Private Monaco

Chapter 4

“Jack!” she cried as she struggled against the men holding her.

She looked unsteady, movements uncertain and poorly coordinated. I knew she’d been injured in the crash but she still put up a good fight, scratching, punching and trying to bite the men who were restraining her, until one of them slapped her face, dazing her.

Seeing that, I felt anger course though my body like electricity. I glanced around to get my bearings. The Mercedes had smashed against the bollards outside the Fairmont Hotel, a luxurious low-rise residence overlooking the bay. The van that had rammed us, engine smoking, was wedged against the rear driver’s-side door. The second vehicle, a white Fiat van, came racing toward us, and behind that came the motorcycle.

Feeling dizzy, I forced open the door and looked around, hoping to see the Glock I’d confiscated. There was no sign of it. My knees felt weak and my steps faltering. The world spun and I could feel liquid running down the side of my face. When I put up one hand, my sticky red fingers told me I was bleeding heavily, but I didn’t care. My eyes were fixed on Justine, who was being dragged toward the approaching van. She was conscious but looked stunned.

I sucked in air, snapped out of my daze and forced my feet, one in front of the other, until I was running toward the kidnappers.

Justine’s eyes met mine. As if revived by the sight of me, she renewed her struggles against her captors.

“Jack!” she cried, clawing at the face of the man closest to her.

“Put her down!” I yelled, feeling my strength return as I dashed toward them.

They ignored me, and the man who’d just been scratched by Justine punched her, knocking her unconscious. Fire burned within me at the sight of further violence against the woman I loved. No amount of pain or injury would deter me. I ran on, aware of the sound of sirens as the Fiat van screeched to a halt.

Another masked man slid open the side panel and the gang manhandled Justine inside before jumping onto the flatbed beside her. They moved with speed and precision, not exchanging any words. I had no doubt they had trained for this.

I was very close now, and the last man had the misfortune to face my fury when his accomplices sacrificed him. The van accelerated away before he could jump inside. I barreled into him and his head glanced off the side of vehicle as it sped past.

Confused and knocked off balance, he stumbled. He tried to draw a pistol, but I parried his arm and the gun discharged into the ground before I clapped my fists over his ears and headbutted him, my forehead cracking his nose.

He crumpled. I grabbed the pistol from his limp hand and wheeled around to fire two shots into the motorcyclist’s back as he slowed for the hairpin. He lost control of the bike and skidded wildly before toppling into a slide that came to a crashing halt when he collided with the wreckage of the Mercedes.

As the white Fiat van raced away up the steep incline, weaving around vehicles whose drivers had stopped to watch or video the carnage, I ran over to the bike. I removed the unconscious rider’s mask and quickly searched him, finding a wallet and phone tucked into the inside of his jacket. I took both. I also discovered the guy was wearing a bulletproof vest, which had taken the impact of my shots, and was already starting to stir.

I punched him, knocking him out completely, then yanked him away from the bike and lifted it upright. I deactivated the emergency kill switch, turned the ignition, and was relieved when the Suzuki R600 roared to life.