Bon Voyage Malta Novels & Stories

"The ship’s name is Maersk Mc-Kinney Moller. It had Maersk Line’s white seven-pointed star logo on a blue background. It departed from the port nearest to this place." Gino typed furiously on his phone, recording every word. Satisfied, Mabel stood and picked up the briefcase. "Pleasure doing business with you," she said with a smirk. When she turned to leave, she muttered to herself, "Now to invest in something worthwhile." Gino’s gaze followed her retreating form. Once she exited, Gino turned to Marco. "Should I get the briefcase back?" Marco shook his head. "No. Focus on finding the ship and the island."

The crew sends down the gangway and we begin disembarking. “Alright crew, we need more supplies so please before anything else happens, get the supplies from the markets please.” “Aye, Captain.” They shout back, as they disburse from the dock. John and I walk along the dock, talking about the possible areas where my grandfather’s treasure may be. John is a tall man, with shoulder-length brown hair and hazel eyes; he is quite the womanizer with his looks and friendly disposition. If we were being honest, both John and I are quite the womanizer’s, which was fine by me because I was not inclined to settle down to marry and have children. I needed to rid us of this curse before I could even thin

He caught me before I fell, his grip surprisingly gentle, and half-lifted me into the boat. The engine sputtered to life. Malachi untied the rope and pushed us off, leaping in at the last moment as the boat caught the current and pulled away from the shore. We sailed in silence for a long time. The coastline shrank behind us, the cave entrance disappearing into the rocky cliff face. The sea stretched out in every direction, grey and endless and cold. Malachi sat at the back of the boat, one hand on the tiller, watching me with those unreadable eyes.

Make sure to check out “Fire in the Knight,” book three of the Mobile Intelligence Series. Find out what happens to Charlotte Quinn and Donnie Wilson! Saint Julian’s, Malta With no sign of potential witnesses in the hall, the man pulled the apartment door shut with a soft click. He adjusted his hoodie and ran down the steps before stepping onto the damp pavement. The sun had set and on a wet November night in Malta, the streets surrounding Spinola Bay were practically deserted. It was time to settle in and wait. The mark—Joseph da Silva—had only just sat down for dinner at one of the nearby restaurants. It would be at least an hour before he returned to his rental villa facing the water.