A Player for A Princess

“When I met Zelda, I wasn’t thinking about balance. I was thinking about excess.” Excessively indulging in her arms. “She is responsible—you’re right—but she’s also sassy and passionate, and quite fun. The more time we spent together, every time she spoke of leaving, I couldn’t imagine going back to the way I was before.” I slip my hand in my pocket closing my fingers around the engagement ring I’m carrying with me. “I can’t imagine my life without her.”

Reggie studies his own empty wine glass. “I’m sorry she’s been caught up in this crisis. I want to help get her out of it.”

Logan emerges from the cockpit, and his expression is determined. He’s dressed in his usual dark suit, and his phone is in his hand.

“Sir,” he takes the seat across from me, in front of my uncle. “We just heard from your brother the crown prince. Satellite imagery has identified five small islands off the northern coast of Venezuela. We’ve engaged a local service to scout them and report back any findings.”

My chest tightens. “How long before we know something?”

“They have to travel by boat, considering the islands are very small and largely unpopulated. Still, they’re starting immediately.”

I’m impatient with his answer. “A day? Two?”

“Some of them are fifty or so miles apart.”

Reggie reaches across the aisle and holds my arm. “Seth will know where they have her. We’ll have her location in the next twenty-four hours.”

Now it’s my turn to look out the window and say a silent prayer. It’s what we’re counting on making this unexpected stop.

* * *

The Ramada across from Port Everglades is as fast and dirty as they come. “It’s like déjà vu all over again,” I murmur, walking toward the two-story beige building.

The only difference is instead of raining the sun is beating down on us, and the air is so heavy with humidity, it feels like a warm washcloth against my skin. We’re so close to the port, I can hear the drill of the ships anchors being raised and lowered, and the smell is wet pavement mixed with gasoline and rotting garbage in the side-by-side dumpsters.

Logan and I split off from my uncle, him taking the left and me right. Reggie will do the honors of pretending to need a room, then he’ll let us in the back door. Unlike last time, we don’t have a room number for Seth.

Walking through the narrow, two-lane parking lot, I pass a man loading a small bag into a faded white Jeep with a bed like a truck. Our eyes meet briefly, and I nod, not wanting to appear suspicious.

He doesn’t return my greeting, and I make a quick note of his appearance—tall, pale blonde hair and flat blue eyes. His grey tee is stained with sweat and has Fish Aruba on the front over a cartoon wave. It draws my eye to a spatter of what looks like oil or mud on the hem. All of this is seen in a moment, but I don’t stop. The noise of a truck door slamming and an engine turning over tells me he isn’t stopping either. In fact, he seems in a hurry to leave.

My watch thumps, and I look down at my wrist. It’s a text from Logan saying, Room 220—STAT!

Breaking into a sprint, I jerk the back door open without even stopping to think it should be locked. I take the stairs two at a time and burst through the metal doors, making my way fast down the hall toward the open door. Reggie is in the hall looking down, phone in hand.

“What happened?” I’m breathing fast when I reach him.

My uncle’s face is grave, and he nods toward the room. “See for yourself.”

Using my elbow to avoid fingerprints, I push inside and stop in my tracks. “Oh, shit!” The smell of blood and vomit hits me in the face, and my stomach roils.

Looking around, blood is spattered on the walls. A large portrait is on the floor, smashed into three pieces. Glass is everywhere. Logan is in the bathroom, and his phone camera flashes twice.

The desk chair is in the center of the room. Stepping closer, I see fibers from what appears to have been a yellow, nylon rope caught in the cracks where the arms meet the metal base. The smell of vomit is strong, and looking down, my eye catches something on the floor. I almost lose the small breakfast I had this morning when I recognize it’s a fingernail. The base is bloody and it appears to have been ripped out at the roots.

Straightening, I step back and hear a soft crunch under my boot. Looking down, I see another fingernail. Then another…

“Jesus,” I hiss, moving away from the macabre scene.

Logan steps out o

f the bathroom, and his face is pale. He walks straight to the door and leaves without a word. I hear the heavy thud of his boots, and I realize he’s jogging down the hall in the direction of the exit.

My stomach is tight as I walk carefully toward the bathroom. Whatever is in here made a definite impression on my retired military partner.

“I’m not sure you need to go in there,” Reggie says, peering his head into the room. “In fact, I think we should leave this place at once. They obviously knew we were coming for him. Police could be headed this way now, and we can’t afford the delay or exposure.”

“They knew we were coming, or they were looking for something,” I argue, continuing toward the small facility.