Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8)
Florin handed up the skis, thanked him for his time, and then turned and swam to his yacht’s swim platform. The pilot turned out and headed back toward the marina.Florin reached the ladder hanging off the teakwood platform of his 126-foot superyacht and heaved himself up. He stood on wobbly legs as saltwater dribbled off him like oversized raindrops. His chief attendant appeared with a towel and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Teto.” After scrubbing the towel over his head, Florin draped it across the back of his broad neck. The thin gold chain around his neck glistened in the sunlight and lay on the thick nest of blond hair carpeting his chest. He looked over at Teto and paused. “Is something wrong?”
Teto hesitated. The young man’s dark Ethiopian skin clashed against the brilliant white of his teeth. “You… have a guest. He is waiting for you on the bridge deck.”
Florin was not expecting any visitors. And certainly, no one who would have the audacity to invite themselves onto his yacht. “Who?”
“Mikhail Ivanov.”
A mingled rush of anger and anxiety passed through Florin’s chest. He allowed himself a long sigh. “Tell him I will be with him presently.”
“Of course.”
Florin grasped both ends of the towel and made his way to the master stateroom on the main deck. Stepping into the ensuite bathroom, he took a quick shower and dressed in a white short-sleeve button-down and matching shorts. He ran a comb through his hair, slipped into a pair of loafers, and stepped onto the breezeway.
He paused and placed his hands on the wood railing as an unconscious sigh escaped from deep inside his chest. His gaze fell across the open expanse of water to where the curved coastline of the Bay of Angels ended at Nice’s sandy beach and old-world architecture.
Florin had come to the French Riviera to clear his head, to get away from the concussive effects that had resulted from the largest professional setback of his lifetime. He had been dealt a blow that was as much indefensible as it was unpredictable. He needed time to think, time to work through his options, to begin at square one and work his way forward from there. He had hoped that getting away and getting out on his yacht would ease his anxieties. But that had not been the case. He was only stressing in a more favorable location. The scenery was better, but on the inside stirred an anxious tempest.
He had left instructions at his office in Stockholm that he was not to be bothered for any reason. All calls and emails were to be held until his return; no one was to know where he was. And yet, the very face of his dilemma had found him and boarded his yacht.
A breeze drifted across the water and lifted a lock of hair off his forehead. Florin released his tentative grip on the rail and continued down the breezeway, taking his time as he made his way to the bridge deck. He was reluctant to have this meeting and swallowed hard when he saw the towering figure of Mikhail Ivanov standing on the deck with his back to him.
Florin cleared his throat and forced a smile, spreading his hands in a hospitable gesture as his guest turned around. “Mikhail,” he said with as much enthusiasm he could muster. “What a surprise.”
Florin was not a small man. But Mikhail Ivanov dwarfed even him. The Russian’s broad shoulders, thick neck, and barrel chest presented an imposing figure. Low, thick brows and a hard jawline completed a look that made him appear to be chiseled out of concrete. His well-trimmed brown hair was shot with gray, his beard nearly overtaken with it. His skin was unusually tan, the result of a great deal of time in the sun, and a Hawaiian shirt hung loosely over his torso. A low ball glass was in his hand, filled with amber liquid.
He boards my yacht uninvited and then drinks of my liquor. Florin knew Teto would have offered the drink. Still, the entire situation irritated him.
Mikhail did not offer a hand, did not return the smile. When his cold gray eyes landed on Florin, Florin’s stomach clenched into a nervous knot.
“What brings you to the Riviera?” Florin asked.
The Russian stared at him for a long while, his gaze unwavering. Finally, he broke the growing tension, “Come, sit with me.” He turned and moved to a well-appointed lounge area beneath the shade of a retractable awning.
Florin suddenly felt like he was the guest on his own yacht. He followed Mikhail, and as soon as they were settled into their chairs, Teto appeared with a decanter and another glass. He poured a measure of scotch into the glass, handed it to Florin, added some to Mikhail’s glass, and then quietly left after placing the decanter on the side table.
Mikhail took a sip of his scotch, swirled it slowly in his mouth, and closed his eyes as he swallowed. Florin set his glass to his lips and threw back half its contents, treating it like a cheap vodka instead of the rarified aged whiskey that it was. It had the desired effect, immediately warming his chest and cutting across the apprehension.
Mikhail opened his eyes and clicked his tongue as if he were considering his opening salvo. “Florin… Florin. How long have we known each other? Twenty years? Twenty-five years?”
“Twenty-three. If we’re being precise.”
“Twenty-three. A good span of time. And we have, what, been doing business together for ten of those years?”
“Yes. Ten years,” Florin replied.
“Ever since you came to me with the knowledge that Tanzania was set to devalue their currency.” The hint of a smile appeared in the corners of Mikhail’s lips. “The beginning of a beautiful partnership. We made a great deal of money on that one. And ever since,”—he swept out a hand—“you have transitioned from an average man making below average money in the public sector to becoming one of the wealthiest men in the