Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3

by Geissinger, J. T.

  Ten minutes is too long. I pull my own phone out and call Connor. He answers on the first ring. “What’s your status, brother?”

  My voice comes out hoarse with stress. “I’m on the wrong fuckin’ yacht! The one Mariana’s on just blew up! You got satellite feed?”

  “Blew up?” Connor mutters a curse. “We’re not live streaming. I won’t have an updated shot for about ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes, again. I throw my head back and roar my frustration. Beside me, Armin doesn’t even blink. The man is unflappable.

  “It’s gonna be okay, Ryan,” Connor says firmly. “Listen to me—”

  “I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to her,” I say, struggling to breathe, adrenaline lashing through me, my stomach in ropes. “If she’s hurt, or worse—”

  “Stop!” Connor shouts. “Focus!”

  I close my eyes, drag air into my lungs, drawing on all my training for high-stress situations. But no mission has ever been this personal before.

  No mission I’ve ever been on has included the possibility that the woman I love dies in a fiery explosion.

  “Can you get closer to the other yacht?” Connor asks in my ear.

  “We’re on the way.”

  “We?”

  “Long story. Call the FBI. Call Interpol. Call everyone. Get that fuckin’ boat surrounded and get a medical emergency response team out there as fast as you can.” I hang up before he can answer and spew a blistering string of curses, panic pulsing through me like another heartbeat.

  Watching black smoke rise in the distant horizon, Armin says, “I take it someone you care about is on that ship?”

  My heart pounds so hard, I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He nods, his expression thoughtful. “We can get over there faster if we take the speed boat. She’ll do up to eighty knots on calm waters.”

  When he looks at me, I say, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  As we slice through the water toward the burning yacht in Armin’s yellow cigarette speed boat with the busty pin-up girls painted on the sides, I try not to think of worst-case scenarios or all the horrible possibilities. I try not to think of anything at all. But the closer we get to the ship, the more obvious it is that the only possibilities I’m dealing with are bad.

  Worse than bad.

  Not only is the yacht on fire, it’s sinking.

  Listing on her starboard side, flames roaring through all the decks and spitting high up into the sky, the craft is almost completely demolished. The satellites on the helm have been blown off. All the glass on every deck is shattered. Smoke and chemical fumes billow from the length of the hull in acrid clouds that sting my eyes.

  There’s an enormous debris field around the remains of the yacht, chunks of fiberglass and furniture and metal, partially submerged, bobbing in the waves, blackened and twisted into ugly shapes. There’s diesel fuel, too, a slick film floating on the water, reflecting oily rainbows in the light.

  I don’t see any bodies, but it’s obvious by the level of destruction and the blistering heat of the fire that if anyone was on board, they couldn’t have survived.

  Armin cruises in slow circles around the hulking carcass of the ship, keeping a safe distance from the roaring flames as he steers carefully through the field of debris. I lean over the side and hunt desperately for any sign of life, for anyone waving from the water, for the smallest hint that would give me hope.

  There’s nothing.

  The yacht is a burning, blackened husk of death, the ocean all around eerily silent.

  It isn’t until I hear the helicopters and look up into the sky that I realize I’ve fallen to my knees.

  And that awful animal scream that seems to be coming from everywhere is coming from me.

  * * *

  The next few hours are a blur. People. Activity. Noise. Questions.

  So many fucking questions.

  The Croatian coast guard arrives on scene first, followed by their navy, search and rescue teams, Interpol, and finally, the FBI. There are also plenty of lookie-loos in boats cruising around, along with news and paparazzi choppers whizzing overhead.

  Field officers from the FBI and Interpol team up to debrief me while the search and rescue teams get to work. I remember nothing of what was asked or answered. I do remember having to be physically restrained as I was removed by police from the scene, and Armin telling them to chill out because I was cool.

  But I wasn’t cool. I’d never been less cool. I was a rage and self-blame machine, desperate for any other reality than the one I was living.

  In the port at Vis, I’m released by the FBI and told I’m free to go on my way, that they’ll contact me if necessary. I think they were just sick of dealing with me by then. I heard more than a few mutterings of “lunatic,” “head case,” and, “meltdown.” I meet up with the rest of the team from Metrix, who, as a unit, take one look at me and call Connor for support.

  I can’t talk to him, though. All my words have dried up. I stand in a parking lot in the waning hours of the day, holding a phone to my ear, listening to my best friend speak, anguish roiling inside my belly like a nest of snakes.

  For a moment, when he tells me there are satellite pictures of a tender leaving the yacht just before the explosion, hope floods back in a sweet, heady rush that leaves me trembling. But then he says video footage from security cameras at the port captured good quality images of everyone who got off that vessel, and Mariana wasn’t among them.

  Neither was Moreno.

  The implications of that…of what she might have gone through, of why he’d send the entire crew away to be alone with her…

  I go numb then. Blank. Everything is put on pause, except the nasty little voice inside my head telling me if I’d only landed on the right yacht, everything would be different.

  If I hadn’t failed, Mariana would still be alive.

