“We should go,” I say, checking my phone for the time. “We have less than half an hour. The marina has a restaurant with a bar that you can sit at. I want you in a safe spot just in case.”
We make our way to the marina and I’m relieved to see that the restaurant attached is filled with a lunchtime crowd. I find a spot at the bar and deposit Leira into a chair.
“I’m going to leave my card with you to use, just in case they try to kick you out. Don’t drink too much.”
She nods and swallows hard.
“Use your judgement. If I’m not back within a reasonable amount of time, don’t go to the hotel. Go to the police and claim your purse and belongings were stolen. From there you can find a way to safety.”
This time she doesn’t nod or swallow, she just stares at me with wide eyes.
I reach out and bring her forward to kiss her. “It will be fine, Leira. Trust me.”
“I do,” she says quietly.
I hold onto her for a moment longer.
“You’re early.”
We both turn at the sound of the woman’s voice, a voice with a slight Eastern European accent. It’s the same woman from the car back in Ibiza. She has a lazily sardonic smirk on her face, as though this intimate moment is a bit too sickly sweet for her tastes. She also has two men behind her just in case either of us is tempted to try anything.
“We saw you both walk in, so we thought we’d get started ahead of schedule. Unless of course, you’d like a drink first,” she offers before looking at her watch. “We do have ten more minutes.”
“I’m ready,” I say in a level voice.
“Very good. Come with us,” she says, leading the way out to where the boats are docked. I follow her, and her two cohorts fall in line behind me. They seem to have completely ignored the fact that Leira was with me, which is a good sign.
For her.
The prior use of her as leverage seems to have been just that, leverage. They have no interest in her whatsoever, except as a tool to get me to show up.
Which does nothing to narrow down the list of suspects.
Considering the meeting location, I fully expected a boat to come into the picture but when the woman leads me to one of the midsized boats, I hesitate. Once I step foot on that boat, there will be little in the way of escape.
I turn to look at the restaurant and barely have a glimpse of Leira inside at the bar. If I run now, she’ll be used as leverage once again, and I have no doubt about them following through on any threats.
I get on the boat.
“Where is it we’re headed?” I ask, knowing full well I won’t get an answer.
The woman just gives me a mild smile as though she’s only slightly amused by the question.
They haven’t handcuffed me or pulled out any weapons, so I sit back on the padded bench in the rear, bookended by her and one of her men as the other guides the boat out of the marina. At least it’s a nice day. This is Barcelona in summer; of course it’s a nice day.
We travel for a good twenty or so minutes until I see a yacht in the distance.
A familiar yacht.
Joder!
Now, at least I partially understand why I’m not dead yet. When the boat slows to a stop alongside the yacht, I’m once again led by the woman up the ladder to board.
We head straight for the aft, where a large deck with several lounge chairs are situated. Lying back on one of them is the man who is responsible for all of this.
Constantin Papadopoulos.
“Ah, the Pirate makes his return,” he says in a deceptively amicable tone, sitting up and snatching away his sunglasses to reveal bluish-green eyes that some Greeks are known for.
He still has the slightly sleazy Mediterranean vibe about him. Leathery tanned skin, a thick head of curly hair that he has coifed to absurdity, white Bermuda shorts, and a shirt completely unbuttoned. And a large gold cross on a chain. Religious irony seems to be a recurring theme in my life lately.
Still, if he’s suffering any moral dilemmas, he certainly isn’t showing it. He looks perfectly pleased with himself. One would never have guessed he’d recently lost nine figures from his net worth. Along with two pairs of emerald earrings.
“Constantin,” I say just as amicably. “You’re looking well.”
His expression quickly transitions and all hints of congeniality are gone.
“I’m going to be as straight to the point and efficient as you are…Enrique Marín.”
“So you know my name. What else did you learn about me this week?”
His expression grows dark. “This past week was not about you. I had the matter of a painting to deal with. None of your concern.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I consider myself a bit of an art connoisseur.”
“What happened this past week is not something that I find very amusing. Right now, I have no intention of killing you. Don’t make me change my mind.”
“What is it that you do want from me then?”
“My money back.”
“Naturally.”
“Plus interest.”
“Naturally.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his cold eyes. “This would be the point where I tell you that I’m not a greedy man before quoting some absurd amount. But we both know that would be a lie; I’m quite greedy, as you well know. But I am also a practical man. I realize that taking everything from you would only encourage you to find a way to avoid paying me. Instead…I will take only half.”
“Half,” I repeat in a noncommittal tone.
“Half of everything you have taken from the others. And don’t bullshit me by feigning ignorance. I know exactly who you’ve stolen from, and I can hazard a
