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  Gillette looked up and down the deck. He could feel the yacht beginning to pitch. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tell your guests things are gonna get real rough. Get them to put on life jackets right away.”

  “Where should we go? Does it matter?”

  “Yeah, go to the enclosed aft quarters. I hate to say this, but I don’t want you below if this thing turns over.”

  “Turns over?”

  “I don’t know how stable we’ll be if we have fifteen-foot waves. I want people to be able to get clear of the boat quick if I give the order. They’ll be better off in the water with a life jacket on if the thing isn’t gonna last long. I know how that sounds, but I been doing this a long time, and I want to be ready.”

  “Do you really think it’s going to be that—”

  Billy held up his hands and shook his head. “I don’t know, Christian, but the CG’s making it sound really bad.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I gotta get back to the bridge.”

  “All right, I’ll get everyone ready,” Gillette called, and headed back into the dining room.

  People looked at him expectantly as he came back in, anticipating a problem because the boat had started to roll noticeably. “We’ve got a situation, folks,” he said, standing behind his chair at the table. “Mother Nature’s decided to throw a fireball at us. There’s a nasty line of thunderstorms heading right for us, and we need to get ready. We need to put life jackets on.” He pointed at the young boy asleep on a couch, a puppy curled up in his arms. “Especially Danny.”

  THE EVEREST was being pounded by the storm. Wave crests reached twenty feet, gusts hit a hundred and ten miles an hour, and the rain and spray flew so fiercely that visibility was reduced to almost nothing. The yacht rose and fell violently as Billy fought to keep the bow pointed straight into the storm. The passengers, wrapped in bright orange life jackets, clung to anything they could as the boat plowed ahead and the engines roared belowdecks.

  A massive surge of water rose off the starboard side of the bow, lifting the yacht high and then rolling it left. As the boat rolled, a wooden chair careened into the sliding glass door at the back of the room, smashing through it. At the same time, Wright, Peggy, Stiles, his girlfriend, Danny, and the puppy he was holding were tossed across the floor at the others, who were huddled against the opposite wall. As he tumbled, Danny lost his grip on the dog.

  Wind and rain whipped into the room, and the terrified puppy yelped and tumbled through the smashed door onto the deck. Danny scrambled to his feet and raced after it, disappearing around the corner. His mother screamed and pointed, and Stiles was on his feet instantly, sprinting after the little boy, shielding his face against the driving rain, struggling to keep his balance.

  “Quentin!” Gillette yelled, jumping to his feet just as another huge wave crashed into the boat. This time it was on the port side, and it tossed him and the others across the room. He landed heavily on the floor, then crashed into the far wall, and a searing shot of pain raced up his left arm through his shoulder. As he struggled to make it to his hands and knees, another shot of pain knifed through his left shoulder. Wincing, he glanced ahead as a wicked flash of lightning streaked the night sky. Stiles, Danny, and the dog were nowhere in sight.

  “Oh God, oh God!” Stiles’s girlfriend screamed. She’d seen the same thing.

  Gillette crawled quickly across the wet carpet toward the smashed door, wind and driving rain in his face. He was trying to catch any sign of Stiles or Danny as the lightning continued to flash almost unceasingly. He pulled himself to his feet when he felt broken glass beneath his palms and edged toward the door, trying to keep his balance against the constant rocking, the din from outside like the sound of a freight train bearing down on him.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Faraday. “You can’t go out there.”

  Gillette burst onto the open aft deck, then dropped quickly to his hands and knees again. Staying on his feet would be impossible. He crawled around the side, the way Danny and Stiles had gone, as the yacht pitched left and knocked him toward the deck wall. He tried to protect his left arm, holding it tight to his side with his other arm as he crashed into the wall. Again he made it back onto his hands and knees. In the crackle of a lightning flash, he spotted Stiles up ahead and started to crawl forward.

