Trace Evidence (The Heir Hunter Book 2)

by Diane Capri

  He shoved his weapon into his belt and reached into his tool bag again for his counterfeits.

  First, he allowed the retina scanner to reject his retinas and engage the backup system.

  Next, he used the duplicate fingerprints, palm prints, and iris scans in the proper order to release the lock.

  He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and reengaged the biometric scanners.

  The safe was on the far wall. It was a high-quality item with an old-style combination lock. The owner was overly confident in his perimeter security. He didn’t expect a burglar to get this far.

  Flint attached a small box to the safe door and donned an earphone. He listened to the clicks as he rotated the dial. Five turns first, to completely unwind the mechanism. Then he reversed direction, listening and feeling the clicks. The change in sound was easy to find with the specially designed amplifier, yet it took a full minute to get the last number.

  The safe’s door popped open.

  He heard footsteps. He brought the Sig up and aimed at the door. Flint strained to hear beyond the barrier.

  “Marco,” a man called out, his voice hushed. “Marco, where are you?”

  Flint heard doors being gently tapped, and then footsteps leading away. He waited a moment longer before lowering his weapon and returning to the open safe.

  He tucked the Romanov pendant securely into his waterproof pouch. He pulled out the documents and valuables, arranged them on the floor, and took photographs. As a billionaire once told him, every good businessman always keeps insurance.

  He restacked the contents inside the safe.

  Finally, he placed the fake pendant on the precise spot where the real one had been a few minutes before. His client needed time to receive the Romanov pendant and return it to his safety-deposit box before the yacht’s owner realized it was missing. Satisfied the safe’s contents were arranged exactly as he’d found them, he locked the safe.

  Briefly, he scanned the office. Luxury emanated from every square inch of the place. Had Flint been a different sort of burglar, he could have a very nice haul. But he was there for a purpose, and he had achieved it. He left everything except the pendant precisely where he’d found it.

  Eight minutes after he’d entered the office, he pressed the lock release to open the door, slipped into the suite, and pulled the door closed. He heard the lock click into place and the beeping sounds of the biometric alarm resetting.

  Still well within his planned elapsed time for the mission. Only his extraction remained.

  He opened the door and glanced into the stateroom with the unmade bed. The tray and its mess were still in place. Whoever had come looking for Marco had not done the job for him. Flint closed the door again and moved on.

  His bare feet padded down the corridor into the opulent lounge. Behind him, a loud bump. Flint spun, gun at the ready. The room was empty, and below, the gamblers were still talking. He breathed easy.

  The door to the owner’s bedroom crashed open. Marco stumbled into the corridor, still groggy, hand to his head, barely able to stand.

  Marco was in no condition to fight, but his noise would summon more of the crew. Flint turned and ran.

  When he reached the stairs, he saw the crew was quicker than he’d expected. One of the two security guards, Hewitt, stood on the bottom step, a tree-trunk-thick arm pointing a Glock 19 at Flint’s chest. He gestured to Flint’s gun. “Drop it.”

  Flint had been running, his arms pumping hard. He’d been preparing to take the stairs three at a time and keep going. The Sig was pointed upward. There was no way he could take aim before the guard fired.

  Besides, he had come for an heirloom, not a killing spree.

  Flint held his gun out, keeping it pointed toward the outside of the yacht. He heard footsteps behind him.

  The groggy Marco arrived at his side. He shook his fist in Flint’s face and glowered. “Ass—”

  Flint grabbed Marco’s arm before he could get the words out and launched him down the stairs. Flint followed behind, steering the man into Hewitt with his forearm.

  The guard sidestepped. Flint launched a kick with his left leg into Hewitt’s groin. The guard buckled but didn’t collapse.

  Flint shoved Marco in front of Hewitt and leapt toward the stairs to the lower level. Two more crewmen were climbing the steps. They were unarmed but could easily slow his progress until reinforcements arrived.

  Flint veered around the stairs and ran toward the bow of the boat. Hewitt was back on his feet and closing fast.

