CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Remi placed a bet, then positioned herself with a clear view of the window, all the while feigning interest in the game as the man next to her rolled the dice.
“Eleven!” He looked over at her, grinning. “Shall we let it ride?”
She was about to reply, when she glanced over, shocked to see two of Kyril’s herculean guards heading toward the same staircase Sam had taken. One of them touched his ear, as though listening through an earpiece, at the same time looking up at the second level. The third window, she saw, was still dark. Even so, those two men looked way too interested. Worried Sam might run into them on the way out—or worse yet, they might catch him up there—she took her phone from her purse and started to text him.
On their way u
Someone in the crowd knocked the phone from her hand before she finished the text. The device skittered across the tiles. When she tried to retrieve it, a man bent down, picked it up, and blocked her path.
Adrian Kyril.
Her heart skipped a beat. She froze, praying he wouldn’t look at the phone screen—or recognize her.
He smiled, his white teeth gleaming against his tanned skin as he held it out. “Kuria, I believe this is yours.”
Recovering, she gave an embarrassed laugh. “Thank you. I was in a bit of a hurry.”
His dark eyes held hers. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, then leaned in slightly, whispering, “I really do need to find the ladies’ room.”
“That way,” he replied, nodding at the open pool house to the right of the staircase. The two guards had just started up.
“Thank you.” She made a beeline to the pool house, sending the text as she walked. The moment she saw Kyril’s attention diverted, she changed paths, stepping around the rope barrier, then up the stairs. At the top level, the door was ajar.
She slipped in, her footfalls cushioned by a thick Oriental rug as she entered the foyer behind the guards, who had just started down the hall. “Sam?” she called out in a loud voice.
The two men turned and saw her. “Who are you?” one of them asked.
She smiled, placing her hand on her heart. “I’m so sorry. I seem to have lost my husband. I think he’s had far too much to drink.”
“You shouldn’t be up here.”
“Yes. I know. I’m just not sure he knows.” She gave a dramatic sigh, hoping Sam was within hearing distance and taking her warning. “He’s probably sleeping it off somewhere, but I’m still worried.”
They exchanged glances, one of them saying something she couldn’t hear. He then looked directly at Remi, saying, “Guests are not allowed—”
A loud noise from the hallway—something Remi could only describe as a mix between a pig’s oink and a goose’s honk—caught them by surprise. Both men slipped their right hands beneath their jackets as they pivoted around, prepared to draw.
They relaxed their stance, one of them turning to Remi, asking, “Your husband?”
She peered down the hallway, seeing Sam slumped against the wall, his eyes closed, his legs sprawled out in front of him. He snored softly as one of the guards walked up to him, kicking his foot. “Get up!”
“I knew it,” Remi said, marching over and inserting herself in front of the guards. She bent over, opening her purse with one hand, patting Sam’s cheek with the other.
He opened his eyes, mumbling unintelligibly.
Remi tried to slip him the knife but couldn’t when the guard moved beside her. Instead, she took Sam’s hand, helping him to his feet. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to drink any more tonight.”
He gave a lopsided smile as he staggered alongside her toward the door. “I only had . . . Don’t ’member . . .”
“Let’s get you back to the hotel. You can sleep it off there.”
Unfortunately, as they neared the door, the nonplussed guards regained their senses and started to follow. “Wait!”
Sam put his hand on his stomach, leaning forward. “I—I don’t feel so good.”
“Don’t get sick in here,” Remi said, grateful to see his theatrics had the desired effect. The guards had stopped in their tracks. She led Sam out, then closed the door behind them.
“That was close,” Sam said as they hurried toward the stairs.
The moment they turned the corner, she saw a tall, stocky man with dark curly hair standing near the stairs. He turned around, his gaze hitting Remi.
Fayez, one of the kidnappers, she realized.
He immediately dismissed her as any sort of threat. Instead, he reached for his gun, his attention on Sam. Remi, still holding the knife, opened the blade, then threw it. It hit the wall behind Fayez, clattering onto the tiles at his feet.
He looked down, surprised, then at her. In the second of distraction, Sam stepped forward, blasted his fist against Fayez’s face. His head bounced back against the wall and he slumped to the ground.
Sam grabbed Remi’s hand. “We’ve got to work on your knife skills,” he said, leading her down the stairs.
“Which way?”
“The elevator down to the boat dock.” Sam took out his phone, sending a text to Nikos as they walked.
They were halfway across the patio when the elevator door opened and two men stepped off. “Slight problem,” Remi said, recognizing one of them. “That’s Ilya. One of the kidnappers.”
“Roulette table,” Sam said. “Get lost in the crowd.”
Too late. Ilya saw her, then motioned for a couple of his men to move toward them. To make matters worse, the two guards who’d nearly caught Sam in Adrian’s office came down the stairs, found Adrian on the other side of the gaming tables, then pointed in their direction. Remi moved closer to Sam. “What now?”