  The boat was rocked by another pounding swell. Gillette lunged for the bottom step of a stairway leading to an upper deck and clung to it desperately despite the pain in his arm and shoulder. When the wave had washed past, he looked up, still clinging to the stairs, his eyes stinging from the salt. Stiles was grasping the railing with one hand, Danny with the other. A burst of spray hit Gillette, and he ducked behind the stairs again. When he looked up, Stiles was heading toward him with Danny, half crawling, half sliding down the deck.

  Just as Stiles reached Gillette, the boat pitched violently to starboard, then up. Gillette grabbed Danny as Stiles slid into the stairs, then past and down the deck thirty feet. As Danny wrapped both arms tightly around Gillette’s neck, Gillette looked back, searching through the blinding spray for Stiles. For a moment, he saw the outline of Stiles’s figure—he’d caught a rope and was struggling to his feet, grasping for the side of the boat.

  Then, just as he was raising up, Gillette saw him go down again, falling forward and losing his grasp on the side. He crumpled to the deck as another wave crashed over the side, this the biggest one yet, and Gillette had to hold on to the stairs with one arm and Danny with the other, trying mightily to keep from being swept to the back of the yacht. For almost ten seconds, the water rushed past. When it finally eased, Gillette glanced back. Stiles was gone.

  For ten minutes, Gillette held on to the bottom stair with one arm and Danny with the other, clenching his teeth against the pain slicing through his left shoulder as wave after wave continued to pound the Everest. The young boy shrieked every time the boat rolled, grabbing Gillette around the neck as tight as he could, screaming directly into his ear when another monster crashed over the side. Every time lightning flashed, Gillette glanced back over his shoulder, hoping he’d see Stiles through the storm. But nothing.

  Finally, the storm began to subside. The wind and rain eased as quickly as they’d hit. As Gillette started to crawl back toward the aft deck, Faraday and Wright appeared around the corner, hunched over as they moved onto the deck.

  “Christian!” Faraday yelled. He and Wright got to Gillette quickly and helped him back inside.

  “Danny!” his mother cried, hurrying to Gillette and scooping Danny out of his arms. “Thank you so much,” she sobbed, kissing Danny’s face over and over. “Thank you, Christian.”

  “I’m sorry for all this,” Gillette said softly. He turned to Faraday as Allison trotted up to him and put her arms around him. “Any sign of Quentin?”

  Faraday shook his head. “No.”

  Gillette wheeled around and headed back out onto the deck, shaking off Allison and moving around the corner. He made his way farther aft, to the spot where Stiles had gone down, yelling Stiles’s name over and over and peering into the waves, hoping to spot an orange life vest. Then he headed across the deck to the other side of the boat, then ahead all the way to the bow. But there was no sign of Stiles.

  He scrambled up a stairway toward the bridge and burst through the door. “Billy!”

  Billy glanced over his shoulder, then back ahead, both hands still glued to the wheel. “Everyone all right back there?”

  “No.”

  Billy’s eyes shot to Gillette’s.

  “Stiles is gone.”

  “What?”

  Gillette quickly explained how he and Stiles had ended up on the deck. “I followed Stiles out and we got the kid, but then he washed past me. I saw him behind me on the starboard-side deck for a second, then he went down. It was weird, he just went down. Then a wave came over the side, and I lost sight of him.”

  “How ’bout the kid?”

  “I got him. He’s fine
.”

  Billy’s shoulders sagged. “Good. Look, Stiles is probably—”

  “No,” Gillette cut in, anticipating what Billy was going to say. “I’ve been all around the side decks. He’s gone. We’ve got to turn around and look for him. We’ve got to call the Coast Guard right away.”

  “You check below?”

  “No,” Gillette admitted.

  “I’ll turn around, but I’m not calling the Coast Guard until we’re sure he’s not on board. They got their share of emergencies tonight, and I want to make sure we really got one before we call them out here.”

  But ten minutes later, Gillette was back on the bridge. “He’s not on board.”

  Billy picked up the radio microphone and called the Coast Guard, relaying the information about Stiles and giving them coordinates from the GPS.

