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    The Greek Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #12)
    The Greek Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #12)
    The Greek Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #12)
    Ebook554 pages8 hours

    The Greek Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #12)

    By Mike Wells

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    About this ebook

    Elaine Brogan’s undercover operation to arrest Spyro Leandrou goes from bad to worse. Nick’s attempt to extract Dmitry from the Santorini Island jail has not gone as planned, and the two end up stranded on a small boat in the Aegean Sea, along with Costa, Spyro’s right-hand man. Back on Santorini, Kathy Brogan finds herself in serious trouble with her husband, who is becoming suspicious about his string of “bad luck.” Meanwhile, Luna is chasing down the elusive Lonnie Hendrix, the only person left on earth who can testify that Spyro killed Elaine’s father. Can Elaine pull it all together before Spyro figures out who she really is?

    Note: This book was previously titled: Lust, Money & Murder, Book 12 - Phoenix Rising

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMike Wells
    Release dateApr 27, 2018
    ISBN9781370331093
    The Greek Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #12)
    Author

    Mike Wells

    Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

    Read more from Mike Wells

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      The Greek Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #12) - Mike Wells

      1

      Adriatic Sea

      The helicopter slowly lifted off the ship’s deck.

      As soon as the aircraft was safely clear of the vessel, it moved away, descending until it was fifty meters above the sea’s surface.

      The Russian-manufactured aircraft headed northeast, into the twilight. The sun had set only minutes earlier. The eyes of the pilots constantly scanned the state-of-the-art instrument displays for any trouble ahead. The Kamov Ka-27 was equipped with an active, electronically-scanned radar which included input from acoustic, magneto-metric and other systems, but both pilots were far too seasoned to take anything for granted—they kept their eyes out of the cockpit as well.

      In the back of the large chopper were four ex-Spetsnaz soldiers, armed to the hilt with machine guns, pistols, and teargas grenades. They also carried various explosives and impact devices that would blow open the most secure doors and safes.

      Clipped to netting along the fuselage was a detailed, blow-up diagram of the target facility, with notes written in Russian all over it in different colored magic markers. The diagram showed all four buildings at the target site, along with the interior courtyard, surrounding property and long driveway that led in from the main road.

      The meticulous planning was long over. Wearing headsets, the four men sat in silence, their strapped-in bodies swaying slightly with the motion of the chopper, gazing at the diagram in front of them, their minds focused on the complex task they were about to perform.

      Each of the mercenaries had a role to play, and every move was planned down to the finest detail. They had worked many years together as a team. When they carried out their contracted duties, they were as synchronized as the finest philharmonic orchestra, and they made deadly music together.

      A few minutes later, the helicopter entered the vicinity of five gas drilling platforms that were located only a few miles off the coast of Croatia.

      It was an old radar avoidance trick, mingling with the air traffic that was transporting workers and supplies back and forth between the drilling platforms and the mainland, but it worked. The platforms were owned by several different companies. At night, even the rig managers mistook the chopper for yet another helicopter operated by one of the other firms.

      The aircraft soon flew over the southernmost tip of Croatia, only a few kilometers north of Montenegro. Dipping down to a dangerously low altitude to hug the contour of the first mountain ridge, one pilot scanned the instrument panel while the other scrolled through dozens of military communication frequencies to see if they’d been detected, prepared to abort the mission.

      But there was no sign of any activity.

      The pilot keyed the microphone to contact command center aboard their ship.

      Glowfish One at Checkpoint B, he said in Russian. All is quiet. The command center had an elaborate eavesdropping system that could descramble top secret NATO frequencies. Anything on your end?

      "Nichevo. There was a long pause. Poehali! Vperyod!"

      Nothing. Go for it!

      2

      Giorgio Cattoretti was sitting in his office, working with his secretary to compose a terse letter to the manufacturer of one of his diamond cutting machines that had been breaking down frequently.

      Both he and Petra heard the sound of the helicopter at the same time.

      Giorgio glanced at his Rolex, frowned, and squinted at it with his one eye to see if the second hand was still moving. What time is it? The chopper that transported the diamonds to and from the Dubrovnik airport always arrived at six o’clock sharp.

