Chapter 16: The Cunning Ghost
The invitation came not on paper, but through a chain of whispers. Jean-Luc made two calls from a burner phone in the dead of night, speaking a rapid, colloquial French that Bree couldn’t follow. By morning, a plan—fragile and full of holes—was in place.
“We enter separately,” he told them over bitter coffee in the sterile kitchen. “Renard’s people know my face. If I walk in the front, it is a declaration of war. I will use a service entrance, a delivery for the galley. You,” he said, turning to Bree, “will use the front. As a guest.”
“And how do I manage that? Wave from the dinghy?”
“You will be on the transfer launch from the old port. There will be other guests. Find a single man, one who looks rich and bored. Be memorable. Be charming. He will vouch for you at the gangway. They care more about atmosphere and potential profit than a perfect guest list.”
Bree looked down at the elegant clothes from the day before, now feeling like a costume. “So I’m bait.”
“You are a diversion,” Jean-Luc corrected, his tone leaving no room for debate. “A beautiful, interesting distraction. Carter will be in my ear, and I will be in yours.” He handed her a tiny, flesh-colored earpiece. “Once inside, find a vantage point. Look for Tommy. Look for the operation’s rhythm. Do not approach him until I say.”
The launch ride out was surreal. The city lights shimmered on black water, and the sleek vessel carried a dozen people in quiet finery. Bree felt every eye on her, but she fixed on a silver-haired man in a cream linen suit, sitting alone and staring at his phone with disdain. She approached, leaning on the rail beside him.
“If that’s work, they’re paying you too much to be this miserable in a place this pretty,” she said, her Texas accent softening the edges of her French.
He looked up, surprised, then amused. “It is my broker. A dull man, even by text.”
“Sounds like a crime.” She extended a hand. “Briar.”
“Alain.” He took it, his eyes appreciative. “You are American. A long way from home for a night of cards.”
“A long way from home for a lot of things,” she said, smiling in a way she hoped was mysterious. By the time they reached the massive, lit-up silhouette of Le Fantôme Rusé, Alain was offering to buy her first drink.
The yacht was not just a boat; it was a floating palace. The main salon was a cavern of decadence, bigger than any casino she’d ever seen, making the dusty grandeur of the Leaveau Royale back home look like a roadside bingo hall. The air was cooled, perfumed with jasmine and expensive tobacco. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, their light reflecting off miles of polished brass and dark mahogany. The carpet was a deep, silent navy, swallowing the sounds of murmured conversation and the constant, hypnotic riffle of cards. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns that cost more than her tractor glided between baccarat tables and roulette wheels. The vibe was less frantic energy, more serene, bloodless extraction.
“Magnificent, no?” Alain murmured.
“It’s something,” Bree said, her eyes already scanning. She couldn’t see Jean-Luc. The earpiece was silent but for the faint, steady crackle of an open line.
She wandered, a champagne flute in hand like a prop. She watched the poker tables. The plays were huge, silent, conducted with nods and subtle gestures. Mountains of plaques and chips changed hands without a sound. And then, at a table tucked under a curved archway, she saw him.
Tommy.
Her breath hitched. He was in a shirt that looked a size too big, his shoulders sharp beneath the fabric. He was thinner, hollowed out. A fading yellow bruise mottled his jawline, barely concealed by the low light. But his hands were steady as he stacked his chips. He bet aggressively, won a large pot with a flush, and allowed himself a tight, weary smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was winning. But he looked like a man drowning.
She watched, frozen, as the hand played out. He won again. After stacking his new chips, he stood, said something to the dealer, and walked toward a velvet curtain at the salon’s rear.
The earpiece remained silent. Jean-Luc was nowhere.
Bree made her decision. She excused herself from Alain with a smile and followed the swirl of the velvet curtain.
Behind it was a dim corridor, lined with closed doors. She heard a toilet flush and saw Tommy emerging from a doorway, smoothing his shirt. He saw her and stopped dead.
His face cycled through shock, fear, and a desperate anger. “Bree? What in God’s name—you shouldn’t be here.”
She crossed the distance in three strides and threw her arms around him. He was all bone and tension. “You’re alive,” she whispered into his shoulder, a wave of dizzying relief washing over her.
He stiffened, then hugged her back briefly, fiercely, before pushing her to arm’s length. His eyes darted up and down the empty corridor. “You have to go. Right now.”
“I’m not leaving without you. Look at you.” She touched his jaw near the bruise. He flinched.
“It’s not that simple. I’m being watched. By him, and by Marchand’s people. They’re all the same thing here.” His voice was a low, urgent rasp. “I have to earn it back, Bree. The money I lost. I owe the big guy. I play, I win, I chip away at the debt. It’s the only way I walk off this boat with all my fingers.”
“Why are you in Marseilles?” he asked, his eyes searching hers, confused and scared.
“To look for you, duh. The barn, Tommy. The silo. They burned it all down.”
His face crumpled. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I got in too deep. It was just poker, and then it wasn’t.” He didn’t mention Jean-Luc. She didn’t either.
“Forget the money. We can run. Right now. There has to be a lifeboat, something—”
“And go where?” he hissed. “They’ll find me. They’ll find you. The only way out is through.” He glanced back toward the murmur of the casino. “I have to get back to the table. You need to disappear.”
She followed him back into the salon, keeping her distance. She watched him take his seat, his posture reverting to that of a focused, tense player. She willed him to look at her, to give a signal. He didn’t.
She was trying to formulate a plan, any plan, when the atmosphere in the room changed. A subtle drop in temperature. The dealers paused mid-shuffle. A group of four men entered from a forward staircase. They moved with a quiet authority that parted the crowd. In the lead was a man in his fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a beautifully tailored navy blazer. He had the relaxed smile of a congenial host, but his eyes were like two chips of flint, scanning, assessing, owning everything they saw.
Renard.
He moved directly to Tommy’s table. He placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, a friendly, possessive gesture. Tommy went very still. Renard leaned down, said something in his ear, then straightened, his gaze sweeping the room. It landed on Bree. He’d been told. He knew.
He walked toward her, the smile never wavering. Two of his men flanked her casually, cutting off any route to the exit.
“Mademoiselle,” Renard said, his voice a smooth baritone. “I understand you are a friend of our lucky Mr. Callahan. You have come a long way to watch him play.”
“I have,” Bree said, forcing her voice to level. Fighting would get her thrown over the rail. She met his flinty eyes.
“I insist you join me for a drink. My private lounge is more comfortable. We can discuss… his situation.” It was not a request.
The two men shifted, ready to escort her forcibly. Bree looked past Renard, saw Tommy’s horrified face, saw the impossible scale of the floating prison. She saw no sign of Jean-Luc.
Calculating, she nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion. “Alright,” she said, her tone almost conversational. “Lead the way.”
She saw the faint surprise in Renard’s eyes at her easy compliance. He gestured gracefully toward the staircase. Without another glance at Tommy, Bree walked forward, the men falling in behind her, and followed the crime lord deeper into the heart of the yacht.