“Stay calm,” he said. “There’s a lot of witnesses. I doubt Kyril will do anything stupid.” Unfortunately, the partygoers were more interested in their gambling than anything that was happening on the periphery. No one seemed to notice when Kyril’s men started moving in on Sam and Remi, effectively cutting off their escape by backing them into the corner of the patio near the table where Adrian had made his announcement earlier that night.
Kyril approached, eyeing Remi, then focusing on Sam. “My men tell me you were found in my private quarters. What were you doing up there?”
“Made a wrong turn,” Sam said. “I was looking for the men’s room.”
“Take them down to the dock. You know what to do.”
Remi, worried that once they were out of sight of the guests, they’d have little chance of escape, glanced behind her, saw the microphone on the table. She grabbed it, turned it on, and in Greek, said, “Thank you so much, Adrian Kyril. Is everyone having a good time?”
There was applause.
The guards hesitated, realizing that their group was now the center of attention.
“We’re so glad to hear it,” Remi continued as she and Sam edged their way around the table. “Please, everyone, take a moment and personally thank Mr. Kyril for this wonderful work he’s doing on behalf of the children. And Adrian. If you can give us a few words on what else you have planned?”
More applause as she held out the microphone. The ensemble stopped playing.
Without missing a beat, Adrian took the microphone and waved to the crowd.
The moment he did, Sam clasped Remi’s hand, whispering, “This way.”
With the guests watching, and the guards momentarily at a standstill with all the undue interest focused in their direction, Sam pressed Remi’s elbow, leading her across the patio, hoping to take the stairs all the way down to the dock. Unfortunately, when they reached the lower level, two guards appeared on the stairs below, blocking their exit.
“To the right,” Sam said. Remi kicked off her shoes and hiked up her dress as they raced past a row of loun
ge chairs lined up along the patio to a small retainer wall built along the cliffside. Sam hopped up, then helped her to the overhang on the other side. He looked down, then at her. “You ever see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”
She peered over the edge at the water below. “You couldn’t have picked a different movie? One with a less ambiguous ending?”
“I thought it worked,” he said, glancing back at the guards.
“We don’t even know if they lived after they jumped.”
“We don’t know they died, either.”
“There’re rocks down there.”
“Try to miss them.”
She took a step back. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Do you trust me?”
She hesitated, then grasped his outstretched hand. “Yes.”
A gunshot rang out as they leaped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Adrian saw Sam Fargo and the woman jumping from the cliff, he was close to ordering Ilya to shoot them. Had it not been for the crowd around him, he would have. The majority of guests had found their way to the glass balcony and were leaning over, watching as Fargo surfaced, then swam toward the woman, who was struggling from the weight of her dress.
Just when Adrian was hopeful she’d drown, Fargo pulled her free, and she was able to take a deep breath.
One of the guards raised his gun, ready to take a shot.
“Witnesses,” Adrian said to Ilya under his breath.
“Hold your fire,” Ilya radioed.
Adrian turned back to his guests, smiling broadly as he raised his hands. “I hope you’ve enjoyed our extra entertainment!”
The guests hesitated, their gazes straying out to the water as a motorboat sped in and plucked the two from the sea. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone signaled the ensemble to start playing, and within minutes they turned back to their gaming.
Relieved, Adrian told Ilya to meet him upstairs in ten minutes, then made a leisurely circle around the tables, stopping to talk, making sure to appear amused at the recent turn of events.
By the time Adrian arrived in his office, Ilya had the video surveillance ready for viewing. He pulled out his chair and sat. “Tell me it’s not as bad as we think.”
“He didn’t get into the safe,” Ilya said.
“What did he get into?”
“I’ll let you see for yourself . . .” He started the video.
Adrian watched, furious at how quickly this Sam Fargo had gotten past his guards, and into his office, by picking the lock. “What do we know about this man?” he asked Ilya, who stood behind him.
“Not a lot. He bought two tickets originating from a computer in the U.S. But seeing this and knowing what my guard observed the night he rescued our hostages, it’s clear he’s had military training.”
Adrian replayed the video, trying to determine the man’s purpose. He was definitely searching for something. “What about the woman? What do we know about her?”
“Remi Longstreet. Other than another American, nothing that we’ve been able to find.”
“Except that she made fools of all of us. She was your prisoner for two days. How is it you didn’t know she spoke Greek?”
“As far as we knew, she only spoke English. The man with her translated everything. Even so, we took precautions.”
“Precautions? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We spoke in Italian around her and the other prisoner.”
Adrian took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, telling himself he was getting worked up over something that was out of his control. This, though . . . He watched Sam Fargo moving about his office. The multiscreen surveillance showed him stepping out into the hallway, pretending to be asleep, while his fool guards walked with the woman. The fact that they fell for such a ruse sent his blood pressure rising again—and he was actually grateful when someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”
One of his men entered. “Sorry to disturb you. You wanted to know as soon as your parents got here. They’re downstairs.”
