“You figured out the final text,” Heros said.
“Help me understand what’s going on, Max.” Using his name would help strengthen their bond, and being up front in every statement was crucial. If he sensed deception, it’d all be over.
“Your father isn’t the hero you think he is.” He cuffed Christos in the head with the gun, hard. Papa stumbled, then glared at his captor. A strong gust of wind threatened to sweep them all into the gorge.
“What do you mean, Max? None of us is perfect; we all have flaws.” She kept her voice even, calm. De-escalation was key.
“Christos hired me to fake his own kidnapping.”
Gabrielle crashed through the foliage on her way to the bridge. She held her M24 in the ready position, the H-S Precision stock held against her shoulder. She wanted to be prepared if she ran into General Jemwa’s soldiers. She worked her way along the tree line, visibility low in the drenching rain. Finally, an opening in the thick brush appeared. She could just make out three figures standing on the bungee-jumping platform: Max, with Christos Paris beside him, and Thea Paris approximately twenty feet away.
Max had found the billionaire. The police inspector would be a national hero in Greece.
She assessed Thea’s body language. Her hands were open, as if she was trying to keep her emotions on an even keel.
But Max had a gun pointed at Christos. He was the kidnapper! But why? What the hell was going on?
She settled into hiding fewer than two hundred feet from the bridge. Two minutes later, she had set up the parabolic microphone from her backpack.
Max’s baritone rumbled in her earpiece. “The bridge is rigged with explosives. Stop where you are, or I’ll blow us all to pieces.” Any remaining hope that this was a misunderstanding evaporated. His voice radiated tension, anger.
Gabrielle used the gun-shaped handle to wedge the microphone in a bush with the eighteen-inch dish facing the bridge. She tilted it like an antenna on an old TV until she’d trained the directional mic on the target.
She picked up her rifle. Adjusting the scope, she zoomed back to Max. He held a cell phone in his hand. Probably the detonator.
She couldn’t let him set off the bomb.
Gabrielle ran through her checklist, calculating the wind conditions, rain, humidity. Max and Christos stood close together. It’d be a challenging shot. She’d need to pick her moment carefully. Christos was positioned at the open edge of the bungee platform, and she didn’t want to lose the hostage over the ledge.
She entered the sniper “zone,” breathing steadily, ignoring everything but the rifle and the target. The world narrowed; her senses heightened. She had to wait. Her crosshairs rested on Christos Paris’s head, which now obstructed her view of Max. The oil baron looked determined, showing little fear. Christos shifted, dropping lower in her sights as he widened his stance. Then he tilted his head, very slightly and slowly, so that his gaze could scan the platform. He was searching for a way out.
Max moved into view. The anguish on his face cut to her soul. Framed in her crosshairs was the first man she might’ve broken her one-night rule for. All the rules.
This was the moment. She inhaled a breath and held it, flexing her finger. All she had to do was fire. His head was in her sights.
Do it now. Clean shots in hostage situations were rare, and snipers couldn’t hesitate.
Her trigger finger trembled, but it wouldn’t close.
She couldn’t fucking do it.
She exhaled, berating herself. Max had become the enemy. She had the shot. Why the hell was she hesitating?
Max’s voice rumbled from the mic. “Christos hired me to fake his own kidnapping.”
What?
Chapter Seventy-Five
Rif clambered down a steep hillside, scrambling to maintain his footing. The bridge over the Zambezi River straddled Zimbabwe and Zambia, an impressive arch of steel girders joining the two countries. At the underbelly of the bridge, he discovered a makeshift wooden platform that day laborers must have abandoned because of the storm. After a quick search of their equipment, he tossed pliers, a blowtorch, and a few other tools into his backpack.
He hoped Thea could keep Max Heros talking long enough for him to neutralize the bomb. The police inspector had clearly arranged this bizarre situation because he had a message to deliver, but what, exactly, did he want?
Rif’s fingers white-knuckled the slippery railing while he scanned the steel girders, searching for anomalies. He’d had some experience with ordnance, but it wasn’t his specialty.