James Patterson & Adam Hamdy
Private Monaco
For everyone who pursues excellence
Chapter 1
Life hadn’t been this easy for a long time.
Justine and I had lingered over breakfast at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo. Our suite there was an extravagance for this leg of our European tour. It was opulent, bordering on decadent, but exactly the luxurious retreat we needed.
I had kept my promise to bring her back to Europe for a vacation. In the past two weeks, I hadn’t regretted for a moment the commitment I’d made earlier in the year, when we’d been investigating the murder of Father Ignacio Brambilla, the priest who was shot dead at the launch of Private Rome. We’d spent days battling the forces of evil on the streets of the Eternal City, exposing a conspiracy that extended from a deadly criminal gang known as the Dark Fates as far as the ancient corridors of power in the Vatican itself. We’d discovered the Dark Fates were the street, verging on paramilitary, arm of a secret society known as Propaganda Tre, which had infiltrated almost every part of Italian society. We’d uncovered a conspiracy to seize power in the Vatican, and the conspirators, including Milan Verde, leader of the Dark Fates, had been imprisoned.
As accustomed as I was to the challenges of running the world’s biggest private detective agency, I had to admit I was enjoying the languid pace of our first proper vacation in a very long time. Late breakfasts, endless lunches, sights, beaches and award-winning dinners and shows had replaced crime-scene photos, fights and chases, and given me and Justine the time and space we needed to enjoy each other’s company.
She looked amazing today in a lightweight green summer dress. The bright sunshine picked up the highlights in her brown hair and made her eyes sparkle. She’d caught the sun during the weekend we’d spent on the beach in Antibes, and seemed relaxed and revitalized.
We crossed Avenue des Citronniers and headed for a row of two-story buildings constructed in the French Empire style, with ornate colonnaded façades. They evoked past grandeur but were dwarfed by the contemporary apartment blocks surrounding them.
This was our only work appointment of the entire trip and was one of the reasons we’d come to Monaco. Philippe Duval, Monaco’s former Minister of the Interior, had reached out via Eli Carver, the US Secretary of Defense and a man I now considered a friend, to see if I’d be interested in establishing a Private office in Monaco with him. I’d done my homework and Duval had impeccable credentials. He’d had a reputation for being a tough but fair minister and a track record of meeting threats head on. He was exactly the sort of partner I liked to work with, and I appreciated Carver’s introduction.
With Monaco’s wealthy population and connections to France, Italy, Spain and North Africa, this location was an interesting proposition, and the timing of our trip meant I could also take Justine to the Monaco Grand Prix. I hoped a couple of days attending one of the world’s most iconic motor races would make up for this work meeting intruding on our vacation.
Duval’s office was above the storefront of an independent financial advisor in one of the most impressive buildings overlooking the tree-lined avenue. Monaco was a hub for the super-rich. A tiny principality on France’s southern border, it had taken a bite out of the French Mediterranean coastline and, in addition to the premium beachfront, offered both high-end gambling and wealth protection, which was the polite term for tax avoidance.
“It’s a beautiful part of the world,” Justine remarked as we neared Duval’s building. “I could cope with coming here once or twice a year.”
“I bet you could,” I replied, taking her hand. “So could I.”
I stopped and pulled her in for a kiss.
“I wish we could have stayed longer in bed,” she whispered as we parted.
I was tempted to suggest we skip the meeting and return to the hotel, but I never got the chance to utter the words.
There was the roar of an engine, the squeal of tires, and a white van screeched to a halt beside us. The rear doors opened and three men in ski masks jumped out and ran toward us, brandishing pistols.
“Get in the van!” the tallest of the trio yelled, waving his gun at me.
Justine caught my eye and nodded.
Neither of us had any intention of complying.
Chapter 2
I rushed at the man training his gun on me and could tell from the way he froze that he was shocked by my split-second reaction. Years of facing danger and violence had trained me to respond to threats without hesitation. I acted decisively, barreling into him, grabbing his wrists and forcing his arms up before his first shot cracked from the muzzle and whipped into the air a few inches left of my head. I was no stranger to firefights, but no matter how familiar I was with the experience, I couldn’t control my physical response. The volume and pressure of the gunshot caused a stabbing sensation in my ears, which started ringing. I didn’t let that slow me down but slammed the man’s head hard against the side of the van. I saw his eyes roll back. In the instant it took him to recover his senses, I wrested the Glock 19 from his limp fingers.
I turned the gun on his two startled accomplices, but they’d had a chance to regroup after the shock of seeing me go on the attack. They darted around the far side of the vehicle, taking cover as I tried to get a clear and safe shot.
Sounds of panic filled the air. Pedestrians in the background were scattering into the boutiques and cafes that lined the avenue. I heard shouts and screams from every direction. There was movement to my left and a masked driver emerged from the vehicle carrying some kind of club in his hand.
Justine barged into the door, slamming it hard and wedging him between it and the chassis. I took advantage of his confusion and pain to drive my fist into his nose through the open driver’s window. Bone cracked and he yelped and tried to stagger back, but was unable to move. He dropped the club — a police baton — and clutched his face. I grabbed the discarded weapon before it reached the sidewalk and drove it tip first into his chin. His head snapped back and he went limp, crumpling in a heap on the driver’s seat.
“Jack!” Justine yelled, and I turned to see one of the other assailants round the van, gun leveled at us.
“Drop your weapons,” he yelled, his Italian accent unmistakable.
But there was a hesitant note in his voice, and he hadn’t opened fire, so I seized the chance to grab Justine’s arm and spin her around. We started running.
Chapter 3
We sprinted toward some raised flowerbeds in the median and jumped the low wall that separated them from a narrow sidewalk.
“Stop!” the man with the gun yelled. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw him fire twice, high and wide.
My gamble had paid off. They wanted us alive.
“Halt!” he shouted before discharging another pair of shots.
Justine and I raced through some shrubs and dwarf palms before jumping the wall on the far side of the bed. We turned right, veering away from a towering apartment block that loomed ahead of us on the opposite side of the street.
A masked man ran down some steps next to the building’s entrance, making it clear we faced more assailants.
We sprinted left at a small roundabout and took a road that curled down toward the sea. To our right lay a park. Through the black-and-white railings surrounding it I saw another van and a motorcycle on the far side, racing in our direction, recognizable as hostiles by the ski masks worn by the rider and driver.
The bike shot ahead of the slower-moving van as they reached the sweeping turn that would bring them level with us.