Adrian tensed.
“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing Adrian’s reaction. “They missed the disturbance.”
“I’ll be right down.” The moment the door closed behind him, Adrian hit play, this time paying particular attention as Fargo went through his desk.
Ilya leaned closer. “What’s he looking at?”
Adrian pulled open the file drawer, approximating which folder he’d removed. Not that it mattered. All of these folders belonged to the olive orchards. When his gaze lit on the profit and loss statements, he hesitated. “Why would Fargo be looking into our olive oil business?”
“Crime of opportunity?”
“Maybe . . .” He returned his gaze to the monitor as Fargo looked up suddenly, replaced the folder, and quickly left the office. On another screen, the redhead was busy distracting his guards, allowing Fargo to slip out, then pretend to be sleeping on the floor in the hall.
Having seen enough, Adrian shoved his chair back. “Do whatever it takes to find those two.”
“Of course.” Ilya shut off the monitor. Adrian was halfway out the door when he added, “Good luck.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” But even Adrian didn’t believe the lie.
He found his parents holding court near the roulette table. His mother, her brown hair in an elaborate French twist, wore a sapphire-blue gown. She offered a small smile as he approached. His father, he noted, refused to meet his gaze.
“Adrian,” his mother said, turning her cheek to him. “A lovely party. I’m assuming you’ve received the letter from our attorney?”
“I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read it,” he said as they walked toward the edge of the patio, away from the other guests. Knowing what it probably contained, he hadn’t dared.
She sighed as she turned to her husband. “Darling. Can you get me a glass of champagne?”
He looked relieved to be given the errand.
The moment he left, she rounded on Adrian. “What on earth were you thinking?”
“About what?”
“This business on the Mirage.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the best place to discuss the matter.”
She smiled at a passing waiter, ignoring the offer of an appetizer. The moment he was out of earshot she said, “You’re putting the entire family name at risk. I won’t allow that to happen.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
“An investment opportunity.”
“Let’s hope it’s a good one. As of today your name has been removed from the board.”
“Mother, please—”
“I love you, Adrian. But I’m not about to lose everything because of your carelessness. If your father were healthier, he’d be the one telling you this.”
“Not likely.”
“I’m not without heart,” she continued. “I’ve deposited one hundred thousand euros in your account.”
It was everything he could do to maintain his composure as he processed her words. “That wouldn’t last me a month.”
“Then I suggest you make adjustments and spend it wisely.” She started to walk off, stopped, turning back to him. “Since it seems you couldn’t be troubled to read the letter my attorney sent you, I’ll paraphrase. Should I or your father meet an untimely death, the bulk of our fortune will go to charity—well, except for the trust we’ve set up for Phoebe’s child. Whether or not she sticks around is anyone’s guess.”
“What child?”
“Perhaps you should ask her about that.” She sighed, then gave a patronizing smile. “A shame. I had such high hopes for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Did you find anything worthwhile?” Nikos asked Sam once th
ey were safe, back at his cousin’s home.
“I did. Problem is, I’m just not sure how it’ll help us.”
The three waited.
“The Kyrils have been exporting low-grade olive oil as extra virgin.”
“That’s it?” Remi said. “We jumped off a cliff for that?”
Dimitris sank back in his chair. “What good will that do?”
“Nothing, yet,” Sam replied. “I did notice a couple of names figuring heavy in the books. Hydra Containers and Heibert Lines. When we get back I’ll email what I remember to Selma and see if she can find anything. In the meantime, maybe something will come to me in the middle of the night.”
Unfortunately, nothing did. The four sat around the table the next morning, drinking strong Greek coffee over the remains of their breakfast, while discussing what to do with the information that Sam had found. “The Kyrils,” Sam said, “have been duping the public for a hefty profit. In a business where reputation is everything, theirs could be ruined in an instant, should it get out.”
“How do you know this?” Nikos asked.
“I saw the doctored accounting books in Adrian’s office. Even if they’re importing olives from somewhere else, based on their harvest and their first press last year, they couldn’t possibly export the amount of extra virgin oil that they’ve listed.”
Remi gave a frustrated sigh. “But we knew they were crooked. There’s got to be something more that we’re overlooking. And what about that envelope that Adrian received?”
“That, I don’t know.”
“Still,” Nikos said, “Sam is right. Maybe they can explain away the kidnapping by blaming it on pirates—”
“For now,” Sam said, thinking about Ilya’s presence on the boat and at the party. Unfortunately, it was Remi’s and Dimitris’s word against the Kyrils’.
“For now,” Nikos echoed. “But their reputation is everything—their name synonymous with quality olive oil. They wouldn’t want that to get out. So why not turn that against them? Maybe we can use this olive oil business to show the police that the Kyrils aren’t the Olympus gods everyone believes them to be.” He gave Sam an expectant look. “You have proof, I assume? You took pictures with your phone?”
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