  Two shots rang out. Wood splintered from the low wall beside him. Flint dove for the floor. He was used to being shot at, and this bullet told him one thing. The first was a professionally placed warning but the next shot would hit him.

  He ran behind the wall, doubled over to minimize his exposure. Hewitt appeared around the corner of the low wall. Aiming low, Flint fired once. Hewitt screamed and twisted sideways, tumbling out of view. Flint kept running.

  He reached a stainless-steel ladder on his right. He threw himself onto the rungs, gripping the upright with one hand.

  “Freeze,” growled a voice at the bottom of the ladder. The second security guard, Gilbey, wielded another Glock.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Flint paused. He didn’t remove his hand from the side rail. He could easily drop the six-foot distance to the main deck without injury. At that point, he could run, but a bullet from Gilbey’s weapon leveled at his abdomen would travel faster.

  “Down,” said Gilbey, waving one hand in that direction as if Flint might not understand the word.

  Flint held his gun arm straight, the muzzle pointing out to sea, and moved down three rungs. Another crew member reached up to grab the Sig. Flint looked at the guy, then turned to stare Gilbey in the eyes, and back at the other man. Gilbey’s gaze followed Flint’s.

  Flint lashed out with his right leg, punching his heel backward into Gilbey’s face while firing a single shot over the crew member’s shoulder. He lurched backward away from the Sig.

  Flint threw himself at Gilbey, shoving him back and using a forearm to push his Glock away. Gilbey twisted to deflect Flint’s weight and force.

  Flint swept his Sig’s grip onto Gilbey’s temple. It was a solid blow expertly delivered, but Gilbey merely grunted and rammed a fist into Flint’s stomach.

  The pouch on the front of his wetsuit absorbed the brunt of Gilbey’s strength, but the blow carried enough force to shove Flint’s breath away.

  Gilbey pounded a heavy fist into Flint’s jaw. Stars danced in his vision. While he was recovering, Gilbey grabbed Flint’s weapon and twisted the pistol out of his hand.

  Flint drove a knee into Gilbey’s groin.

  He grunted, tossed the Sig away, and shoved Flint backward. Flint grabbed the guard’s arm and rammed it through the ladder’s rungs and let him go. Gilbey’s own weight sent him tumbling to the deck.

  He rolled flat on the deck, seeking enough space to push upright. Flint dropped to one knee and shoved the heel of his hand up hard against Gilbey’s chin, knocking his head back against the deck. A satisfyingly hard but hollow thump sounded on the teak when the guard’s head bounced. His eyes rolled back. His grip on his gun went slack. He was out cold.

  Flint grabbed Gilbey’s Glock. He fired over the heads of two crew members running toward him. They pulled back as he ran toward another ladder.

  Hands on the outside of the rails, and feet never touching the rungs, he slid down and pushed away from the hull to free-fall the last five feet to the deck.

  He landed in a narrow walkway that led toward the helipad on the bow of the yacht. Hewitt, the first guard, appeared at the aft end of the walkway. Flint raised the Glock. Hewitt did the same.

  Flint had no intention of reenacting a Wild West shootout. He threw himself sideways into an alcove storing a full-size life raft. The raft hung from the ceiling on webbing arranged to make it easy to slide off the side of the yacht in the event of an emergency.
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  Flint grabbed his knife from its sheath on his thigh. The sharp tool easily hacked through the webbing. The raft was solid and heavy. As it fell, he shoved it into the corridor and wrenched the lever that inflated the buoyancy system. The self-contained gas bottle inflated the raft. It jerked and bounced, and in moments it filled the walkway.

  The curve of the yacht’s hull splayed outward below. He could jump, but the guard behind him would have a clear shot at short range and would make the most of the opportunity.

  Flint heard shots followed by the hissing of air as the bright yellow raft began to deflate. Flint glanced over the side of the yacht. The surface of the Atlantic was a long way down.

  He heard the raft being moved. Hewitt would be through the flimsy barrier in a moment.

