“I’ll take that as a promise,” Blaze replied.

He had to laugh. Fortune called him “the world’s richest security guard”—but the real boss in his family was his seventeen-year-old daughter. He closed his laptop and moved it to the corner of his desk. He checked his watch, leaned back in his chair, and interlocked his fingers.

“Okay. Bring him in.”

Mapes shut down her digital tablet and headed for the door. She was tall and lean, half Thai, half African-American, with a shaved head, dressed today in black pants and black jacket over a high-collared white blouse.

“And Mapes,” he added, “have the chopper ready by noon.”

Mapes closed the door behind her, conversation not her strong suit—but then conversation was not why he’d hired her. Sex was not the reason, either. Truth was he was afraid of what Mapes might come up with in bed. Chances were a bed would have nothing to do with it.

Mapes returned to his office, and Krieger got to his feet.

“Admiral,” he said, rounding his desk and putting out his hand. “Thank you for making time for me.”

Admiral Everett Tighe, commander of the US Navy’s Seventh Fleet, wore his service dress whites. “Any friend of the Navy, Terry,” he said, surveying Krieger’s office with barely disguised contempt. It was the same with all these old salts, Krieger thought. He could practically hear the adding machine spinning inside Tighe’s head, the old man calculating Raptor’s cost, taking it all personally, as if every dollar Krieger spent over the price of a Boston Whaler were an act of treason.

As treason went, Raptor possessed some Benedict Arnold–level amenities. The 190-foot Abeking & Rasmussen superyacht included dual helipads, belowdecks hangar, drive-in tender bay, and a custom submersible. Her zero-speed stabilizers allowed Krieger to slip into a ripple-free lap pool at speed or deliver his signature backhand drop on the midships squash court. All of the important areas, including this office, were armored and containable. His supervillain yacht, Blaze called it.

Tighe added, predictably, “It’s your dime.”

“Indeed,” Krieger said. “Please.”

The admiral glanced toward the sumptuous white leather lounge chairs in the room’s aft section. By contrast, the single wooden chair in front of Krieger’s desk had the look of a dunce seat. Krieger circled his desk and sat down behind it. He had plans for this meeting, and they did not involve the admiral’s comfort.

“Coffee, Admiral?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Tighe replied.

Krieger smiled. Does a bear shit in the woods?

“My grandfather used to say that,” Krieger said.

“That right?”