Private Monaco

Chapter 79

THE YAMAHA 150 outboard growled as I piloted the RIB through the port. The yacht berths were jam-packed port to starboard and bow to stern. The bay beyond was smooth as a boating lake.

The popularity of the race was advantageous to me because all the vessels gave me useful cover as I took a circuitous route to the Sunset Prince.

I steered the RIB on a wide, sweeping arc west, keeping as many boats as possible between me and the large motor yacht that was now my target. My aim was to approach the vessel from its port side because I figured if there was a shooter on board, all eyes would be on the race and the open-water side would be less likely to be watched.

I could hear the roar of engines in the distance, the rising and falling cheers of the crowds, and from the decks nearby came the excited shouts of people watching qualifying from their boats. I hoped Justine had reached Carver but couldn’t count on him or his people to take the threat seriously.

I turned north toward the Sunset Prince, a blue-and-white Beneteau 46 powerboat with four decks. I couldn’t see any obvious signs of a shooter, but I was coming at the vessel from the wrong side of the action.

When I was fifty feet away, I cut the RIB’s outboard engine and ran silent, allowing momentum to carry me toward the stern of the Sunset Prince.

Despite being within the confines of the bay, the large yacht bobbed on the waves, which would make any shot a challenge, even for an accomplished marksman. If he was on the other side of this vessel, Kendrick Stamp must have been utterly desperate to agree to do this. Roman Verde must have some powerful hold over him, and given the man’s MO in our case, Mo-bot was probably right to think they had Stamp’s wife hostage.

Momentum and tide carried me into the swimming platform attached to the stern of the yacht. I jumped onto the wooden decking and secured the RIB’s line to a cleat, before climbing a short ladder and boarding the vessel.

“Hey!” a man yelled as I climbed over the stanchions.

I turned to see a heavyset guy coming from below deck, up a gangway that led to the cabins.

I rushed him before he reached the top of the stairs and kicked his torso, sending him tumbling down into the galley below. He cracked his head against the wooden floor and his eyes rolled back before he passed out.

I hurried to the starboard side and peered around the bulkhead to see Kendrick Stamp on the high deck above the pilot’s wheel. In front of him was a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle, a sophisticated long-range gun with telescopic sight. It was mounted on a platform with side panels that concealed it from casual observers, and the platform itself was constantly moving, powered by gyroscopic servos that compensated for the movement of the boat on the water. It was an expensive, state-of-the art gun and stabilizing system. With this equipment, I had no doubt a man like Stamp would be able to assassinate Eli Carver.