  Flint fired two shots over the heads of the two crewmen who had ventured toward him again, and they ducked back. He vaulted over the walkway’s handrail, tucked and rolled when he hit the lower deck, and ran full out toward the side rail, gathering speed and momentum.

  His neoprene wetsuit offered no friction and no resistance to gravity as he leapt over the rail and hurled himself toward the ocean, firing the Glock above his head until it was empty. He heard fire being returned, but his downward rush was the only thing that mattered.

  He clamped his feet together and straightened his back before arrowing into the water.

  The Atlantic stole his velocity. The great anaconda had him in its grasp again. He pulled his knees up to roll fast, got his head pointed down, and swam hard.

  Straight white lines like silent spears traced their way into the water around him from the guns fired above. The automatic fire was blunted but not stopped by the water’s relentless force.

  He cupped his hands and worked with his legs. Full, complete strokes driving as fast and hard as he could. His lungs burned. He hadn’t had time to oxygenate his blood, and diving without weights to pull him deeper consumed all his effort.

  He fumbled until he found the rebreather mouthpiece and shoved it into his mouth. A white bullet line burst into life in front of him. Close. Too close.

  He renewed his downward plunge, angling underneath The Sea King out of the line of fire.

  The bullets stopped slicing through the water.

  His ears complained at the change in pressure, but he rested to catch his breath. He glanced at his watch to check the time. He could wait here. He was safe from gunfire under the yacht.

  Too briefly.

  A deep growl reverberated through the water. A misty plume launched and grew at the rear of the ship. The screws were turning. The Sea King was under way.

  He kept close enough to the side to use the yacht’s hull for protection, and deep enough not to be caught in its churning wake. The yacht effortlessly pulled ahead. In a minute, he’d be exposed in the ocean behind the yacht.

  The crew’s gunfire would have a clean sight line.

  He quickly donned his fins.

  His only hope was speed and depth. He kicked with his legs. The big fins multiplied his efforts. He kept his head forward and down, to fight his body’s natural buoyancy, and steered to the left of the screws. Too quickly, the dark shadow of the yacht swept away.

  But The Sea King’s speed worked to Flint’s advantage, too, separating him from their guns faster than he could manage under his own power.

  White bullet lines sliced around him again but stopped after a few rounds. Their guns were no match for the water’s drag, and they were rapidly moving out of effective range.

  Flint arced upward. In the crystal-clear water, the ship loomed large. It seemed as if it were still on top of him. An illusion. But he worked to move farther from the luxury monster before breaking the surface.

  The rear deck of the yacht was filled with white-clad crew members sporting all manner of weapons. His heart pounded harder against his ribs when he saw that two of them appeared to be assembling a .50 caliber machine gun on a heavy tripod.

  Once readied, he’d never escape its range under his own power.

  Flint spun around, searching the horizon. A couple of hundred yards to his right, his hired jet skis bobbed in the water, waiting. The two drivers saw him as soon as he saw them. The engines screamed to life.

  One machine headed straight for him while the other curved around closer to the rear of The Sea King. The second jet ski operator fired warning shots to keep his attackers occupied. The white-clad figures on the yacht dove for cover.

  The driver of the first jet ski tossed a boogie board into the water as it screamed past Flint. He caught the board. A bungee cord unfurled from the rear of the jet ski. Flint rolled onto the board and gripped the sides. The bungee reached its full length, and the energy stored in its stretched length was unleashed. The board shot forward while Flint hung on, rolling his weight from side to side to keep the board upright.

  The jet ski’s engine continued its scream unabated. Soon, Flint was speeding the same forty miles an hour as the machine, leaving The Sea King too slow to follow.

  The second jet ski caught up. The driver gave Flint a thumbs-up as he passed by.

  Flint patted the pouch. The pendant was still there.

  He watched the yacht grow smaller in the distance. The extraction wasn’t executed as precisely as he’d planned. But he had the Romanov pendant, and no one from The Sea King had followed.

  He edged up onto his elbows as the board hammered against the waves, and watched the approaching coastline, enjoying the ride.

