The Power Trip

And who was the enemy?

Kyril, Aleksandr Kasianenko’s security guard.

The burly Russian was a challenge, and Mercedes was always up for a challenge. She’d learned early on that most men were easy as shit. Offer them a blow-job, a fuck, a walk on the wild side — and if they didn’t think it was a trap, they were all in. Even the married ones. Especially the married ones.

It hadn’t taken Mercedes long to check Kyril out. He had his own communication room, and direct contact to Aleksandr. It seemed Aleksandr had wished to keep this trip low-key, so his security was not as stringent as it probably was on land.

It amazed Mercedes that, however powerful and important people were, they always operated under the illusion that vacations were safe havens. Crap. Vacations were the best time to strike. Everyone lying around relaxed and happy, more concerned about their suntans than anything else. Too much food, too much wine, it was all the perfect recipe for a short sharp strike, which is exactly what Cruz and his team excelled at. Take the vessel over, demand a large ransom, then as soon as it was paid — get out fast.

Yes, Cruz certainly knew what he was doing. Over the last few years he’d become quite a legend in the piracy business.

Mercedes had been working alongside him since she was eight. She was now twenty-two, and a key member of his team. The inside girl. The girl nobody ever suspected. And that’s because she was good at what she did, oh so very good.

After serving cocktails and canapes, Mercedes had alerted Renee to cover for her while she slipped down to their cabin. ‘I got a little tummy problem,’ she informed Renee, who was as gullible as a virgin locked in a hotel room with a sailor on shore leave. ‘Keep ’em happy, I’ll be quick.’

‘What about Guy?’ Renee worried. ‘He won’t be pleased if you’re missing.’

‘Don’t worry about Guy, he’ll never notice I’m gone. An’ if he does, tell him I’m checkin’ on the table.’

Once she got down to their cabin, Mercedes pulled out her iPad from under her mattress and sent Cruz an informative email abut activities on the yacht, plus a crudely drawn map of the layout.

Cruz was a stickler for details. He required information about the crew, the guests, every move they made, and it was up to her to supply it.

Once done, she erased her message, and hurried back to tend to the esteemed guests.

Esteemed guests, my fine Mexican ass, she thought. The women are all whores fucking men for their money. While the men are pathetic assholes.

Mercedes did not have a very positive view of the human race, which was hardly surprising considering the life she’d led. Her mother had died in childbirth, leaving her to be raised by a series of her poppa’s conquests — women who came and went on a regular basis, most of them prostitutes. Cruz had put her to work at the age of eight, picking the pockets of tourists in Mexico City. It was more rewarding than school any day, and she’d soon become the best pickpocket in town. Realizing his young daughter’s potential, Cruz had started using her for other jobs. After all, who better than a child to gain entry to his burglary jobs? His kid could slide through any open window, however small, and doggie doors were no problem either.

A day after Mercedes celebrated her twelfth birthday, Cruz was arrested and sent to prison. Mercedes found herself dumped into foster care. Not prepared to be the victim of some horny old foster dad, she’d run away and survived the streets — honing her criminal skills, until eventually she hooked up with a twenty-year-old man who’d thought she was sixteen. They’d taken residence in an abandoned bus outside Mexico City, and two abortions later she’d dumped her boyfriend and was waiting patiently outside the prison gates the day Cruz was released. She was fifteen.

Cruz had learned plenty in prison; he considered his time in the joint an education. Number one on his list of things to do when he got out, was to leave Mexico.

Taking his kid with him hadn’t factored into his plans, but there she was, loyal as ever. He’d felt obliged to organize forged papers for the two of them, and they’d taken off for Somalia to meet up with a Somalian man with whom Cruz had formed a strong connection in prison.

And so Cruz’s adventures in piracy had begun, with Mercedes right along for the ride.

Chapter Forty-Five

Goddamm it, Flynn thought. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? The love of his life was sitting next to him AND WHAT THE FUCK…

‘Hey, Sierra,’ he said, making out as if he’d only just noticed her. ‘Yeah, of course it’s me. Long time no see.’ Casual enough? Jesus Christ. Talk about reverting to his teenage years.

‘Yes, it has been a long time,’ she replied, turning to him with a fixed smile. ‘I wasn’t sure…’

‘Do I look that different?’ he said, keeping it cool.

‘No, I… uh…’ she stammered, lost for words.

‘You what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You and old Ham,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Who’d’ve thought?’

‘I know,’ she murmured, taking a hearty gulp of wine and then holding onto her glass so tightly that she hoped it wouldn’t break.

‘I was kind of surprised when I heard.’

Really, Flynn. Surprised? Did you just imagine I’d vanish off the face of the earth once you were done with me?

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

He hasn’t changed, Sierra thought. He’s still Flynn. So handsome, with the ice-blue eyes she remembered so well. No longer a boy, he now was a man with lines on his face that revealed traces of a life lived. His hair was longer. The stubble on his chin was new — or perhaps not.

How was she to know? He was a stranger.

A stranger whose baby had grown inside her for a few short weeks. And he’d never known about the baby. How sad was that?

‘Are you and uh… Xuan… married?’ she asked, breaking the strained silence.

The moment she’d asked the question she could’ve kicked herself. Why ask something so dumb? What did she care if he was married or not?

I do care! a voice screamed in her head. I care because I still love him.

Oh, for God’s sake! You do not.

Yes, I do.

Stop thinking that way.

‘Not married,’ Flynn said, scrutinizing her beautiful face. Was she happy? She didn’t look it. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes seemed empty. And she was slurring her words ever so slightly. Was she drinking too much? Way back, one shot of anything was her limit, now she was gulping wine like it was going out of style.

‘Why not?’ she managed, continuing to ask questions she didn’t want to hear come out of her mouth.

Flynn shrugged. Why not? Because you screwed up my head when it came to women. You made it impossible for me to trust in any relationship. You ruined me, Sierra. You fucking ruined me.

‘Dunno,’ he answered vaguely. ‘It’s just one of those things.’

‘Well,’ she said, wishing she could close her eyes and drift off into a deep sleep and not have to deal with this, ‘she seems lovely.’

‘She is,’ Flynn said.

And at that moment, to their mutual relief, Bianca returned to the table, a smile on her lips as she grabbed her wine glass and took a long lingering sip. ‘Did I miss anything?’ she asked playfully.

‘Nothing,’ Flynn said quickly. ‘Nothing at all.’