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Nick doesn’t respond immediately, his attention shifting back to the tablet. “That’s exactly what we need to confirm.”
He hands me a set of earpieces and a small microphone. “Put this on. You’ll hear everything I hear, but keep your voice down unless absolutely necessary.”
The earpiece fits snugly, and the microphone clips discreetly to the collar of my shirt. Nick adjusts his own equipment with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure.
“Let’s move,” he says, his voice clipped as he rises from the table, grabbing the duffle bag.
We make our way to the edge of the marina, blending into the crowd of tourists and locals. The drone feed on the tablet gives us a bird’s-eye view of the yacht, but Nick’s focus remains razor sharp as he scans the area for threats.
We stop near a small kiosk selling overpriced sunglasses and souvenirs, using it as cover while Nick sets up a long-range listening device. The equipment is sleek and sophisticated, its directional microphone aimed precisely at theElysia.
Voices crackle through the earpiece, muffled at first, but gradually becoming clearer.
“…shipment is scheduled to move through Monaco in three days,” René’s voice says, his French accent thick but unmistakable. “The diplomatic crates will pass through customs without inspection. It’s all been arranged.”
“And the payment?” Hector’s voice, smooth and cold, cuts through the static.
René chuckles, the sound grating. “Already transferred. Half now, half upon delivery as usual.”
My stomach tightens as I listen, the implications of their words sinking in. Smuggling weapons through diplomatic channels isn’t just bold—it’s catastrophic. If they’ve pulled it off as often as we now believe, there’s no telling how much damage they’ve caused.
“This isn’t just arms-dealing,” I whisper, barely audible over the comms. “They’re planning something bigger.”
Nick doesn’t respond, his jaw tight as he adjusts the microphone. His silence speaks volumes, though. He’s processing, calculating, already planning our next move.
Then I see him. A man in a tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back, steps onto the dock near theElysia. My breath catches in my throat as recognition slams into me like a freight train.
“Dammit,” I hiss, ducking behind Nick.
“What?” he demands, his eyes snapping to me.
“That’s Sergei Kozlov,” I say, my voice trembling. “He worked with Hector. He knows me.”
Nick’s expression darkens, and he glances toward the man. Sergei’s gaze sweeps the area, sharp and searching, and I feel a chill run down my spine.
“We need to go,” Nick says, already packing up the equipment.
“But the meeting...”
“In case you missed it, we’ve got no backup here,” he snaps, his tone brooking no argument. “Besides, we have enough for now.”
I follow him as he moves quickly but calmly through the crowd, his presence a shield against the rising panic threatening to overtake me. The earpiece crackles with fragments of conversation—Hector and René discussing logistics, payment, contingencies—but I can barely focus on the words.
By the time we reach the Range Rover, my heart is pounding, my hands shaking. Nick throws the duffel bag into the backseat and starts the engine, his movements precise and controlled.
“What happens if Sergei saw me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“He didn’t,” Nick says, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror as he pulls onto the road. “But we’re not taking any chances.”
The drive back is silent, the tension in the Range Rover palpable. My mind races with what we overheard, knowing that Sergei is here, that he’s involved.
“We need to act on this,” I say finally, breaking the silence. “If Hector and René are using diplomatic immunity, we have to find out who their contact is.”
“I will,” Nick says, his voice clipped. “But not tonight.”
His words feel like a dismissal, and frustration bubbles up inside me. “You can’t just brush me off, Nick. This is serious.”
“And you think I don’t know that?” he snaps, his gaze flicking to me briefly before returning to the road. “This isn’t a game, Cherise. One wrong move, and you’re dead.”