  Afternoon fades into evening, and still I stand on the docks, gazing west, watching smoke rise in the distance, hoping for someone to come and tell me there’s been a miracle, that it was all a mistake. That she wasn’t on that yacht, that she was found safe and sound with Larry Ellison and his family, or floating unharmed on a piece of flotsam, or had escaped Moreno and was waiting for me on the other end of the docks the entire time.

  That moment never comes.

  With every hour that passes, I die a thousand little deaths until there’s nothing of me left but my shadow.

  * * *

  Like a ghost, I haunt the port of Vis for weeks, mute and grieving, soaking up every nugget of information that comes in from the various authorities about the explosion—what’s been found, how the cleanup process is going, what they’re trying to do to contain the huge diesel spill from the engines. I stay there long after the news crews have left, long after the rest of the guys from Metrix have returned Stateside, long after logic tells me there’s no more reason to stay, until finally, the reality can no longer be denied.

  Mariana’s gone.

  Again.

  Only this time, she’s gone for good.

  Thirty-Six

  Ryan

  Two months later

  “Tell me you’re eating, at least. Last time I saw you on Skype, you looked like a chemo patient.”

  “Christ, Connor, you sound like my grandma. And that’s not a compliment, by the way. The woman was a giant pain in the ass.”

  His answer over the line comes across gruff. “Brother, tell me you’re eating so I don’t have to ask my wife to hack into the traffic cams in Paris to get me photographic fucking evidence!”

  My lips lift to the closest thing approximating a smile I’m now capable of. I practiced it in the mirror of my hotel bathroom just this morning, aware that people have started to cross the street in apprehension when they see me walking toward them.

  I’m sure it’s the crazy look in my eyes, but it could be the wild hair and scraggly beard, too. I�
�m starting to look like Armin’s twin. All I need is a rug glued to my back, and I’ll be set.

  “I’m eating. As we speak, which should make you happy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. He’s worse than my grandmother.

  “Here, listen.” I lean over the table and shove another big hunk of country bread smeared with duck confit into my mouth, chewing into the cell phone as loudly as humanly possible.

  Cows are quieter eaters. Champion pie eaters are quieter. I sound like a blue-ribbon hog at the trough.

  Several people at nearby tables turn to send me outraged stares, like I’ve offended their ancestors with my abominable chewing, but after four weeks in France, I’m used to that. I ignore them.

  “All right,” Connor says grudgingly. “I’m not totally convinced that’s food in your mouth and not a live octopus and a barracuda having a fight, but it sounds disgusting enough that I’m gonna let it go for the moment. Moving on.”

  I swallow, take a big swig of my champagne, sit back in my chair, and close my eyes. Food doesn’t have much taste anymore—not even the ridiculously expensive meal I’m now eating—but sunshine warming my skin is one thing I can still enjoy.

  Every time I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun, she’s there, smiling that angel’s smile, and even though it hurts like fuck, I do it every chance I get.

  “Moving on,” I agree.

  Connor hesitates for a moment. “Got a call from Karpov today.”

  That doesn’t even cause a blip on my radar. “I wondered when that would happen.”

  “Yeah, he’s, uh…a little agitated.”

  “Just tell him, bro. Tell him his big blue diamond is at the bottom of the fuckin’ Adriatic.”

  “No,” he responds sharply. “If I tell him that, you’ll be missing your head within twenty-four hours. I know you don’t use it too often, but still. It’s your head. You need one.”

  I don’t agree. Heads are for people with working brains. All I’ve got inside my skull is a big, moldy lump of mozzarella. “I’ll call him. I’ll give him the coordinates where the yacht sank. He can go deep-sea diving.”

  “That isn’t funny.”

  “It wasn’t a joke.”

  The phone emits a growl that would do a grizzly proud. “You have a death wish now, is that it?”

  When I take a beat too long to reply, Connor curses. “Do I need to be worried about this? I mean more than I already am? Do you need me to come out there? Because I’m on a plane as soon as you give me the word—”

  “Like I told you when I took a leave of absence, I just need some time to get my head straight,” I say quietly.

  I’m pretty sure Connor’s about as convinced as I am that getting my head straight isn’t going to happen, but for now, we’re pretending. We’re pretending I’m not completely mind-fucked and useless, that I might one day be able to go back to work.

  I can’t see myself ever doing anything but sitting here at a table on the quaint outside patio of L’Ami Louis under the dappled shade of the trees, eating the meal Mariana and I should have been eating together. I’ve been in Paris for a month and I’m here every night, wasting my savings, wasting what’s left of my sanity, wasting my time.

  I don’t have anything better to do.

  Even if I did, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Part of me keeps hoping she’ll show up one night, sit down beside me, and we’ll pick up right where we left off, as if the past two months never happened.

  As if I’m not a ruin of a man. The zombies on The Walking Dead have more life in them than I do. I’ve seen mummies in better shape.

  If only I’d landed on the right yacht.

  “If only” is my best friend now. We spend a lot of quality time together, beating each other up.

  Connor sighs. I picture him sitting behind his big black desk, running a hand over his big square head. “Okay. Take all the time you need. But don’t take forever, brother. I need you back here at some point. For comic relief, if nothing else.”

  I try out my fake smile again. It doesn’t feel right on my face, so I drop it.

