Page 66 of Over the Edge

“He’ll do exactly as I command.” And I wanted to command him to pull his weapon and end Moreau right here and now. Or, even better, tell him to give me his gun so I could do it myself.

I stepped toward the railing, away from Moreau’s touch, on the pretense of studying the island. “Impressive fortress you’ve built here. Very isolated.”

“Yes, well. Privacy is essential in our line of work, wouldn’t you agree?” Moreau offered his arm. “Shall we? The auction begins at midnight.”

The last thing I wanted to do was touch him, but I placed my hand on his arm. “What ever will we do until then?”

“Play,” Moreau said, his eyes darkening. “I have entertainment planned that I think you’ll find... stimulating.”

The way he said it made my skin crawl, but I maintained Elisa’s cool facade. “I’m intrigued.”

As we boarded the small launch that would ferry us to shore, Flynn positioned himself behind me, his presence solid but distant. He wasn’t looking at me anymore—his eyes constantly scanning, assessing threats, exit points, potential weapons. Back to being a professional, with nothing of the man who’d touched me so intimately just minutes ago.

The boat ride was mercifully short. We disembarked onto a private dock where uniformed security stood at attention. Up close, the mansion was even more imposing—a modernist monstrosity of glass and stone that seemed to grow from the cliff face, its angular lines jutting out over the sea like a challenge to gravity itself. Stone steps carved into the rock led upward, illuminated by small lights embedded in the stone.

Thankfully, one of Moreau’s guards pulled him away at the top of the stairs.

“Will you excuse me?” He gestured to the torch-lit path leading through a manicured jungle toward the house. “Please, go in and enjoy yourselves.”

I watched Moreau’s retreating form with a mixture of relief and dread. The moment he was out of earshot, Flynn stepped closer, his body heat radiating against my back.

“Comms?” I murmured, my voice professional, detached.

“No signal. We’re on our own.”

“Figured as much.”

His gaze scanned the perimeter. “I count sixteen guards on rotation, armed with modified MP5s. Four snipers on the roofline. At least two more in the tree cover.”

I kept my smile fixed in place as we passed other guests. “They don’t know about this place?”

I didn’t have to specify who ‘they’ were. Flynn knew I was talking about Ethan and the team.

“No.” That single sound held volumes of tension. “I don’t like this.”

The interior of the mansion was a stark, open space with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Mediterranean. Servers circulated with trays of champagne and delicate hors d’oeuvres, while a string quartet played softly in one corner. Despite the elegant setting, there was nothing soft about the gathering.

These people were all killers in evening wear.

I recognized most of them from intelligence briefings. Richard Halston, owner of the Halston paramilitary group, held court near the bar, his silver hair immaculate, his smile too big and too white. Across the room, Arkady Reznikov—“The Curator” as he was known in certain circles—examined a small sculpture with detached interest.

Flynn leaned close. “Emilio Benítez is here,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “By the windows.”

I followed his gaze to the older Latino man, who stood apart from the crowd, his weathered face impassive as he surveyed the room. El General, as he was known to his followers, had traded his uniform for an expensive suit, but nothing could disguise the hardness in his eyes.

“And Drexel,” I added, spotting the tech mogul holding court with a circle of admirers. Evan Drexel’s boyish face and exuberant gestures made him look harmless, but I knew better. His quantum computing empire was built on buried bodies and stolen technology.

I squeezed Flynn’s arm once, then released him. “Time to mingle. Keep an eye on me, but not too close.”

He nodded, professional distance firmly in place. Only the slight tightness around his mouth betrayed any emotion.

I slipped into the crowd, a smile fixed on my face as I moved from group to group. I laughed at Halston’s dry jokes about geopolitical collapse, raised an eyebrow at Reznikov’s thinly veiled proposition, and asked Benítez pointed questions about South American political stability that made his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“You’re well-versed in my country’s politics, Ms. Deveraux,” he said, his accent thick but his English perfect.

I sipped my champagne. “I know where my investments will be safest. Politics is just another market to navigate.”

He laughed, a sound like gravel. “A pragmatist. I approve.”

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