Devolis called out his friend's name and reached out for his shoulder.

When he turned him over all he saw was a lifeless face staring blankly at the night sky, his jaw open and loose. A bullet had struck him in the forehead and a mixture of sand and blood covered one side of his face. Devolis froze briefly in sorrow as the finality of the moment hit home and then a line of bullets popped in the sand just in front of him. A voice inside told him to get to the water. Now was not the time to mourn his friend's death. Devolis grabbed Irv's harness and began dragging him toward the safety of the sea. As he struggled with the lifeless body and only one good leg, he called for his team to report in.

While they did, he reached the warm salty water and looked over at the rubber raft. It was too shot up to bother recovering. He continued to move away from the shore, pulling his friend with him as the salt water began to bite at the bullet hole in his leg. He gave the team orders to abandon the raft and swim out for pickup. Devolis stopped in about five feet of water and waited for each team member to pass.

The Mark-V continued to rake the beach with its big. 50-caliber machine guns until the enemy fire was reduced to a few sporadic shots.

Devolis side-stroked with all his might, clutching his dead friend as they moved farther and farther away from the shore. As he neared the safety of the boat, he blocked out the agonizing pain and tried to understand how they could possibly have walked into an ambush.

The man sat on the backseat of a power launch, his oil-black hair blowing in the wind like a lion's mane as the boat sped away from the Monte Carlo dock. The sun was climbing into the bright blue Mediterranean sky. It looked to be another perfect day in the play land of the ultra rich The passenger's dark skin was offset by a loose-fitting white shirt and a pair of black Ray' Ban sunglasses. He looked like something out of a travel magazine with his arms stretched across the back of the white leather seat and the sun shining down on his chiseled face, a postcard, if you will, for how to get away from the everyday grind of life. For the passenger sitting in the back of the launch, however, this little sojourn out to sea would be anything but relaxing. He was not getting away from the everyday grind, he was heading directly into it. He was on his way to pay a visit to a man he disliked intensely. And to make matters worse, the visit was not his idea. It was a command performance.

The handsome man went by the name of David. No last name, just David. It wasn't his real name, but one that he had adopted years ago, while he'd attended university in America. It was a name that suited him well in a profession that called for striking just the right balance between anonymity and panache. David was a survivor. He had grown up in an environment that bred violence and hatred, and had somehow managed to master both at an early age. Controlling his emotions instead of being driven by them was what allowed David to pick his way through the minefield of his youth and set a course for greatness. And now at the relatively young age of thirty-four he was poised to change the world. If only the man he was going to see would leave him alone, he could put the final pieces of his plan into place.

David looked over the windscreen of the launch at the massive yacht anchored out at the far environs of the harbor and sighed. In David's mind the yacht and its owner were almost indistinguishable.

Both were huge, both demanded to be noticed by all who slipped into their sphere and both needed a crew of tireless workers to keep them afloat. There were days when David wondered if he could turn back the clock and start over, would he have chosen someone else to be his benefactor? He traveled a great deal, and in his line of work, if you could call it that, taking notes was a very bad idea, so he constantly mulled over his previous decisions and how they would affect his next move. Every flight and train ride was an endless scrolling through of what-ifs and whos.

At some point, though, it was all moot. He was too far into it now to change horses. Prince Omar was his partner, and at the end of the day David had to begrudgingly admit that the man had held up his end of the bargain, at least financially. As the ostentatious yacht loomed larger with each passing second, David once again had the uneasy sensation that he was being pulled into the Prince's orbit against his wishes. The man was like an illicit drug. In small doses he was tempting and beguiling, but if not monitored, his excesses could rot your body and your soul to the core.

As the launch pulled up alongside the massive 315-foot yacht, the sun was blocked out, its warmth dissipating in the cool morning air.

David glanced down and noticed goose bumps on his arm. He hoped this was merely a result of the change in temperature and not an omen of bad things to come. The Prince had requested that David join him for lunch and drinks at two that afternoon, but David wasn't about to waste an entire day in Monaco. There was far too much to be done.

The Prince would not be happy, but at this point in the game there wasn't a lot he could do other than stamp his feet and protest.

Before the launch came to a stop, David shoved a hundred euros into the driver's shirt pocket and leapt onto the stern deck. He landed gracefully and immediately noticed five white garbage bags filled with the waste from last night's party. Even in the cool morning air he could smell wine and beer and God knows what else leaking from the bags.

The Prince would be in rough shape.

A voice sounded from somewhere above.

"You're early."

David recognized the French-accented English of the Prince's chief minion and said, "Sorry, Devon." Looking up, he saw the Prince's assistant, Devon LeClair, and next to him, the Prince's ever-present Chinese bodyguard, Chung.

Devon looked down at him with an irritated frown.

"You're going to have to wait, you know."

David started up the ladder, keeping his eye on Devon. Dressed in a suit and holding his leather encased Palm Pilot he looked more like a cruise director than quite possibly the highest paid executive assistant in the world.

David smiled and said, "You're looking well this morning, Devon."

He clapped the Prince's assistant on the shoulder and added, "I trust you didn't take part in last nights activities."

With a dramatic roll of the eyes, Devon replied, "Never. Someone has to stay sober enough to make sure this enterprise stays afloat."

"True enough." David almost asked how the party went and then thought better of it. If he hung around long enough the Prince would probably force him to sit through a private viewing of the debauchery that had most certainly been recorded for posterity.

"Will you be staying with us long?" The Prince's assistant had his pen poised over his now open Palm Pilot, ready to go to work.

"No, I'm sorry." David always treated Devon with great respect and care. As the gatekeeper to the Prince, he was someone you wanted on your side.

"Well, you're going to have to wait quite a while for His Highness to awake. The sun was starting to come up when he finally called it a night."

David pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and checked his Rolex. It was a quarter past nine.

" Devon, I'm sorry, but I can't wait. He ordered me to show up today, and to be truthful, I didn't even have time for that." He leaned in and lowered his voice.

"I really can't afford to sit around all day and wait for him to sleep off last night's hangover."

The thin Frenchman closed his Palm Pilot and looked at David pensively through his silver-rimmed oval spectacles.