Operation Sea Ghost by Mack Maloney Read Free Book Online

drinks and miniscule bits of food, were knockouts as well. There were even 3-D holographic images being randomly projected throughout the yacht, some showing tranquil aquatic scenes, others depicting clips from famous sci-fi and horror films, still others of Emma Simms in a variety of erotic poses. The sweet scent of pot was also in the air.
    Nolan had never seen anything like this. It was like stepping into a real-life movie.
    The beer went right to his head and he started to get caught up in the swirl—it was hard not to. The beauty, the glamour, the smell of money mixing with the rose-scented mist and the marijuana; it was intoxicating.
    Maybe I’ll like this more than I thought , he mused.
    But at that moment, the ship’s headwaiter appeared from nowhere and growled at him in French: “Ne restez pas là imbécile. La cuisine doit être nettoyée!”
    As in: “Don’t stand there you fool. The kitchen must be cleaned!”
    Nolan looked at the guy like he was insane. But then he realized his bright blue Whiskey fatigues looked exactly like the one-piece suits worn by the yacht’s maintenance crew.
    He was instantly pissed. He tossed his beer glass over the side, then grabbed the headwaiter by the collar. He pulled his jacket open to give the guy a peek at the massive Magnum handgun he was carrying. Then he spat back at him: “Je suis le gars qui a sauvé votre patron - tête de merde!”
    As in: “I’m the guy who saved your boss, shithead…”
    The waiter almost had a myocardial infarction right there on the spot. He began babbling apologies, bowing and scraping as he hastily retreated below decks. But it was too late. Nolan had received the cosmos’ message loud and clear.
    Hero or not, he was just another part of the hired help here. This whole scene was way out of his league.
    He grabbed another designer beer, then retreated to portside amidships and slipped into the shadows.
    *   *   *
    THE ITALIAN PHOTOGRAPHER drew in a lungful of pot and nearly collapsed to the deck.
    “My God,” he gasped. “Where did you get such great stuff?”
    Batman used his mechanical hand to retrieve the joint and pass it on to the stunning British model. Though she took only a baby toke, she, too, was instantly legless. Her icy demeanor melted away as she became a hopeless ball of laughter.
    Batman caught the joint just as she was dropping it and passed it on to the Austrian movie director, who imbibed and then passed it to the two gay French musicians. The doobie made one complete lap around the circle of Batman’s new best friends, being reduced to nothing by the time it reached him again. Everyone had a toke and everyone got quite high—except Batman himself. When the model asked why he wasn’t partaking in his own weed, he replied with a shrug, “I just don’t need it anymore.”
    Giggling and chattering, the group commandeered a table up on the top deck where the Italian photographer produced a large vial of cocaine. Once again, everyone in the newly formed coterie partook, but Batman. Yet he seemed the highest of them all.
    Between snorts, sniffs and gales of laughter, he regaled them with details of his recent adventure with the Ekita clan. The battle. The rescue. The potions. The cleansing. The tulip bulbs. He even showed them his bare back, where the four bullets stopped by the body armor had left a quartet of huge bruises, contusions that had already vanished.
    The Dutch plastic surgeon opined any Ekita potions Batman had ingested were probably coca-based, with some sort of hallucinogenic property added in. He also guessed that the hot cleansing waters he’d simmered in probably contained a significant amount of aloe, or something akin to it that had taken care of his wounds.
    But Batman good-naturedly dismissed the explanation.
    “I like to think it was pure magic,” he told them.
    *   *   *
    BATMAN EVENTUALLY EXCUSED himself from the table and made his way to the tip of the yacht’s extended bow.