  Gillette could hear the response over the loudspeaker. They had a cutter in the area, and they’d put a chopper in the air with a huge floodlight to cover the spot Billy had given them.

  “You said he went down when a wave came over?” Billy asked when he hung up with the Coast Guard.

  Gillette heard Billy’s voice, but he was thinking about how Quentin had gone down. One second he was standing, the next he was going down. Limp, not even putting out his hands to cushion the impact. Not as if he’d fallen at all—as if he’d been shot.

  13

  DERRICK WALKER sat in Gillette’s office. One of the most senior QS agents, Walker was taking over Gillette’s personal protection. It had been two days since the Everest had been caught in the storm on the sound, and Stiles was still missing.

  Like Stiles, Walker was African American. His skin was darker than Stiles’s, but while he wasn’t as tall at six two, he weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, ten pounds more than Stiles weighed when he was healthy. Like Stiles, he had that same aura of control about him. As if things came to him, not the other way around. Gillette took a deep breath. It was almost impossible to believe that Walker was sitting in front of him—not Stiles.

  “There won’t be any drop in the quality of your protection,” Walker began, “I assure you of that.” He spoke in a low, tough monotone. “Everything will transition smoothly.”

  “I’m sure,” Gillette said quietly.

  “I’m up to speed on everything,” Walker continued, “including those GPS devices that were put on your planes. And the fact that you don’t want them removed.”

  “Good.”

  Walker hesitated. “I know Quentin was a friend of yours, a good friend.”

  “He was.” Gillette winced as he shifted. His left arm was still hurting.

  “I’m going to be candid. You and I won’t have the same kind of relationship. I don’t get close to my clients.”

  Gillette looked away, hiding a sad smile. Stiles had said the same thing when they’d first met. “I understand.”

  “Do you have any questions?” Walker asked.

  Gillette thought for a moment. “Do you own any of QS Security?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He could see Walker thought it was a strange question. Walker had probably been expecting something more standard, like a rundown of his experience. But Gillette already assumed Walker’s experience was excellent. Stiles would never hire anyone who didn’t have that kind of background. Gillette was more interested in motivation at this point. “Did Quentin make you an owner? Did he give you any shares of QS?”

  “No.”

  So there was nothing to keep Walker from going to another firm or, more important, being tempted by a huge bribe.

  “Why do you ask?” Walker asked.

  “Just curious.”

  “Chris.” Debbie broke in on the intercom.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got a problem in the lobby.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just get out here,” she urged.

  Gillette rose from his chair. “Come on, Derrick.”

  They hustled to the lobby, and as they neared reception, Gillette saw two QS agents standing in the wide double-doorway entrance, blocking someone’s progress. He could hear yelling from outside the doors and recognized the voice instantly. Allison Wallace.

  “What’s going on?” Gillette asked, pushing his way through the agents.

  “These guys won’t let my new assistant through,” she answered angrily, pointing at the agents.

  The young man standing beside her was tall and thin, with wavy, jet black hair, brown eyes, and a dark, pocked complexion. As far as Gillette could tell, he was Arab. “I’m Christian Gillette,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Hamid Mohamed.” The young man’s expression—a slight sneer—didn’t change.

  “He doesn’t have clearance,” explained one of the agents.

  “What’s that mean?” Allison demanded.

  “Every new employee has to have a background check before he or she can work here,” Walker said, stepping beside Gillette.

  “You didn’t have one done on me,” she argued, looking at Gillette.

  “We didn’t need to.” Gillette spied Faraday, who’d come out to see what the ruckus was about. “You know that.” He gestured at Faraday. “Get everybody in the conference room for the managers meeting, Nigel.”

  “Right.” Faraday hesitated a moment longer, then turned and headed back down the corridor.

  “How long does this background check take?” Allison asked.

  “Up to two weeks,” Walker replied.