  “Did you see the final police report on what caused the explosion?” I ask, pouring myself more booze.

  “Yeah,” Connor says. “Fuel leak in the bilge ignited by the engines.”

  “And the secondary explosion that caused most of the damage was the missiles blowing up from the heat of the fire.”

  “Fucking antiaircraft missiles on a yacht,” Connor mutters.

  “Apparently it’s not that uncommon on those megayachts. Armin’s has ’em, too.”

  “Your buddy, the Instagram star? Why the fuck would he have them?”

  “Because he’s got too much money and a fetish for things that blow other things up. And things that go fast. And boobs.”

  Connor chuckles. “Yeah, I checked out his site. That dude is living every teenage boy’s wet dream. His father’s some kind of media billionaire?”

  “Telecom and cable. They’ve got all of Europe wired.”

  Armin and I have kept in touch. He keeps pestering me to sail up to Monaco with him, says there’s a lot to distract me there, but I’m not in the mood for the kind of distractions playboy gazillionaires like.

  Connor and I chat for a few more minutes. Neither of us mentions the part of the report about the human remains recovered from the wreckage of the yacht. More specifically, the bits of human remains. They were so badly charred and in such small pieces that the only thing the forensic anthropologists were able to identify was a section of splintered femur bone from a Caucasian male in his sixties.

  That had to be Reynard, considering his age and that he vanished without a trace after the phone call with Mariana. He must’ve been on the yacht, too, Moreno’s surefire lure to get her there.

  Of Mariana and Moreno, there was no trace. One of my recurring nightmares now is of sea creatures munching on barbequed body parts.

  But there’s a lot of ocean out there. I’m bracing myself for the day when I read in the paper that pieces of a female skeleton washed up on some remote Italian beach.

  At least I’d have something then. I don’t even have a picture of her. I’ve got nothing left but memories and a hole in my chest big enough to drive a tank through.

  “Another bottle, sir?”

  The waitress stands tableside, holding up my second empty bottle of champagne.

  I actually hate the stuff, but it’s what Mariana said we’d have when we came here, so I’m having it.

  When I nod, the waitress leaves without another word or a bat of her eyelashes. She knows I’m just getting started. All the waitstaff know me now, and know to put me in a taxi and tell the driver the name of my hotel when I can no longer walk at the end of the night.

  I tip good, so nobody complains.

  “All right, brother, I gotta go,” I tell Connor, squinting into the setting sun. It’s a gorgeous day, warm and clear, a hint of crispness in the air. The leaves on the trees are starting to turn bronze and gold. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glints like a jewel.

  “Go and get drunk again?” Connor asks.

  “Yes, Grandma, go and get drunk again.”

  “I’m worried about your liver.”

  “You’re worried about everything. Stop it. I’m a big boy.”

  There’s a fraught pause. “You’re my best friend. You’re my brother. And I love you, man. Don’t forget that, okay?”

  I love you. Three words Mariana and I never said to each other. Three words I’ll never be able to hear again without being swamped with pain and regret.

  “Yep,” I say, my throat closing. “Call you later.”

  I hang up without saying goodbye, because I know how my voice would crack. He’s already worried enough as it is.

  The waitress returns. She sets a big glass of milk on the table in front of me and turns to leave.

  “Wait.” I gesture to the glass. “I didn’t order this.�
�

  She shrugs. “I was told to bring it.”

  She walks away without a backward glance, leaving me in a fizzy champagne haze. I glance around at all the tables nearby, wondering which asshole thinks I’ve had too much to drink and should be switching to milk, but no one’s paying any attention to me.

  Then a gentle breeze stirs the leaves of the trees shading the patio, and a ray of light hits the glass in a way that illuminates it from behind.

  I’ve never seen milk sparkle before. Rainbow prisms dance over the white tablecloth before disappearing as the wind shifts the leaves again.

  What the fuck?

  I pull the glass nearer and stick my finger in it. I can’t get all the way to the bottom, so I take my spoon and dip it in. It hits something hard.

  There’s something in the bottom of the glass.

  Something that sparkles.

  I jolt out of my chair so abruptly, it topples over backward with a crash. Ignoring the gasps and disapproving mutters arising around me, I stare at that glass of milk like it’s a bomb. Like it’s going to explode any second, the same way my heart is going to explode inside my chest.

  With a shaking hand, I reach out and tip over the glass.

  Milk sloshes out, spreading over the white linen, pooling around my dinner plate, dripping off the edge of the table until the glass is empty except for the large chunk of blue ice left behind.

  It’s the Hope Diamond.

  “Mariana!” I holler at the top of my lungs, spinning a wild circle, staggering, arms failing as I look for her, for any glimpse. “Angel!”

  Everyone in the restaurant has stopped to stare at me. All conversation has ceased. The only sound is the traffic on the street beyond the patio and the wind gently rustling through the trees.

  I grab the diamond and run into the restaurant, knocking aside everyone in my path. There are shouts, curses, the crash of plates against the floor. When I find my waitress taking an order from an elderly couple at a table near the front window, I fall on her like a pilgrim at the end of a thousand-mile journey through the desert when he catches his first glimpse of the holy city.