      Petra looked confused and glanced at her own watch. Five thirty-five.

      Giorgio stood up from behind his massive Italian marble desk and peered through the window, the sound of the helicopter growing louder. The bulletproof window afforded him a view through the polishing zone and through another bulletproof window into the courtyard.

      That doesn’t sound like one of our—

      Giorgio never finished the sentence. His eyes widened as the entire courtyard was bathed in harsh white light…several men were sliding down ropes from the aircraft that hovered above—they wore black masks and wielded machine guns.

      It’s a robbery! Giorgio bellowed, and turned to Petra. Get everybody down to the safe room!

      There were screams from several employees as they saw what was happening outside the windows.

      Petra had shakily stood up and was staring out through the glass, frozen, her face pale.

      Giorgio slapped the button on the microphone at his desk. Attention everyone, do not panic! Proceed calmly to the safe room. We have rehearsed this over and over—do exactly what you’re supposed to do! Do not panic!

      His words did little good—suddenly there was pandemonium.

      As soon as one of the masked men hit the ground, he fired off a flurry of rounds from his machine gun, turning in a circle, the bullets slamming into the courtyard windows. The bulletproof glass splintered into spider web patterns, the workers screaming, everyone trying to get to the safe room.

      Where the hell is Security? Giorgio yelled over the ruckus of the alarm and all the shouting. He grabbed his pistol from the shoulder holster on his credenza.

      Petra dashed into the hallway and started helping workers down the stairs and into the safe room. Some of the employees were elderly and a few were disabled—a couple had to be helped out of their wheelchairs and down the stairs.

      Giorgio rushed down the hall, wielding his gun.

      An explosion shook the building. There was more screaming and yelling.

      The commando-robbers were trying to blast open the secure door that led in from the courtyard.

      Mislav! Giorgio yelled, searching for his security guards. Vedran! Where are you?

      He spotted Mislav running down the hall with the others, towards the safe room.

      Get back here and fight, Giorgio yelled. The man’s gun wasn’t even drawn.

      There was another explosion. Then a burst of machine-gun fire. The crooks were in the building now.

      Mislav stopped and glanced at Giorgio, hesitated, then sprinted towards the front entrance.

      Coward! Giorgio bellowed after him.

      The Cat continued on towards the courtyard entrance, passing the terrified workers who were moving in the other direction, telling them not to panic, to get to the safe room, reassuring them that everything would be all right.

      Then, he spotted Lucija through the window of the sorting room—the old woman was lying flat on her back, gasping for air.

      And nobody was helping her!

      Vedran, another guard, came running around the corner and dashed towards the front entrance, too.

      Giorgio cursed and quickly keyed the passcode into the sorting room door and entered, terrified that when he moved closer, he would find Lucija’s body riddled with bullets or shrapnel from one of the explosions.

      Physically, she seemed unscathed, thank god—there was no blood visible. But she was gasping for air.

      My heart, she whispered, clutching at her chest. I…I cannot…breathe…

      Giorgio quickly slipped his gun into his waistband, carefully lifted the old woman up and over his shoulder. He carried her back into the hall and headed towards the safe room.

      There was another explosion, much louder than the first two, and it nearly knocked Giorgio off his feet.

      They were into the main vault now, in the basement.

      When Giorgio reached the stairs to the safe room, Petra was standing there, helping the last few employees down, her cell phone in her hand.

      Have you called the police? Giorgio grunted, taking hold of the railing.

      Yes, yes, of course!

      Call back and make sure they send ambulances!

      He carried Lucija to the bottom of the stairs as fast as he could. When he entered the long tunnel, most of his people were huddled along the walls, terrified, some holding each other, sobbing.

      Jelena! Giorgio yelled, desperately searching the stunned faces. Help Lucija—I think she’s having a heart attack.

      Jelena pushed her way to the door and dropped down beside Lucija, loosening the old woman’s collar. She had worked as a trained nurse before being hired at the factory.

      One more worker reached the bottom of the stairs and ducked into the safe room, and Petra closed the door and enabled the lock.

