Private Monaco

Chapter 86

We waited impatiently. I sat at the stern with the outboard motor idling, while Stamp was in the bow of the RIB, holding the line loosely looped around a cleat to keep it connected to the Sunset Prince.

I could feel the determination radiating off him, as though sheer force of will would bring him the location of his wife. I sympathized. That had been me a few days ago, when I’d been frantic and would have done anything to get Justine back. I doubted I could have sat as patiently as Stamp was doing now and could only admire the man’s external stoicism in the face of what I knew was inner turmoil.

I regretted Michel’s death and that of the other guy I’d kicked down the stairs into the galley. It turned out he wasn’t unconscious; the fall had broken his neck, killing him instantly. This meant there was no chance of extracting Angie’s location from either man, and instead of facing justice for their crimes, both had experienced quick and relatively painless deaths, which felt too much like an escape.

My phone rang and I saw Justine’s number on screen.

“Jack, it’s me. We’ve got a location. It’s a villa on the coast in the Cap d’Ail and it belongs to Raymond Chalmont.”

We must have disrupted their plans quite considerably for them to be using an address so clearly connected to one of their principals. Or perhaps it was simply arrogance on their part. Maybe Chalmont believed himself above the law in Monaco?

“I’m sending you a map pin,” Justine said. “It will give you the exact location. Do you want me to notify the police?”

“Yes. Call Chevalier and ask her to bring a tactical unit and meet us there.”

“Jack...” Justine began.

“I know,” I said. “Be careful.”

“No,” she responded. “I was going to ask you to make sure these guys don’t escape. I want them to get what they deserve. For me. For Sci. For Mo.”

“You have my word,” I told her.

“We’re about to move to a more secure location,” she said. “I’ve got to go. I love you.”

“Love you too,” I replied, before hanging up.

I checked my phone and saw Justine had sent me a map pin for a location a couple miles south-west of our current position.

“We’ve got it,” I said to Stamp. “Let’s go.”

He pulled in the line and I backed us away from the yacht.

When we were clear, I twisted the throttle and the RIB gathered speed. The bow rose and the boat bounced against the waves as we raced through wind and spray, engine humming, speeding toward the cruel, twisted men who held Angie Stamp.