Despite being within the confines of the bay, the large yacht bobbed on the waves, which would make any shot a challenge, even for an accomplished marksman. If he was on the other side of this vessel, Kendrick Stamp must have been utterly desperate to agree to do this. Roman Verde must have some powerful hold over him, and given the man’s MO in our case, Mo-bot was probably right to think they had Stamp’s wife hostage.
Momentum and tide carried me into the swimming platform attached to the stern of the yacht. I jumped onto the wooden decking and secured the RIB’s line to a cleat, before climbing a short ladder and boarding the vessel.
“Hey!” a man yelled as I climbed over the stanchions.
I turned to see a heavyset guy coming from below deck, up a gangway that led to the cabins.
I rushed him before he reached the top of the stairs and kicked his torso, sending him tumbling down into the galley below. He cracked his head against the wooden floor and his eyes rolled back before he passed out.
I hurried to the starboard side and peered around the bulkhead to see Kendrick Stamp on the high deck above the pilot’s wheel. In front of him was a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle, a sophisticated long-range gun with telescopic sight. It was mounted on a platform with side panels that concealed it from casual observers, and the platform itself was constantly moving, powered by gyroscopic servos that compensated for the movement of the boat on the water. It was an expensive, state-of-the art gun and stabilizing system. With this equipment, I had no doubt a man like Stamp would be able to assassinate Eli Carver.
Chapter 80
Justine struggled against the large Secret Service agent, but it was hopeless. He had hold of her left wrist and had twisted it behind her back into a position that inflicted immediate pain if she deviated even slightly from where he was directing her. Any further pressure and she feared her wrist might snap.
They were moving away from the grandstand toward the nearest exit across a raised walkway. The celebratory atmosphere, roaring cars and excited crowds meant no one paid them any attention.
Justine became increasingly desperate but fought a sense of panic, which she knew could only steer her down the wrong path. Even as she was led away from her objective, with no way back to warn Carver plus the nagging suspicion Henry Wilson was working for the enemy, she tried to find calm.
“What’s your name?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard above the din.
Her captor remained silent.
Justine’s mind whirred frantically, but she fought the tumult of fears and frustrations and reminded herself that the truth was the most powerful weapon. Good people recognized the truth when it was plainly spoken.
“You know my name is Justine Smith. I work for Private, the detective agency run by Jack Morgan.”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw a glimmer of recognition in the man’s eyes.
“You know that name. I bet everyone on the Secretary’s detail knows that name because Jack saved your principal’s life at Fallon Airbase in Nevada.”
The agent’s grip on her wrist loosened slightly.
“Jack is out there right now.” Justine nodded toward the port. “He’s looking for a shooter we believe is targeting the Secretary. And I think Henry Wilson is one of his co-conspirators.”
The agent stopped moving and let go of Justine. She rubbed her arm as she turned to face him.
“Ma’am, do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”
“I don’t care how it sounds,” she replied, having to yell to make herself heard over the noise of the race. “I care about Secretary Carver’s life. You need to take me back so I can talk to him.”
The agent’s expression hardened.
“Or don’t, but have his detail move him. Get him to a less exposed location and keep him away from Wilson.”
Justine saw the conflict in the Secret Service agent. If she was an alarmist, he would face embarrassment and censure, but if what she was saying was true, the alternative would be catastrophic: the death of the man this agent was sworn to keep safe.
“This is a serious threat,” she said. “Don’t let the bad guys win.”
“My name is Greg Campbell,” he said at last. “And I think you’d better talk to the Secretary yourself.”
Chapter 81
I started up the gangway toward Kendrick but was surprised by a man who thrust a pistol in my face. It was Michel, the man I’d chased from the Automobile Club. His face was twisted into a vicious snarl.
“Up,” he said. “Slowly.”
He stepped back and allowed me to climb the narrow steps that led to the pilot’s deck. I moved at a deliberate, steady pace.
“Up,” he said, gesturing at another short run of steps that would take me to Kendrick Stamp.
I did as Michel said. As I reached the upper deck, Stamp looked around. He seemed haunted and I could sense the conflict within him. He didn’t want to be there, and his eyes blazed with hatred when Michel climbed the stairs to join us, his gun on me the whole time.
We had a clear line of sight to the Monte Carlo Casino grandstand from up here, and I watched the crowd rise from their seats as a qualifying car sped round the Louis Chiron bend.
Michel approached me, brandishing his gun. “You’ve caused nothing but trouble.”
“You don’t have to do this, Kendrick,” I said to Stamp. My attempted intervention earned me a smack from the gun, which made the world turn white with pain and set my ears ringing.
Once the pain had subsided, I stood tall and glared at Michel.
“Take the shot,” he ordered Stamp. “Or your wife dies.”
He produced a cell phone.
“One call from me and you’ll never see her again,” Michel said. “You want to live with the guilt of knowing you could have saved her?”
Kendrick looked at me and his eyes welled with tears. I could see the turmoil within him. Like me, this man had devoted his life to protecting and serving others. His record in the Marine Corps and FBI suggested someone with a strong sense of right and wrong. Being faced with this choice must have been tearing at his soul.
“Don’t take the shot,” I said. “We can find Angie and get her back.”
Kendrick frowned at my use of his wife’s name, and Michel hit me again. This time he opened up a nasty gash on my forehead and, as blood ran into my right eye, I felt the pull of unconsciousness. I fell to my knees and put out a hand to steady myself. The world swam and the pain was excruciating, but I rode the waves of agony until they settled.
Kendrick Stamp looked down at me. I saw nothing but conflict in his eyes. This was a good man torn between doing what was right and what was necessary.
I locked eyes with him and shook my head slowly. Tears overflowed and wet his cheeks as he turned to face the shore. He wiped his face, before pressing his right eye to the scope.
“You can watch your friend, the Secretary of Defense, die,” Michel said to me. “And then I’ll send you to Hell to join him.”
He pressed the muzzle of the pistol to my temple. He would kill me the moment Kendrick hit the target.
Chapter 82
Secret Service agent Greg Campbell made good on his word and led Justine back to the entrance to the stand.
“She’s good,” he said to the two agents posted by the stairs, and they nodded him and Justine through.
“Thank you for doing this,” she said, as they started up the steps.
“You’d better be on the level,” Greg replied.
“I am,” Justine assured him.
They went up and over the rear of the stand, and when they reached the top of a run of steps on the other side, Justine got a proper view of the Louis Chiron chicane and the port beyond. It was a magnificent spot from which to watch the race, which was also broadcast on two big screens set a short distance away from either side of the stand.