      You’re sure every worker is accounted for? Giorgio asked her.

      Yes. I did head count as they coming down—everybody here.

      Giorgio glanced up at the bank of video monitors. One showed the courtyard, another showed the front entrance, and a third showed the stairs that led down to the main vault. It was much quieter here. Only the audio feed confirmed the noise of the alarm, along with the staccato of the helicopter, which was still hovering above the building.

      On the screen, two of the robbers were hauling a steel container that Giorgio knew contained today’s polished diamonds—all of them pink. He pushed a button and momentarily activated the audio feed in that area.

      The men were conversing in Russian to each other.

      Giorgio drew his gun and unlocked the vault door, turning back to Petra. Don’t open this door for anyone except me or the police, understand?

      Yes! Petra said.

      And if it’s the police, make them speak Croatian to prove it.

      Petra nodded.

      Giorgio glanced up at the monitors again and then went out the door, making sure that Petra locked it behind him.

      When The Cat reached the ground floor, one of the masked robbers was trotting through the sorting area, scooping up the rest of the unpolished diamonds and dumping them into a cloth bag. The man looked taller than Giorgio, dressed completely in black fatigues, and wore a thick Kevlar vest that made him appear even more menacing.

      He merely glanced at Giorgio and kept collecting the precious stones—the windows that separated them were all bulletproof, and he was safe unless Giorgio tried to unlock the door at the far end. One of the courtyard windows had been completely blasted out of its frame, which is how the robbers had entered.

      Giorgio continued on, the pistol in his hand, banging through the doors that led down the hallway and into the area at the end, which had more secure doors that led to the main vault.

      He stopped and listened, leaning against the door frame.

      There were footsteps and the sound of the men talking to each other. He could see the stairs leading down to the vault.

      Two men were carrying a couple of containers up the stairs, along with a heavy canvas bag full of operating cash that Giorgio also kept there.

      "Vsyo!" one of them called out—it was a Russian word that meant that they’d gotten everything they wanted, and were done.

      As soon as the thieves scrambled back into the courtyard, Giorgio slipped into the hallway, then hung back from the blasted-out door. His heart pounding, he watched as four men gathered and tossed the most recently snatched loot into a net that had been lowered. As the hovering chopper raised the net, a rope ladder unfurled and dropped, swinging in the downdraft from the rotor blades.

      The men grabbed hold and started climbing up, one after the other.

      Giorgio raised his pistol and stepped partially through the blasted-out door to fire off a few rounds, but hesitated, glancing upwards—two more men were visible in the aircraft’s open door, raising their rifles to fire at him.

      Giorgio leapt back into the hallway.

      Simultaneously, bullets rained down, pinging and shattering the broken glass.

      He stood there, watching the men climb up the ladder to the helicopter. When the two men covering them were distracted, helping them climb aboard, Giorgio charged out through the door and across the shattered glass, firing at the last remaining man on the ladder. It was the same man he’d just come face to face with through the window, the one who had been picking up the uncut diamonds.

      Giorgio fired a few more shots at him as the helmeted robber twisted in the downdraft, and then The Cat leapt onto the bottom of the ladder and began climbing after him.

      I’m taking at least one of you bastards down! Giorgio screamed.

      Trying to hold onto the swinging ladder, he lost his grip on the gun and it fell to the courtyard. He caught the robber by the boot, then managed to climb another rung and grabbed the man around the calves.

      The two of them swung back and forth on the rope. The men aboard the chopper were unable to do anything—they couldn’t fire at Giorgio without risking hitting their comrade, too.

      Suddenly the man in Giorgio’s grip let go of the ladder, and both of them plummeted to the ground.

      They landed in a heap on top of each other.

      There was a sharp pain in Giorgio’s left ankle as they rolled over and over. Glass shards from the broken windows were cutting through his clothes, raking his skin.

      Give me back my diamonds, motherfucker! Giorgio snarled. For a second, Giorgio got the upper hand. He was able to punch the man hard in the face three times but was then bucked off.

