thirty-three | nice

in the 18th century, climato-therapy was prescribed by English doctors as a remedy for various ailments and flocks of wealthy British aristocrats would visit Nice for a change in climate; the Promenade des Anglais was built as a walking path for their therapeutic regimens

RAYNA

May 9th, 18:55 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

I PRESS THE tips of my middle fingers against the soft, papery wash of pink darkness beneath my eyes, peering into the mirror and releasing a stab of breath.

I need to sleep. I'm so tired – emotionally, cognitively, physically – that it feels like my skin is gonna slip straight off my bones.

My phone buzzes. "What's up, Sam?"

"Hey, baby. So, a bit of a coinkydink. Nikitin and his cronies are flying into Nice tonight for a weekend in Monte Carlo. Might be a good chance to hear more about his plans for this device."

Cassidy in Monte Carlo, Dalton in Monte Carlo, Nikitin in Monte Carlo? A coincidence indeed.

"Okay. Can you send me over whatever intel you have? I'll take a look." Fluffing the back of my wayward hair, I ask, "What time are they getting in?"

Slurping. I'd bet money it's an iced capp. "Late. Best bet'll be to catch 'em in the morning. I hear Nikitin's a bit of a beach bum."

Beach. Nice. "I can do beach."

***

RAYNA

May 10th, 11:26 (GMT +2)
5 days until it happens

THE SUNSTREAM SMACKS aggressively into bare swathes of my skin. Legs stretched out on the lounger, tall glass of iced tea streaming cold, sand sparkling beneath me.

I wiggle my toes impatiently. "We sure this is the right beach?"

From the seat next to me, Jake doesn't even glance in my direction. "They'll be here." Wry, "Patience is a virtue, or so I've heard."

"I have many virtues but that isn't one of them."

He adjusts his Ray-Bans, stares out at the bubblegum-blue strip of ocean grazing the shore ahead. "Mm. I've yet to encounter a single one."

Irritated, I tear my eyes away from the profile of his irritating chiselled jawline, the irritating golden ripple of his irritating six-pack chest as he reaches back to muss those irritating, dark, salt-swept waves.

"Jake."

"What."

Rummaging into my bag, I lob a blue bottle of sunscreen into his lap. "Help me out, won't you?"

He grunts beneath his breath.

I drop my butt down onto his lounger, facing away from him. My skin tingles traitorously.

The popping of a cap, a wet squiggle. A blast of cool slips into my skin, followed by the rough sweep of his broad hands pressing across my bare shoulder-blades, down the arc of my spine. Involuntarily, a bubble of breath catches in my throat.

He rubs in the lotion with firm swirls of his fingers til not a smear of it is left behind. This man is nothing if not thorough. Through the flimsy scraps of my bikini top, the tips of my breasts tighten, needy, but his hands don't wander.

Warm breath tickles the nape of my hair, fogging the crest of my neck. "Done."

"You missed a spot."

He lets out a tiny, gruff chuckle that rolls right through me. His knuckles knock softly down the knots of my back, lingering on my tailbone, where the strappy edge of my swimsuit peeks out from beneath my denim shorts.

Now he's just being a tease.

Suddenly, my skin crawls desperately with the need to feel his mouth on me. Over my shoulders, down my throat. Everywhere.

With a huff, I push away from him and flop back onto my own damn lounger, away from the taunting heat of his body and lips and big, coarse hands. My ovaries need to calm the fuck down. Seriously, get a life, bitches.

"Rayna."

Unnecessarily snarky and bitter, "What."

Hushed, entirely serious. "Ten o'clock."

Slowly, I let my gaze drift to where he's referencing. Sure enough, Nikitin and a small group of burly, thick-necked men crowd beneath a luxe canopy near the water. Hairy-chested, slicked-back brown hair, gold Rolexes. They couldn't better fit the picture of stereotypic gangsters if they tried.

We watch the entourage get settled into their little private lair. Two tall, gorgeous women in skimpy swimwear serve trays of cold beer and platters of food while a couple others lounge around, sitting on laps and whispering demurely into ears and checking their makeup with their cell-phones.

My eyes narrow. Knowing what this man does for a living, the possibility that at least a proportion of these women are here against their will makes my blood steam livid.

"We need to get close enough to hear them," I tell Jake.

He nods. "Let's go for a swim." From the pocket of his swim trunks, he withdraws a small case. Clicking it open, he reveals a sound-amplification bug, smaller than the tip of my thumb. "You want me to take care of it, or..."

I snag it out of his hand. "I got it."