  Mission accomplished.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Houston, Texas

  Sunday

  Sunday in Houston was typically quiet and Flint was sleeping late. He rolled over in bed and slapped the bedside table until his fingers found his phone. The special ringtone assigned to Scarlett had been jiggling the phone periodically for the past hour. She wouldn’t stop until he picked up. When Scarlett had a bee in her bonnet, she never gave up.

  Without opening his eyes, he said, “What?” It came out a little more harshly than he’d intended.

  “Michael,” a peeved seven-year-old girl’s voice demanded, “where are you?”

  He groaned. He could ignore her mother, but Maddy Scarlett was another matter. He rolled over and held the phone to his ear. “How can I help you, Miss Scarlett?”

  “You’re late. You’re never late. You promised to take me to the zoo today. Do you know what time it is?”

  He pictured her small toe tapping and her arms folded over her chest. He opened one eye. She was right. He had been due to pick her up more than an hour ago, but he’d returned from The Sea King job after two a.m. and flopped into bed after four. He hadn’t slept enough yet.

  He groaned again. “How about if we do it tomorrow, instead?”

  “I’m ready now. I need to go today.” She stated the facts without whining.

  “I’ll throw in a trip to Daisy’s. Would that be enough to sweeten the deal?”

  She giggled in the way that displayed her dimples. Daisy’s was the local ice cream joint. Maddy loved the place and her mother did not. Sneaking over to Daisy’s for a cone was one of their secrets. Of course, her mother knew every time they went because Maddy couldn’t eat her favorite chocolate ice cream without getting it all over her. But it thrilled Maddy to think that she had a secret date. Truth be told, he got a kick out of her delight.

  Maddy said, “I can’t go to the zoo tomorrow.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have school, Michael.” Her tone was the same as if she’d said her beloved mini schnauzer, Whiskers, had four legs.

  He grinned. “You do? What day is it?”

  “It’s Sunday.” She sighed in that exaggerated way only seven-year-olds can. As if adults were so very clueless. “We can skip the zoo since it’s so late already. But you should take me to Daisy’s today.” She paused and whispered, “I have a favor I want to ask you.”

  “A favor?” The statement made him uneasy. Maddy’s favors were usually all about
things her mother had forbidden. When he gave in to Maddy, as he always did, her mother’s temper flared in extremely unpleasant ways. Instinctively, he rubbed the scar on his chest where her mother had accidently shot him with an arrow playing William Tell when he was eight. “What kind of favor?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here,” she said, giggling again.

  He could almost see the joy on her face through the phone. He groaned. “Okay. You wore me down. Give me an hour.”

  “A whole hour?”

  “And Maddy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t tell your mom.” Her infectious laugh as she hung up made him grin again despite his lingering exhaustion.

  He’d planned some time off to relax and maybe focus on a personal matter that had been nagging him lately. Tomorrow would be soon enough to get started. He had returned the Romanov pendant to its rightful owner. The client had paid Flint’s fee, half the appraised value plus expenses, and deposited the four million dollars directly into his numbered account in Grand Cayman. The case was closed. His bank account was healthy.

  He drifted back to sleep.

  He often wondered about Maddy’s father. Whoever he’d been, Katie Scarlett would never speak of him, no matter how many ways Flint broached the subject. Flint was not much of a kid person, but how could any man be indifferent to such a delightful girl? Maddy was a perfect daughter. No man could do better. The man didn’t know what he was missing. When Flint caught up with the jerk, he planned to make sure he understood what he’d lost.

  His phone rang again. He opened one eye, groaned, and threw back the covers. “On my way,” he said, before Maddy could chastise him again. “Headed to the shower now.”

  When Flint pulled up outside Scarlett’s home, Maddy was waiting on the front porch. The door was open and her nanny was watching. She ran down the steps and along the sidewalk, brown curls bouncing, fairly dancing with impatience. Her joie de vivre was infectious. He was already laughing when she jumped inside the car and slammed the door. She pulled her seat belt across her slender body and folded her hands.