      The next thing Giorgio knew, the big man was straddling his chest.

      He grinned at Giorgio, blood smeared on his teeth, drawing his clenched fist back.

      Make this last part look good for the cameras, Mihail, Giorgio whispered.

      3

      Santorini Island, Greece

      The winter storm struck the tiny island with a vengeance.

      Massive waves pounded the breakwaters on the eastern side, sending so much spray and froth into the air that visibility was reduced to zero. In the protected harbors, the near gale-force wind sang eerily through the yachts’ stays. Hundreds of metallic lines vibrated against masts in a nonstop cacophony of clatter, only drowned out by the occasional peal of thunder, the vessels bobbing and rolling helplessly in the churning water.

      High on the cliff above, the lights in some of the larger cave houses occasionally dimmed, including those inside the sprawling villa owned by Spyro Leandrou.

      Elaine Brogan was sitting at the teacher’s desk in the den, preparing Alex’s lessons for the next few days.

      Despite the fact that Elaine was alone, she had trouble concentrating—all she could think about was Nick and Dmitry. The storm that raged outside only increased her anxiety. The wind howled, and the palm trees surrounding the pool swayed and shook like they were in agony, their shredded fronds all over the ground. The gale had struck almost the exact time Nick was supposed to be extracting Dmitry from the island’s small jail.

      Elaine didn’t know if the bad weather was responsible, but something had definitely gone wrong with the operation. About an hour ago, Spyro Leandrou had rushed out of the villa without saying a word to anyone.

      By seven-thirty pm, Elaine could no longer sit still. It was actually a good thing that Spyro was away and that Alex was at his mother’s, because they surely would have noticed her jittery state. Despite the burning embers in the free-standing fireplace, she had broken out into a cold sweat.

      She had twice gone up to her bedroom and used the sat-phone to check for texts from Luna or Nick. The storm made it difficult to establish a satellite connection. The thundering and lightning were almost nonstop now, and every so often an angry gust of wind splattered rain against the glass.

      When Elaine had finished all the lesson plans, she went up to her bedroom and finally got through to the satellite. There was one message from Luna: No word yet—will advise.

      She heard the front door open downstairs.

      Several loud metallic clicks echoed through the villa. It sounded like someone tapping an umbrella against the tile in the foyer to shake the rainwater off.

      Then she heard Fenia’s voice.

      "Poú eínai i Costa?" the maid said, her tone higher than normal. She wanted to know where her husband was.

      A deep voice replied in Greek.

      It was Spyro’s voice.

      Before Elaine could move, he called up the stairs.

      Patricia?

      She steadied herself for a second, then stepped over to her bedroom door and opened it. Spyro was standing near the bottom of the steps, but she could only see his shoes—they were drenched. Yes?

      Come down to the library, please. It’s important.

      I’ll be right there, Elaine said casually. Now she was almost sure that Nick’s extraction operation had backfired.

      She had to protect herself, and she was prepared. Grabbing the Sig, which was assembled and hidden under the mattress, she slipped it into the back of her jeans and covered it up with her thick wool sweater.

      As she descended the stairs, she willed herself not to panic.

      The umbrella came into view—it was leaning against the foyer wall. As she reached the landing and continued down the hall, she noticed there were wet footprints and water droplets leading to the library door. Spyro must have been soaked.

      When she entered the room, he was standing next to the bookshelves, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, his prosthetic hand whirring as he tilted the bottle. His black hair was wet, along with his shirt collar, cuffs, and the bottoms of his trouser legs.

      It’s raining like hell out there, he muttered, without looking over at her. Want a drink?

      Thank you, I’m fine.

      Elaine tensed even more as his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out, frowned at the display, and then glanced at Elaine. Shut the door and have a seat.

      He sat down at his desk and began tapping on the phone with the fingers of his real hand—it looked as if he was firing off several short text messages while gritting his teeth.

      Is something wrong? Elaine said, unable to stand the suspense.

      Without looking up from the phone, he said, What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential. You have to act normally, especially around Fenia.

      Elaine’s heart raced. Fenia? The first thought that went through her mind was that Nick must have shot and killed Costa.

