boat’s arrival. Spying the ambulance made her stomach drop. Had one or more of the kids been injured? She slowed her steps to a stroll as she approached.
So as not to be too obvious, she’d planned to walk past the police boat, albeit slowly, and watch as the passengers were offloaded. That plan was quickly discarded since the commotion on and around Borovsky’s yacht had drawn a crowd of curious onlookers. She joined them at the back and stood on her tiptoes.
A minute later, four young teens, Margarita and the three Quinn and James had left locked in a bedroom, were escorted off the boat surrounded by police. Despite the warm summer air, the kids clutched at the blankets draped over their shoulders. They wore the same dazed and confused expressions as the kids had in Saint Petersburg. At least they were all walking under their own power. It relieved her mind further when she watched the kids climb into the ambulance. The gesture made her feel fairly confident the authorities would treat them as the victims they were.
The ambulance had barely pulled out of the parking lot when the second police boat pulled into a slip. The first passenger escorted off was a scowling Mother Olga, her hands secured behind her back. Quinn hoped the cuffs around Olga’s wrists were the ones she’d cinched on earlier. It seemed appropriate, as Olga had become a bit of a nemesis.
Next off was Yuri, followed by Ivan Ovechkin. Their perp walks garnered only a ripple of murmurs from the crowd and one cell phone raised to record the event. All that changed the second Rhys Townsend stepped into view. A loud gasp rose, followed by his name flying from every mouth. An entire crop of cell phones popped up, snapping pictures and recording him as he walked with his head down and face turned away. That would do little to mitigate the news of his arrest crisscrossing the globe in a matter of seconds.
Once the suspects were loaded into police cars and whisked away, the crowd dispersed. Quinn turned and rejoined her husband and coworkers at their table. She sipped the ale delivered to the table during her absence and reported what she’d witnessed. She ended her account with, “If people think Rhys Townsend being arrested is a scandal, I can’t even imagine how crazy it will get when the full story comes out.” She lowered her voice so only her tablemates could hear. “Drug running, a Russian crime boss, and human trafficking? It’s a cable channel docudrama just waiting to happen.”
Sydney snickered and said in an equally low tone, “Rhys Townsend: The Shocking Story of a Fallen Star.”
“Perfect. You should write the screenplay,” Darius said with a laugh.
She grinned. “Even better. I’ll put it into comic book form. I’ll make us all superheroes.”
“As long as you don’t make my cape a cardigan sweater buttoned at the neck, I’m all for it,” Quinn said.
“I’ve wondered about that,” Sydney said with a sly look. “You’re a librarian and you go into the field?”
“Mm-hmm. As needed.”
“Do the other librarians know?”
“They might have their suspicions, but no one has said anything to me about it. You know how it is.” A common phrase uttered at the agency was “need to know.”
“The people back at the lab think I’m on vacation.” Sydney slumped back and sighed. “I wish I really were here on vacation. I mean, I’m in Monte Carlo.” She shoved herself higher and stammered, “Of course you know I’m in Monte Carlo because you’re here with me in Monte Carlo. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“We got it,” James said with a smile.
“Okay, good. It’s just that I’m thinking, what are the chances of me ever being here again? How cool would it be to do all the touristy things, like hit the beach or go parasailing or tour the palace—” She rocketed forward, her eyes dancing with unbridled excitement. “Oh! The aquarium!”
Quinn looked over at James, whose eyes were already on her. Neither said a word. A single flick of his eyebrow told her he was thinking the same thing she was.
She pushed back her chair and stood. “Excuse me for a minute. I need to make a phone call.”
Clearly baffled by Quinn’s abrupt actions, Sydney mumbled, “Oh, okay.” Darius wore an only slightly less perplexed expression.
Quinn took up a position next to a planter at the edge of the patio and placed her call.
“Hello, angel,” her grandfather said. “It appears congratulations are in order. Borovsky’s dead, several of his people—as well as Rhys Townsend—are in custody, and four innocents have been freed from trafficking. Well done.”
“Thank you, Grandpa. I can’t wait to tell you about it when we get back. It was pretty wild.”
“I look forward to hearing your tales of adventure. The members of your team made it through unscathed? You’re okay? James is well?”
“He is. We’re all good.”
“Excellent. I’ll be sure to congratulate Darius and Sydney personally upon their return.”
“I know they’ll appreciate it. Actually, Sydney is one of the reasons I’m calling. I was wondering if you could extend her assignment here in Monte Carlo for a few more days.”