Page 113 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
If there are antiaircraft missiles on Moreno’s yacht, this is when I’ll find out.
As I rush closer to the yacht, I see how massive it is, longer than a football field and wider, too. No one is in view on any of the decks, which is a stroke of good luck.
With the handles on the chute, I steer toward the aft deck. It rises up fast underneath me. As soon as my feet touch down, I’m out of the harness, dropping it over the side of the ship so the chute sails away, drifting down toward the surface of the water. Crouching low, I run to the back of a massive teak bar and take cover behind it. I’ve instantly got my Glock in hand and my ear trained for warning shouts.
&nb
sp; They never come.
The first niggle of worry crosses my mind, but I shove it aside.
Keeping low, with my Glock at the ready, I run inside the first deck. The doors are wide open. The interior is just as luxurious as the exterior, but there’s no one here, either.
Where is everyone? Where are the armed guards?
I sprint through a living area—bypassing a huge dining room and media room—and head toward the spiral-glass staircase toward the back. I’m on security cameras somewhere by now, but nobody’s coming out to meet me. This ship is as quiet as a graveyard.
Find the master suite.
I don’t allow myself to think about why I assume Moreno will have taken Mariana to his bedroom, I only know that’s where I’m headed next.
The top deck is obviously the helm, encased in glass and deserted, so I’ve got four other decks to clear. I silently ascend the staircase, every sense trained for noise or movement, but I move unhindered through the ship.
Until I reach the fourth level. Then my heart drops like a rock to my feet.
The entire deck is a huge nightclub, running the length of the ship, fore to aft. There’s an enormous white dance floor, two bars, sofas lining all the mirrored walls, stripper poles dotting the perimeter, disco balls glittering from the ceiling, a DJ booth on a riser in one corner, and a dozen or more suspended metal cages I have to assume hold dancers.
And there are bodies everywhere.
Naked, half-dressed, in bikinis and miniskirts and thongs, young, well-endowed women lie together in sleeping piles, tanned limbs entangled like snakes. There are men as well, but far fewer. Young men in loud, tropical print shirts and board shorts, baby-faced but muscular, college-aged.
In between all the dozing frat boys and the army of passed-out Playmates are empty bottles—literally hundreds of them—champagne and tequila and wine strewn all over the place, obviously dropped wherever they were emptied. Beneath the bodies and bottles, the floor sparkles with confetti.
This isn’t a human trafficking operation.
It’s a fucking bachelor party.
The point is driven home like a stake through my heart when a guy, not even thirty, wearing nothing but tan cargo shorts and holding an orange drink with an umbrella in it, wanders into the room. He sees me standing there in camouflage, gun drawn, bristling with weapons, and stops in his tracks.
“Uh, hey, man,” he says, eyeing me. “You part of the show?”
“FUCK!” I bellow.
He jumps. A few of the girls stir, yawning and mumbling, but go right back to sleep.
This is a fucking nightmare. I’m having a nightmare, and a heart attack, and a fucking mental breakdown, all at once.
I stride over to the guy, point my gun at his nose, and snarl. “Who owns this boat?”
He peeps out a name, not Moreno’s.
“Take me to him!”
He spins around so fast, the umbrella flies out of his drink. Then he runs to the door he came through with little skittering steps, like a mouse. I follow on his heels, a volcano erupting from the top of my head.
He takes me to a large bedroom decorated all in white, where the hairiest man I’ve ever seen is lounging in a big leather chair, smoking a cigar, and playing Grand Theft Auto on a huge TV. His chest hair is like a bear’s pelt. On the bed are two naked girls, gently snoring. A fat Burmese cat wearing a diamond collar lounges between them, licking its tail.
When we come in, the hairy guy glances at me, at my Glock, then presses a button on a remote that pauses his game.