      Spyro finally set his phone down and glanced at her. You know the Russian scumbag who tried to murder Alex? Dmitry Durov…?

      Yes...

      Well, some guy showed up at the police station tonight, pretending to be his lawyer from Moscow.

      Oh? Elaine said, her voice almost wavering. What happened?

      Costa happened to be in Fira, so I sent him over to the station to check this guy out and see if he was really a lawyer. The bastard turned out to be armed and he sprung Durov from the jail cell. Costa got there the moment the guy and Durov were coming out the front door of the police station, ran smack into them, but they managed to get away by car. Costa chased after them in his own car, but…

      But what? Elaine said, through a dry throat.

      Now, all three of them are missing.

      Spyro’s phone started vibrating again, and he answered a few more messages, tapping out responses with the fingers of his real hand.

      Elaine sat there trying to grapple with what she’d been told.

      The cops are searching for them, of course, Spyro said, distractedly, but the police department here is hardly the LAPD. They barely have enough men on duty to watch the airport and ferry terminal. Spyro set his phone down again glancing out the window at the rain, which was still coming down hard. Most of their men can’t be bothered to go out when it’s sprinkling, let alone in a storm like this.

      You think they’re all still somewhere on the island, then?

      Of course they are—where else could they be? The police sent word to security at the airport and the ferry terminal as soon as they escaped from the station.

      Luna had told Elaine that Nick’s plan was to rent a small boat and take Dmitry to Milos, one of the nearby islands that had an international airport. She could not imagine implementing that plan in this weather.

      Spyro motioned to her with his artificial hand. I swear to you, Patricia…if those two Russians killed Costa, I will have them both hunted down and killed like animals. Then I will personally go to Donetsk and put a bullet in Gosha Tutko’s brainless head.

      It’s a good thing that he still believed the Ukrainian gangster was behind all this, Elaine thought.

      Spyro took another shot of whiskey and then let out a ragged sigh. I’m praying they took Costa hostage or knocked him out and tied him up somewhere. I’m sure those two Russian gangsters are still hiding out on the island, planning their escape. My guess is that they got hold of him and kidnapped him. I’m expecting a call demanding ransom and safe transport out of here any minute.

      Spyro’s phone vibrated again, receiving another batch of text messages, and he snatched the phone up and started reading them. Jesus, he muttered, reading. If this wasn’t bad enough! Now they’re having problems with the power station at Panacea. He glanced up at Elaine. We’ve got fifteen patients in the ICU right now, filled to capacity, recovering from transplanted kidneys that you brought in from Ukraine. Can you imagine the disaster we would have if we lost all our power down there?

      That would be a nightmare.

      Spyro gazed at her for a few seconds. She was painfully aware of the pistol stuck in the waistband of her jeans.

      Oh…I’m so upset I almost forgot the reason I called you downstairs. The security camera at the jail caught some images of this so-called lawyer, but they’re pretty dark, not very clear. Spyro fiddled with his phone and turned it towards her. Do you recognize him?

      Elaine stepped forward to get a closer look, willing herself not to give the slightest indication that she was gazing at a picture of her husband. The photo was nothing more than a shadowy image of a man with a beard.

      I’ve never seen him before, she said.

      Hmmm…I thought he might have been one of the guys you ran into in Donetsk, maybe at the hospital? The beard might be fake.

      She studied the picture again, just to be convincing. Maybe, but nothing stands out.

      4

      After Elaine went back up to her room, she considered trying to call Luna again to see if there was any word from Nick, but she was afraid Spyro might catch her—he had come upstairs, too, and was making calls from his bedroom.

      Finally, around eleven pm, she could hear the sound of Spyro’s shower running—that meant he was about to go to sleep.

      She retrieved the sat-phone from under her mattress and stepped into the bathroom. The storm had died down a bit, and she connected with the satellite as soon as she held the phone next to the window.

      Luna answered her call immediately, and Elaine filled her in on everything that Spyro had told her, whispering rapidly. As she spoke, she tried to keep her panic under control, but it was difficult.

