Page 83 of Dangerous Passion

Rutskoi had night vision capability and could see on deck as clearly as if it were noon. The decks were deserted. It was entirely possible that—in a fit of testosterone-induced madness—Drake had dismissed the crew.

Rutskoi pulled out a set of oars and began rowing clumsily towards the left hand side of the ship. Port side, apparently, it was called. Though it was dark and he’d carefully dressed in non reflective clothing, he was aware of his vulnerability as he quietly, slowly rowed his way toward the yacht. If there were guards on board, all it would take was a casual look over the railing with night vision and he was a dead man walking. Dead man rowing, actually.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he pulled up beside the bow. He reached out a hand to touch the sleek wood, still warm from the day’s sun. He’d pulled up next to a rope ladder. This was more like it. Rutskoi was agile and athletic. He tied the boat to the rope ladder and then climbed the ladder like a monkey, happy to get off the small, rocking boat onto the much more stable yacht.

He climbed carefully, utterly without noise. He had a Glock 17 a former Spetsnatz officer living in Rome had given him together with the night vision goggles. A coldgun, no identifying marks. He had 3 magazines in case the yacht was heavily guarded, but he thought not. Peering carefully over the gunwale, he saw that the deck was still deserted. No guards.

Drake felt safe, running away with his mistress. Not expecting the trouble that was right now slowly rolling over on to the deck.

Rutskoi also had half a pound of C-4 if the gun didn’t work out, together with detonators and a timer. Set the timer, get in the small boat, fire up the outboard and watch from a safe distance as the fucking yacht blew right out of the water.

Rutskoi stood carefully and slowly from a crouch, tensing when he heard voices. A woman’s light trill of laughter, the deeper tones of a man. Music. All below deck.

Below deck was very good because it gave Rutskoi all the advantages of high ground, room for manoeuver and surprise.

Quietly, Rutskoi followed the sounds of music and laughter. Noiselessly descending the shallow steps, he felt alive, on the hunt.

This was going to be much easier than he thought. So far he’d seen no one. It seemed that the only people on board were the woman and Drake, whose voice he recognized as he approached the closed door of the salon.

No guards, music, the woman. Drake thought himself safe, had abandoned all caution.

Oh yeah, love turned men into fools.

Rutskoi eased closer to the door, placed a listening device against the shiny wood. It piped sound into an ear piece.

The same as before, only startlingly clear. Background music and Drake talking to a woman. Relaxed voice. His defenses weredown.

The door was a sliding one. Rutskoi checked it, ever so carefully, moving it by a hair.

It was unlocked.

God, Drakedeservedto die.

Rutskoi toggled the door a little to get a feeling for how much strength it would take to slide it open, fit his hand into space between the door and the jamb and crouched down.

If this had been a dynamic entry with his men, he’d have arranged for a four-man unit. Two high, two low. Two right, two left.

But he was alone, so he went in low. If Drake had a weapon close to hand—and however insanely besotted he was, Rutskoi found it hard to believe that Drake wouldn’t have a weapon close by—he’d automatically aim for the head.

Rutskoi gave the door a hard shove to the left and moved through the opening swiftly, gun in a two-handed grip, ready for anything, and found…

Nothing.

The room was empty. Large, beautifully appointed and … empty.

Yet Drake was still talking, music still playing.

What the fuck?

The music and the woman’s voice cut off abruptly. “So, it is you, Rutskoi,” Drake’s voice said and he whirled, seeing no one, just the back of an open laptop on the table. “I guessed as much.”

Rutskoi rounded the table.

Shit! Drake’s face filled the screen. Fucker was somewhere else. With a webcam.

It was atrap.

“Ah, Rutskoi,” Drake said softly. “You disappoint me.”

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