The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(11)

Piers’s Glock still rested inside its holster underneath his windbreaker. She secured the weapon and scanned the area. No one around. The shooter had obviously surprised him—not an easy task. Although Piers had always treated her with warmth and kindness, he had the instincts of a killer. And her father’s security team, handpicked by Hakan Asker, had thoroughly searched the docks last night when they’d arrived.

“Any other friends in the vicinity?”

She checked left and right again. The old woman was long gone. Three empty boats were moored. An eerie silence engulfed the normally busy wharf, the only movement a ghostly breeze. Everyone was probably home celebrating Christmas with family members. She eyed her father’s Donzi. “No, but Aegis and I will follow the birthday boy until you arrive, make sure he doesn’t go off half-cocked before the party tonight.”

“Best take Piers along, despite his . . . indisposition. We don’t want the other guests to worry,” he said.

“Will do. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Don’t break up the party until I get there.”

“Got to run.”

She hit the end button and tucked her phone away. Her hands shook. She steadied them and forced herself to concentrate.

Hakan would mobilize the troops, and they’d keep everything under wraps. Her father would want it that way. Papa knew Maximillian Heros, a Hellenic Police inspector general, as they were on a few advisory boards together and had traveled in the same circles for years. If needed, Heros could help cut through any red tape.

A roll of blue tarp rested on the deck of a fishing trawler. Thea yanked the plastic sheet onto the wharf. Kneeling down beside Piers, she squeezed his callused hand. “I’ll miss you, my friend.” If only she could undo the last twenty minutes and bring him back.

She shifted Piers’s body onto the tarp, gently supporting his limbs, and eased him down into the Donzi. She placed his body on the rear bench seat, then used the bailing tin to wash his blood off the wharf.

Voices sounded in the distance. Probably fishermen headed out to catch their Christmas dinner. Aegis hopped into the boat beside her, sniffing Piers’s body. She searched underneath the dash, hoping Piers had tucked the keys in their usual spot. Her fingers connected with a flotation key fob.

She started the engine, untied the ropes, and headed west. She activated the GPS tracker on her phone to locate the Aphrodite—the yacht had a chip installed that allowed her father to keep track of its whereabouts when he wasn’t aboard. For once, she was grateful for his controlling nature.

She accelerated to full throttle. Hakan would be there in less than an hour from Athens, riding in an Aerospatiale SA 360, which had a top speed of 170 miles per hour.

The brisk wind caused her eyes to water. She shivered, the sweat wicking off her T-shirt chilling her. Still, she didn’t have the heart to take Piers’s windbreaker.

As she sped through the winter chop, one question rattled through her mind. Was Papa still alive?





Chapter Five



As she closed the distance to her father’s yacht, the silhouette of the Aphrodite became clearer. It bobbed up and down on the swells, engines off, drifting in the inky sea. She circled it, searching for signs of life.

The decks appeared deserted.

“Where is he?” she asked Aegis. He let out a low whine.

Hakan was at least fifteen minutes away. Her training demanded she wait for backup, but she had to board now, even if it was a trap. Seconds could count.

She texted Hakan the updated GPS coordinates. Her boss would be furious that she’d gone in alone, but he’d understand. He’d do the same for Christos.

Guiding the Donzi toward the starboard side of the Aphrodite, she flipped the bumpers over the transom, tied a quick reef knot to secure the boat, then killed the engine. She held Piers’s Glock in her left hand and scanned the yacht’s decks.

They looked abandoned. No signs of a struggle.

“Stay.”

Aegis didn’t look happy, but he obeyed, plopping down beside Piers’s body.

Grabbing the stainless-steel railing, she pulled herself onto the deck and crouched low, Glock ready. She listened, but the whistling wind muffled any other sounds.

She edged along the deck. A small red dot stained the white helipad. Blood. She skirted the portholes, climbing to the upper level and skulking along the deck. The skylights were made from clear glass to allow natural light to flood the cabin. She stared through the forward one into her father’s private quarters. Papa’s wallet sat on the dresser, his freshly pressed clothes for the party hung on the oak valet, and a single red rose sat on the bedside table in anticipation of Helena’s arrival.

She crawled toward the salon and looked through its skylight. The New York Times was folded on the table beside his reading glasses. Their empty espresso cups from earlier remained untouched. The humidor she’d given Papa still graced the table. Nothing seemed out of place.

A pinging sound came from the direction of the aft deck. She moved toward the noise, her knees scraping against the roughened fiberglass. The sound intensified. She scrambled forward, her frigid fingers clutching the gun.

She flattened to her stomach and inched forward. Her muscles tensed. She peered over the fiberglass lip—and exhaled. A mooring line had unraveled in the strong winds, and the metal end was tapping against the railing.