      Then they’re probably hiding out somewhere on the island, Luna said.

      But if that’s what happened, why hasn’t Nick contacted one of us by now?

      Maybe his phone got wet, or he lost it. Hopefully we’ll hear something from him soon.

      What if Costa recognized Nick? They talked face to face at our house—

      Well, that would explain why Nick is holding onto him, if that’s what happened. Luna paused. Listen, something serious has just come up. You better brace yourself for another shock.

      Elaine swallowed. She couldn’t imagine what could be worse than finding out that Nick and Dmitry were missing. What?

      I had a chance to analyze those pictures you sent me of the kidneys you brought back from Ukraine…

      And?

      There were eighteen kidneys in the container, right?

      Yes, that’s right.

      I hate to tell you this, Elaine, but those kidneys only came from nine people.

      It took only a second for Elaine to realize the implication of this. Are—are you sure?

      Pretty sure, yeah. There are only nine different numbers on those plastic bags and they do seem like ID numbers. Each number has one right kidney and one left kidney associated with it.

      Oh my god… Elaine felt even sicker than when she’d first seen the bloody organs floating around inside the container. "You’re telling me people were murdered for—"

      That’s what it looks like. I did some research and it turns out that kidneys have to be transplanted no more than thirty hours after they’re removed from the donor. They can’t be frozen. Which means that batch of kidneys had to have been taken all at the same time, probably at that hospital in Donetsk where you picked them up, only a few hours before you arrived. Luna paused. We’re talking mass murder, Elaine. Mass murder to harvest human organs.

      Elaine felt nauseous. She needed to sit down on the edge of the bathtub, but she couldn’t do that without losing the sat-phone signal, so she braced herself against the windowsill.

      I have no choice but to send all the data to Valdez immediately and fully brief him on everything. It’s a moral issue, Elaine. There could be more people—

      Of course, she said resignedly. The thought that she had played a role in such heinous activity, even though she didn’t understand it at the time, made her feel positively evil.

      You didn’t know what was going on, Luna said, sensing this. You were just the transporter.

      Spyro certainly knows what’s going on, Elaine said. The loathing she felt for the man had ratcheted up ten notches.

      Elaine was afraid of the answer to her next question. Do you think this will blow my cover?

      Well…when Valdez contacts the Russian and Ukrainian authorities, which I’m sure he will, he doesn’t have to reveal how he got the information—Interpol can be a buffer. Luna paused. On the other hand…

      On the other hand, what?

      You know Valdez. He’s a political animal—he’ll want the credit.

      God damn it, Luna! Elaine felt queasy again. Nick and Dmitry had disappeared, and now this—the whole operation was falling apart!

      When are you supposed to go to Panacea? Luna said.

      This weekend.

      Before she had left the library, Spyro had told her that he wanted her to meet with the man she would be replacing as Chief Procurement Officer, and that then she would come back to the villa and start working on finding new kidney sources.

      She explained this to Luna, and that Spyro said that the island where the clinic was located was only a thirty-minute helicopter ride away, and that she would only be gone a half day.

      Then Elaine asked, Where are you now?

      I’m back in Northern Georgia. I do have some good news, Elaine—I think I’m about to track down Lonnie Hendrix. I’ll know more in a few hours.

      That is good news, Elaine thought. She pulled the phone away from her ear and listened…she wasn’t sure Spyro was still in the shower anymore—she could no longer hear the water running.

      I better go, she said quickly. I’ll call you in the morning if I can. I sure hope Nick and Dmitry turn up by then.

      5

      Five Hours Earlier

      B ail, faster, dammit! Nick LaGrange screamed, over the roar of the wind and the rain.

      Dmitry was holding onto the boat’s gunwale for dear life with one hand, madly bailing water out of the hull with the other using an old metal bucket they’d found in the bow. With all the rain and spray and seawater sloshing over the side, it was hard to tell if he was making any progress.

      Nick was hunched in the stern, trying to start the outboard motor and keeping his eye on the raging sea surrounding them at the same time. Every so often, he stopped to frantically paddle with the remains of an oar they’d found in the boat to try to keep it from being rolled over by a wave.

