Destiny (eBook)

Chapter 1

The British Virgin Islands, British Overseas Territory in the Caribbean.

Chills ran down the spine of Agent Francesca Dalbar, a.k.a. Frankie, as she listened intently to the haunting rendition of Wicked Game. Frivolous laughter, boisterous squeals, and wild cheers accompanied every butchered-livestock karaoke song at this champagne and caviar bachelorette party—up to now, that is.

The bride had preloaded her favorite golden oldie love songs and forced each invited single member of her exclusive flock of nobility to unabashedly humiliate themselves. In the name of good spirited fun, she was indulged, as is the prerogative of a princess bride about to marry Crown Prince Otto in a private ceremony, the man destined to be the next Sovereign Prince of Monaco. Technically, saying she was about to marry was incorrect, as the couple had already tied the knot in a highly-publicized, live-streamed, televised union, complete with a street procession, priceless crown jewels on display, and a nation on lockdown. Despite being the second smallest country in the world, after the Vatican, Monaco had a healthy economy thriving on the casino and tourism industries, with a nearly non-existent unemployment rate.

Her Royal Highness Princess Sabrina of Luxembourg, who was notably also the only person not indulging in copious amounts of bubbly, had taken to the stage and stiffened visibly when the song was selected. She then clasped her hands around the microphone in resignation as the soulful acoustic sounds of violin and piano notes started playing and the accompanying text appeared on the screen before her. The first few lines came out as merely a forced whisper before the powerfully evocative lyrics crooned, emphatically filling the hall. The dark-haired graceful woman, dressed in an elegant forest green gown, had closed her eyes as she sang, oblivious of the stunned silence that had overtaken the rowdy crowd. Her strong voice carried the heart-rending sounds of pain, longing, and misery.

Evidently, Princess Sabrina had her heart ripped out and wickedly crushed underfoot... and the only question burning on her curious audience’s lips was, by who?

As far as Frankie could tell, the aristocrat was not involved with anyone and not rumored to have had a serious relationship—ever. Well, at least not according to her employer. The tabloids had previously depicted Princess Sabrina as a recklessly flirtatious hedonist causing mayhem, but after a media rebirth of late she was hailed a dignified champion of environmental sustainability.

Frankie’s current assignment was to protect—and socially harmonize—the eccentric oddball that would be instrumental in helping the crown princess of Luxembourg choose her future husband from among the proverbial hats thrown into the ring. And there were plenty. After culling the herd, three active contenders remained that would also be attending the private week-long nuptials on the swank resort island owned by the bride’s family.

What happened to dating the old-fashioned way, and falling in love?

This apparently is not how things were done in the upper echelons of society, where every joining in matrimony was a careful calculation, or so it seemed. Frankie sighed. Perhaps this way is a better.

Sabrina left the stage after finishing her assigned song amid fading orchestral drums and piano notes, only to be swarmed by a cooing posse of pickled princesses and smothered in an overly affectionate group hug. The poor unsuspecting woman looked mortified as the unruly mob swallowed her whole.

Frankie, or Dalbar, used the distraction to sneak out the rear exit. She had been the last to arrive at the event and was also the first to leave. Not that her name had made the shame-inducing hit list to sing, as according to her lawyer, her marriage had not yet, strictly speaking, been dissolved. She glanced at her wristwatch, her eyes inadvertently catching the tricolor gold rolling trinity wedding band on her finger, and she accounted for the time difference with London. Ah, freedom in... thirty seconds.

She followed the long, paved path to her luxurious villa as an incoming text message vibrated on her smartwatch.

“Congratulations! You’re officially a divorcee. I’m emailing you my final account—minus a five percent discount on compassionate grounds, seeing your ex is a total douchebag.”

Lawyers were efficient at billing, and at calling it like it is. However, the exorbitant fees did save her the inconvenience and acrimony of having to deal directly with her now ex-husband. Frankie removed and pocketed the symbol of so many broken vows and promises from her finger. That chapter of her life had, today, reached finality.

Being deployed overseas had not helped the relationship that grew to being marred by resentment and loss. Like her marriage, she had left the life of being a British soldier behind and joined SPN Industries as a freelance security consultant; a new beginning.

SPN Industries was a private security firm. The company was named after Saint Philip Neri, the patron saint of the U.S. Army Special Forces, and its headquarters occupied a vast property with an underground base outside of Washington, D.C. The organization serviced diverse global contracts, with quite a few teams on missions at any given time. Most of the personnel recruited were ex-military or law enforcement. This was Frankie’s first solo mission with the firm.

Agent Sophia Parker, the Managing Director of SPNI, had recruited Dalbar two months ago following her resignation from active service and contacted her again as she was wrapping up providing security to a traveling baroness as part of a tactical team, to offer her more than a week in paradise. After being stationed at embassies across Europe for the preceding two years, Frankie had jumped at the chance of a February island getaway. And in particular, this Caribbean island. The catch? No official down time.

Agent Dalbar swiped at the keyless entry to the private double-story villa that she and her high-value target, or HVT, were cohabiting in and removed the ‘do not disturb’ sign. She did not want the resort housekeeping services snooping around when she was not there to control the narrative or to keep an eye out. Frankie dropped her matching fabulous four-inch heels and clutch by the door before brushing a hand over her ludicrously expensive designer pale-yellow dress. Thank heavens for a seemingly unlimited wardrobe allowance. The new additions to her attire likely cost more than her generous combined quarterly pay, and out-styled her former military uniform by a million miles.

“I’m back!”

Silence greeted her.

Her heart sank noting the empty dining chair, complete with the abandoned laptop and mobile phone left behind on the table where her charge used to sit no less than an hour ago. She ran upstairs and quickly moved through the only bedroom before scanning the en-suite bathroom. Both were empty. Shit. Storming to the outside balcony on the upper level she scoured the pristine white sandy beaches and waves crashing ashore, as far as the eye could see. Nothing. Luxurious villas and palm trees were interspersed along the deserted coastline in the late afternoon sun.

Where the hell is he?

Panic surged: Getting fired for losing her HVT on day two of her second company job would effectively terminate her second act. Or more correctly, her third act if she had to be truthful, but who was keeping count? Crap. Being unemployed did not bode well for paying her legal fees.

Dalbar dashed downstairs, grabbed her access keycard, and headed through the electronic glass sliding door to a wooden deck with a long ramp down onto the beach. No one was in sight.

She tracked a single pair of sneaker shoe prints down to the surf and bolted in the direction her HVT had headed. Twenty minutes later, and half hysterical, she spotted him. If the man had turned around to go the opposite way, with his footprint trail erased by the sea, she would have been totally screwed.

Dalbar was less than fifty meters away from him when he finally spotted her, his long measured strides slowing visibly. The nitwit has the situational awareness of a lab rat, she thought.

Alarmed at her storming approach, he froze and lifted his sunglasses atop of his dark mop of hair when she was almost within reach. Cautious green eyes regarded her.

“Did something happen?”

Livid, she caught her breath while carefully surveying their surroundings. “Where the hell did you go?”

“What do you mean?” His brow creased. “You came across me standing here on the beach; therefore, the logical deduction and conclusion has to be that I went for a stroll... and that you knew exactly where to find me.”

Frankie shook her head in disbelief at the concrete logic of Professor Horus Galili, Ph.D.

She bristled. “After I explicitly told you not to open the door for anyone, and not to leave...