Private Monaco

Chapter 89

There were steps up to another terrace that was furnished with a large table, chairs, sofas, recliners and a wet bar. I imagined the parties that could have been held in such a place. Had Chalmont schmoozed Monégasque high society here? Had he used his power and influence to further the aims of his criminal accomplices? Despite the sun-kissed beauty of the place, I couldn’t help but feel it was rotten to the core.

Beyond the broad terrace were some French doors. They stood wide open and led into a lavish kitchen.

As we headed there, the top of the exterior dining table beside us erupted, splintering as bullets hit it. Stamp and I took cover behind a patio sofa, and I peered round it to see a gunman in a second-floor window, inside the circular turret. He opened fire again, shredding the sofa near me, sending fabric and shards of wood everywhere. The noise was deafening and set my ears ringing, and I knew our flimsy cover wouldn’t hold against such an assault for long.

“Second-floor turret window, third from the left,” I yelled at Stamp. “You go right. I’ll go left.”

He nodded and I held up my fist to signal us to stay put while the storm of bullets continued to rain down.

The shooting stopped, I lowered my fist and we broke cover. I rolled out from behind the wall into a kneeling stance and aimed at the shooter. As the man targeted me in reply, Stamp opened fire from my right and a volley of bullets hit the marksman in the window, sending him bucking backwards into the shadows of the room.

I nodded my appreciation at Stamp, and he nodded back. Taking a life was rarely something to be celebrated, but sometimes it was necessary. I was always wary of those who reveled in killing. Stamp had the cold detachment of a professional soldier. I was glad to have him by my side.

We rose and ran across the terrace, and I went into the house first, barreling through the French doors, and rolling to my knees. I was glad I did, because a gunman appeared from behind a counter with a pistol in hand and shot the air where my head had been a split second earlier.

I responded with a single shot that hit his chest, and he fell back against a large silver double refrigerator, and slumped down, groaning.

“You have any idea where they were keeping Angie?” I whispered.

Stamp shook his head.

“Were you taken up or down any stairs?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not until we got outside. They led me down to the boat the way we’ve just come.”

“Then she was on the first floor,” I responded. “We search this place methodically until we find her.”

We moved through the large kitchen, silently and carefully. I could hear the waves lapping against the sand in the bay below us, and the sounds of distant traffic, but the house was still. My heart pounded and my ears hummed, straining against the silence. The pistol felt heavy in my hand, and my eyes darted in one direction and then another as I searched for danger. I had no doubt it was close.

We stepped into a corridor that ran through the heart of the house. Elaborately framed paintings hung on the walls, and classical sculptures together with urns filled with flowers were displayed on marble plinths. The place screamed wealth, but it looked tasteless and overblown to me, particularly knowing the criminal enterprises of is owner.

Stamp stopped suddenly and I did likewise. He signaled to some double doors on the other side of the corridor and indicated he had heard a sound. I nodded, held my gun in the ready position, and the two of us moved toward the doors.

I reached for the brass handle and opened the door nearest me. I crept inside a huge drawing room, at least forty feet long and thirty wide. The space was furnished like the grand salon of a French château with chairs and couches in gilded frames, delicate Aubusson carpets over parquet flooring, and eighteenth-century paintings depicting scenes from Greek mythology. Here, Zeus held a lightning bolt, ready to fling it against his enemies; there, Heracles fought the lion.

Standing in the middle of the room was Roman Verde.

He was holding Angie Stamp, with one of his hands over her mouth. The other clasped a pistol, which he pressed to her temple.