      Costa was sitting up in the bow, doing absolutely nothing but holding on tight and pointing his gun at them, lording over them as if he were captain and they were lowly crew.

      They were being blown farther and farther out into the Aegean Sea and must have been a couple of kilometers away from Santorini Island by now. If they couldn’t get the boat’s motor started soon, they would never make it back, and all three of them would probably drown.

      After giving the starter rope several more pulls with no luck, Nick pounded his fist on the side of the gas tank—it sounded hollow and empty. He waited for a lull in the waves and then squatted and twisted the cap off.

      During the next lightning flash he could see down into the bottom of the metal container.

      The damn thing was bone dry.

      Nick glanced up to shout this to Dmitry and Costa, but nothing came out of his mouth—a huge swell was buoying them high up, threatening to capsize the boat.

      "Bozhe moi!" Dmitry screamed.

      The small vessel pitched violently to one side, and Dmitry tumbled sideways and almost fell overboard.

      Nick glimpsed the bucket as it flew through the air and disappeared into the boiling froth.

      Shit! Nick yelled, paddling with the oar, trying to turn the boat more perpendicular to the waves. Mercifully, it somehow stayed upright and slid back down into the next trough.

      The water sloshing around in the hull came up to their knees now. The Greek-built boat was designed with high, curved sides, made for use on a choppy sea, rather than the relatively smooth water of a river or lake, but it wasn’t made for this kind of weather. It had taken on so much water, the top of the stern was barely above the waterline.

      To Costa, Nick shouted, We need to jettison the engine—it’s too heavy! It’s going to sink us!

      Costa shook his head. Keep trying to start it!

      The gas tank is empty, goddammit—the engine’s useless! Nick screamed over the wind. He only now remembered he was supposed to be Dmitry’s lawyer, from Moscow, and hadn’t spoken in a Russian accent. He hoped Costa hadn’t noticed, but at this point, that was the least of his worries.

      Boat not made for big men like us! If it sink, we all dying!

      In the next lightning flash, Nick could see that Costa looked concerned.

      Find tools so we can loosen bolts! Nick yelled. Look there, under seat, behind you!

      Still holding the gun on them, Costa began searching, while Nick maneuvered the boat in the waves with the broken oar, trying to keep it from capsizing. The only items they had previously found in the small vessel besides the oar and metal bucket were a fishing rod and an anchor. Due to the weight, they threw the anchor and its chain overboard. Costa found a folding canvas pouch that had been wedged under the aft seat. He checked inside, waited, then tossed it to Nick, careful that the jostling of the vessel didn’t send it flying into the water.

      Nick pulled out a large adjustable wrench and went to work on the two bolts that held the engine in place.

      The next couple of hours went by so slowly that, to Nick, it felt like they’d been riding out the storm for an entire night.

      Jettisoning the engine and fuel tank had helped buoyancy and made the boat easier to maneuver. The intensity of the gale was fading, thank god. Nick had, of course, thoroughly checked various weather forecasts while preparing for the extraction operation, and they all predicted clear weather tomorrow. The sea was still rough, but the wind and rain had abated somewhat. The boat was no longer in danger of capsizing every dreaded moment—Nick was able to turn the lightened boat bow into the swells using the broken oar.

      Now, they were all seated. Costa and Nick were in the bow and stern, respectively, with Dmitry planted in between them, sitting sideways, straddling the middle seat. Costa did not seem intimidated by Dmitry but would not let Nick get near him.

      Nick knew that the moon was nearly full and high overhead, and it provided enough illumination on the cloud layer for them to see each other. Every now and then, he reached up and wiped the rainwater and crusty salt from his face, but he was mostly making sure his fake mustache and beard were still in place. He had made liberal use of super glue in attaching them and was amazed and grateful that he hadn’t lost them at the height of the storm. Without the facial hair, he was sure Costa would recognize him as Patricia Carter’s former employer, even in the semi-darkness.

      Costa forbade them to speak Russian, which was a good thing. Nick hadn’t formally studied Russian for years, like Elaine had, and his knowledge thereof was rudimentary.

