Under Covers

thirty-four | monte carlo

thirty-four | monte carlo

formerly named Spelugues; renamed in 1866 after Prince Charles III as Mount Charles (Monte Carlo)

RAYNA

May 10th, 12:01 (GMT +2)
5 days until it happens

I FIND HER shoveling ice into a bucket behind a poolside bar.

She's pink-cheeked, wobbly-lipped, wide-eyed and young. "Excuse me," I murmur across the bartop in soft Russian.

Her neck twists, a mop of artfully-chaotic blonde hair piled atop her head. "Da?"

I slide the folded note towards her. Her expression is guarded, skeptical. Her gaze sweeps behind me, around the courtyard, down the path leading back to the beach. Something caged flits through her eyes. Quickly, she shakes her head at me, even though there's no one around to catch us.

I motion more emphatically, flapping the page at her. "Pozhaluysta," I insist. Please.

She hesitates before reaching out a pair of fingers and lifting it gingerly from my grasp. "I know what's happening to you," I tell her in Russian, hushed, hurried, quiet enough for her ears only. "I can help."

Colour rushes to her face. Her pupils glint, wet. "Nyet." Looking panicked, she folds up the note even teenier and tucks it into the pocket of her shorts before scooping up her serving tray and scurrying back the way we came.

I let her go, unsure if she's gonna actually read it or just toss it into the nearest trash can. A few minutes pass before I reluctantly tread back to Jake's spot on the beach.

He shoots me an unimpressed look. "Happy?"

"Overjoyed," I throw back flatly. I tap my ear and point towards his. "Anything good?"

He nods, grim. "I think the target for their attack is Dalton Headquarters in Lond–"

A thick, hurled shout from Nikitin's tent cuts him off. Our heads snap over. Ice-Bucket Girl is up on her tiptoes, whispering into a mobster's ear and pointing directly at us. The entire group suddenly shifts their attention our way.

"Shit," Jake hisses. "Nice job, Shahid."

A surge of anger and adrenaline shunts through me. "Move," I urge, scooping up my bag and leaping onto my toes. "C'mon, we gotta go."

Cursing more beneath his breath, Jake and I make a run for it. Harsh barked expletives and heavy footsteps follow us. We kick up sand, dodge palm trees, whir past outdoor showers, over wet pavement, up the steps into the parking lot. I scan our surroundings. Monte Carlo is a small place; making a getaway by car is conspicuous, slow, impractical. This isn't Fast & Furious or some stupid crap like that.

From behind, I can hear several voices closing in. Decisions, decisions... After a frantic sweep across the lines of expensive cars, my eyes land on a red Ducati pulling into a parking spot ten feet ahead. The driver dismounts, begins tugging off his helmet.

"Jake," I beckon. "Let's go."

He sees where I'm gesturing. "Don't be daft." He shakes his head. "We can't."

"We have to." I'm sprinting towards the motorcycle before he can protest further. I flash my CCIS badge and explain to the owner, rapid-fire, "Police. C'est urgent. Donnez-moi la clé."

The dude looks flabbergasted. I pluck the keyring from his grasp before the situation even registers on his clueless little face.

I tug at the crook of Jake's elbow. "You drive, I'll cover." A split-second's hesitation, unease – and something, that if I didn't know better, I'd think resembled panic – breaks across his features.