Carefree, sporting my best air of cluelessness, I prance towards the ocean, wandering casually past Nikitin's cabana. Sunglasses and a large, floppy hat obscure my face. There's little chance he'd remember me from the party a couple nights ago, anyway.

I let the metal chip slip from my fingers onto the beach blanket at Nikitin's feet and then skip joyously into the water, feeling the cool splash of it coat my ankles, lathe the warmth from my skin. "Richard, honey!" I call across the beach. Beckoning. I'm tan and practically bare and glistening. Jake takes a look at me, arches a dry brow, and then buries his nose back into his novel.

What a little bitch.

I watch him tap at the shell of his ear, adjusting his earpiece surreptitiously. He must be eavesdropping in on Nikitin's feed. Ugh.

Fishing out my phone, I tell Sam, "Patch me into Jake's earpiece? He's using the microbug. Unit number eight-two-five-six-seven-one."

"Done."

"When are you gonna marry me, huh?"

"Marry you to who? Happy to officiate if it's with a tall, dashing English–"

I hang up on him promptly, boisterous laughter cackling after me.

I kill time splashing around leisurely to not draw suspicion, and then play bored. Sand sticks to my ankles when I trace my way back to Jake. Nikitin's Russian is rapid and fluid, there are words I don't understand that I'll have to review in the transcript afterwards.

Toweling off crystal beads of the Mediterranean from my shins, my foot flexes across the gap between our loungers to nudge Jake's thigh. In my ear, Nikitin and his men are talking about frivolous, unimportant things. Who's gonna outbet who at the casino tonight (seriously, who the hell cares), whose wife is gonna give them the most grief when they get back home (calling them pigs would be an insult to porcine species globally), how someone named Sergei just got syphilis from his mistress (guaranteed that he deserved it).

The conversation shifts. Jake and I exchange a knowing look. The package, one of them says. Minor complication with the... Something I can't understand.

To Jake, I whisper, "What was that word? Compilation with...?"

He shakes his head, brushes me off with a single jerk of his head, too focused on the feed to give me the time of day.

"Jake."

He grasps me by the wrist, yanks me in close and mutters, "Detonation code," he grunts sourly. "Next time bring a dictionary with you."

Too grim to be offended, my mind reels.

May fifteen, May fifteenth, May fifteenth...

Delivery scheduled in three days. London office. Transport with the French shipment chartered from a private landing strip near Paris. Twelve items. Twelve items... Youngest aged nine, oldest twenty-two.

Jake visibly stiffens. It hits me like shrapnel, a bloody, flesh-shredding spray.

Girls. He's trafficking girls to London in three days and carrying the explosive device with them.

I'm gonna cut off his dick and feed it to the sharks–

About to rise onto the balls of my feet, Jake grasps my forearm in a ruddy fist. Grey eyes clash with mine. "Don't do anything fucking stupid," he warns me dourly.

Truth be told, I don't know what I was about to do. Rage cuts through me, so sharp I need something to take the edge off.

Ideas jumble up in my head like a bramble of tangled weeds. Thorns and toxic shrubs and flowers, incoherent.

We track the girls, we track the package. Apprehend them all at the airport? But knowing Nikitin, his cargo networks are remote and restricted, barely traceable. It'd be impossible to get a warrant in time to stall the flight or search its contents.

No. We need contact with the inside. And as awful as it sounds, I'm outside their target age demographic, so infiltrating by getting kidnapped wouldn't even work.

Biting the tip of my thumb, I listen and watch. One of the servers apparently takes too long to fetch another drink – the man sitting next to Nikitin barks something crass at her, gives her bare thigh a bruising, violent pinch so hard it makes her cry out. She scurries away from the tent. I watch her recede in the direction of the beach resort.

A sudden thought takes shape. I fish a pen from my bag, snatch Jake's book and tear out a blank page from the end. He eyes me warily but I ignore him.

In broken Russian and then again in English, I scurry out a note, my secure phone number. She contacts me, or she tells on me to her bosses. If the latter, we both know she risks violence, so it's in her best interest to keep it to herself.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop," Jake cautions.

I fold the note, tuck it into my pocket, and scoop up my bag. "I'm gonna grab a beer. You want one?"

"Rayna–"

Before he can protest further, I'm following the girl's footsteps through the sand.

***

Author's Note [June 19th, 2023]:

Whose personality do you more identify with, Jake or Rayna?

Hope you lovely people are doing AMAZING!

Also. Okay. I wasn't gonna tell y'all this, but I'm in a mood, so... All I'll say is... Item number 6 from my Intro & Welcome chapter at the beginning of this book is... uh. No longer 100% true.  🙈

xoxo Ami