      The negative side of the storm’s weakening was that now Nick realized how cold and miserable he was, drenched to the bone in his cheap suit and stocking feet, the cold wind slicing into him every moment, with the un-bailed water sloshing around his calves. All three of the men were shaking with chills. In the semi-darkness, Costa’s and Dmitry’s lips looked dark and were no doubt blue. Nick guessed his own were, too.

      Dmitry looked like he was suffering the most. Unable to swim, his eyes kept sweeping the churning expanse of sea as if he were surrounded by certain death.

      While searching for the tool kit, Costa seemed to have found something else tucked up into the bow of the boat, something large and bulky looking, wrapped up in a piece of green canvas. He kept glancing at it over his shoulder. Nick had the feeling that Costa had already checked the contents when they’d been distracted with keeping the boat afloat.

      Nick finally pointed at it and said, What is under tarp? remembering to speak accented, broken English.

      The big Greek man did not respond.

      Nick said, We must work together if we want survive.

      Costa gazed past him, at the rolling swells, as mute as a mannequin.

      The big oaf was really beginning to piss him off.

      "You think we your problem? Nick motioned up at the black sky. This your problem. We are in middle of hurricane, in case you not noticing!"

      Police and coast guard will be searching for us, Costa finally said.

      Nick laughed. In this storm? You know nothing about searching and rescuing operations, my friend.

      "I am not your friend. It will be clear and sunny tomorrow—weather prognosis say so today. When police find us, you both go to jail. If police no find us, we will see small island somewhere, sooner or later, and you will paddle us to shore. Then you both go to jail."

      Nick pointed across the waves. Wind blowing us southeast. Only Crete and Lefkos that direction, two hundred kilometers. Then, only open water until coast of Africa. We could drift for days—weeks—before we reach land or anyone finds us.

      You know geography very well, Costa said suspiciously.

      I am lawyer—I read a lot. For example, I know we cannot live long without fresh water, only two or three days, especially in strong sun. We must work together to survive—for example, while it still rains, we need find way to collect and store clean water.

      Now Costa was at least paying attention. You should not have thrown petrol tank overboard. Stupid! We could store more water.

      What? Get sick on drinking gasoline mixed with water? Ha, not so easy to clean. They no mix, my friend.

      Costa had no comeback for that.

      Encouraged, Nick continued. How long will it be until police know we are in this boat? How long until they find our cars?

      To Nick’s surprise, Costa lowered the pistol a little. He glanced at the bulky canvas just behind him, then pulled it back to reveal what looked like a case of brown bottles.

      What is that up there?

      The big Greek cracked the trace of a smile for the first time. A little reserve fuel. Beer.

      It took the three men about thirty seconds to decide that they should drink the beer, even though they all knew that consuming alcohol wasn’t the wisest decision under the circumstances.

      Especially since it was no ordinary beer—it was German-made Schorschbock, a type with an alcohol content of over forty percent.

      The bottles were in a cardboard case that held twenty, but four of them were missing, consumed by whoever owned the little boat. Which left sixteen bottles to split between them.

      Costa doled them out until Nick and Dmitry had five each, watching the two of them carefully, keeping the pistol in his hand.

      Who gets the extra bottle? Nick said.

      Costa smiled. Man with gun.

      6

      By two o’clock in the morning, the rain had slowed to a misty drizzle. The sea was choppy, but the boat was no longer in constant danger of capsizing.

      None of the three men were feeling any pain.

      Nick was still sitting in the stern, holding on to the end of the tarp with one hand and sipping beer with the other. He was drunkenly singing the classic, 99 Bottles of Beer, not caring that as a Russian, he would probably not know that song.

      Costa remained in the bow, with Dmitry between them, using a crease in the tarp to guide the collected rainwater into one of the empty bottles.

      Dmitry held his liquor well, which Nick did not find surprising—this seemed to be in every Russian’s genes. Despite the rocking and jostling of the boat, Dmitry kept a solid grip on the tarp and kept the rainwater flowing into the

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