She accelerated to full throttle. Hakan would be there in less than an hour from Athens, riding in an Aerospatiale SA 360, which had a top speed of 170 miles per hour.
The brisk wind caused her eyes to water. She shivered, the sweat wicking off her T-shirt chilling her. Still, she didn’t have the heart to take Piers’s windbreaker.
As she sped through the winter chop, one question rattled through her mind. Was Papa still alive?
Chapter Five
As she closed the distance to her father’s yacht, the silhouette of the Aphrodite became clearer. It bobbed up and down on the swells, engines off, drifting in the inky sea. She circled it, searching for signs of life.
The decks appeared deserted.
“Where is he?” she asked Aegis. He let out a low whine.
Hakan was at least fifteen minutes away. Her training demanded she wait for backup, but she had to board now, even if it was a trap. Seconds could count.
She texted Hakan the updated GPS coordinates. Her boss would be furious that she’d gone in alone, but he’d understand. He’d do the same for Christos.
Guiding the Donzi toward the starboard side of the Aphrodite, she flipped the bumpers over the transom, tied a quick reef knot to secure the boat, then killed the engine. She held Piers’s Glock in her left hand and scanned the yacht’s decks.
They looked abandoned. No signs of a struggle.
“Stay.”
Aegis didn’t look happy, but he obeyed, plopping down beside Piers’s body.
Grabbing the stainless-steel railing, she pulled herself onto the deck and crouched low, Glock ready. She listened, but the whistling wind muffled any other sounds.
She edged along the deck. A small red dot stained the white helipad. Blood. She skirted the portholes, climbing to the upper level and skulking along the deck. The skylights were made from clear glass to allow natural light to flood the cabin. She stared through the forward one into her father’s private quarters. Papa’s wallet sat on the dresser, his freshly pressed clothes for the party hung on the oak valet, and a single red rose sat on the bedside table in anticipation of Helena’s arrival.
She crawled toward the salon and looked through its skylight. The New York Times was folded on the table beside his reading glasses. Their empty espresso cups from earlier remained untouched. The humidor she’d given Papa still graced the table. Nothing seemed out of place.
A pinging sound came from the direction of the aft deck. She moved toward the noise, her knees scraping against the roughened fiberglass. The sound intensified. She scrambled forward, her frigid fingers clutching the gun.
She flattened to her stomach and inched forward. Her muscles tensed. She peered over the fiberglass lip—and exhaled. A mooring line had unraveled in the strong winds, and the metal end was tapping against the railing.
She twisted around and slid down the siding to the main deck. Pressed against the doorjamb, she scanned the interior of the salon. The cream leather couches remained pristine; the pale hardwood floors gleamed. All clear. She entered the room, back against the wall, searching for movement. The silence was eerie after the whipping wind. She steadied her grip on the Glock and inched forward. A foul odor made her nose wrinkle.
In her peripheral vision, she caught a flash of color in the den. Six crew members lay facedown on the plush carpet, two wounds in the back of each of their heads, execution-style. A professional job. No shell casings, undoubtedly no fingerprints.
Her father wasn’t among the dead. Neither was Henri, the chef. Anyone else who had boarded the yacht had disappeared.
She sagged against the wall, knees rubbery. These men had been part of the Paris Industries staff for years. Who’d done this—and why?
She scoured the rest of the yacht. The Aphrodite was empty, Christos gone.
A loud sound, something thumping on the deck. She aimed the Glock toward the cabin’s entrance.
Aegis stalked through the door on full alert.
So much for following commands. Used to hunt lions, ridgebacks could be ferocious. And they could leap over five-foot fences, so she wasn’t surprised he could jump onto the yacht. It comforted her to have him close by now that he wasn’t in any danger.
A beeping noise in the salon drew her attention. Her father’s phone rested on the coffee table, a flashing red light indicating a new message. Having no idea what he used as a password, she tried his birth date, her mother’s name and birth date, Helena’s birth date, and a few other combinations. Nothing worked. After the seventh try, she gave it one last shot—BlackBerries were programmed to wipe clean after ten failed attempts, and if her final effort didn’t work, she wanted to save the phone’s data for the computer gurus.
She typed in ATHENA. The screen came to life.
A text message had arrived from an undisclosed sender.