  “Christ, look, I—”

  “Allison, these guys are just following orders,” Gillette interrupted. “My orders. I’m sure Hamid will check out fine, but until he does we go by the rules. Like we do with everyone else.” He turned to Mohamed. “Please don’t take offense, Hamid, it’s just procedure.” He pointed at Allison. “She didn’t know.”

  Mohamed glanced deliberately at Allison, then back at Gillette. “This is ridiculous. You’re doing this because I’m Iranian. This is nothing but racial profiling.”

  “Frankly,” Gillette answered, “I had no idea you were Iranian.”

  “You could tell I was Arab.”

  Gillette moved close to Mohamed. “Listen, pal, I don’t like your attitude. But as long as your background check comes up clear, if Allison wants you, you could be a Klingon for all I care.” He glared at her. “Let’s go, it’s three o’clock, we’re going to be late for the meeting.” As he passed Walker, he touched his arm. “Get this guy’s info and get it processed fast,” he instructed. “I want his background check done by COB tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Christian.” Allison was running to keep up as Gillette hurried toward the conference room. “Christian!”

  “What?”

  “This is ridiculous, there’s no problem with Hamid. He’s been working at Citibank for the last three years. He has great references. I’ve talked to them.”

  “Then I’m sure he’ll check out fine, but he still goes through what everyone else does.”

  “This is silly. If I say he’s okay, he’s okay. I’m a managing partner here, and I’ve invested five billion dollars.”

  Gillette whipped around, glaring at her. “As you constantly remind me. But you still don’t get special treatment, Allison.”

  “All right,” she said quietly, her expression softening. “I’m sorry.”

  “Look,” he said, his tone turning less confrontational, too, “I told Walker to get Hamid’s background check done by COB tomorrow. As long as everything clears, he’ll be in here first thing Wednesday morning.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.” As he turned away, she called to him.

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  He looked at her for a few moments. “Come on,” he said quietly, “we’re late.”

  Gillette strode into the conference room, Allison trailing him. Everyone else was already seated. “Last week,” he began, standing behind his chair at the head of the table and putting both hands on the back
of it as the room went from noisy to silent in a heartbeat, “I told all of you that the Wallace Family had committed five billion dollars to Everest Eight, and that a member of their family, Allison Wallace, would join us as a managing partner.” He gestured to his right. “For any of you who haven’t met her yet, this is Allison. Please welcome her.”

  She got the customary applause, the rapping of knuckles on the tabletop.

  “Thank you.” She’d already introduced herself to all the managing partners, but to only a couple of the managing directors.

  “You’ll sit by Debbie today,” Gillette said to Allison, “but next week you’ll sit to Tom’s left.” He pointed at Jim Richards, a managing director, who was sitting beside O’Brien. “Everyone will move down one. And on this side,” he continued, shifting his attention to the other side of the table, “David Wright will now sit next to Maggie. David’s been promoted to managing partner,” he announced, pulling out his chair and easing into it. Seat changes at the meeting weren’t allowed until Gillette had formally announced promotions to the group. In Wright’s case, the announcement and the seat changes made clear that he’d jumped over several other managing directors who’d been at Everest longer.

  “I’m surprised Wright wasn’t the first one in here today and didn’t plop himself down in that chair beside Maggie,” Faraday whispered to Gillette as people rapped their knuckles on the tabletop again—not nearly as loudly as they had for Allison. “Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t send out his own e-mail announcing his promotion.”

  Gillette would have smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. “All right, let’s go through updates. I—”

  “Mr. Gillette.”

  Gillette turned toward the door. It was Karen, one of the receptionists. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I see you a moment? It’s important.”

  “Take over,” Gillette muttered to Faraday, getting up. “Update them on the fact that we finalized the purchase of the Vegas franchise. Then have Wright talk about Hush-Hush and have Allison talk about Veramax.” He’d told Faraday about the dinner with Jack Mitchell. “Don’t mention your connection to the French company on Hush-Hush, though. I don’t want people knowing about that yet. Don’t say anything about Apex, either.”