Chevalier de Guiscard hated Billionaires. They were pompous, egotistical, and believed they could purchase everything with money.
'Well, the last part is not entirely wrong,' he thought, checking the time on his Cartier watch.
Guiscard's services did not come cheap. Even a half-day of enlisting his skills cost a small fortune to the client. Almost every billionaire in Norwich had partaken of his resources at some point in time. He was an ace in the security industry.
The elite bodyguard had a professional résumé that shamed the best in the industry.
A stint in the marine corps.
A decade as an independent military contractor in Vietnam and Afghanistan.
He had worked with the CIA, the Pentagon, and the FBI.
Guiscard had finally settled in as a security consultant in Norwich. However, considering the lifestyles of billionaires, the contracts took him to other cities and countries all the time.
As Guiscard's private agent liked to put it, he was a 'posh security whore’.
Perhaps another ten years of whoring around would make him a multi-billionaire, too. He would launch a multinational security firm by himself, sit back, and reel in the profits.
At the moment, he stood on a private yacht sailing away from Tristan, the VIP port of Norwich. The city had three other ports- Preston, Fishgard, and Whitehaven.
The sailing vessel was Baroness, a new German-design Lurssen superyacht. She belonged to Stuart Spencer, a British-American purveyor of luxury gadgets. After a bidding war in Munich, he had made the purchase, which ended at a whopping $1.2 billion.
The superyacht was a hundred feet in length and had a generous eighteen feet beam. She was opulently spacious and was the perfect motor yacht for entertaining filthy rich guests.
'Spoilt asshole,' Guiscard grumbled.
Baroness' interior was a charmer. Her accommodation and living spaces were arranged over three cascading decks, all linked by a chrome staircase with back-lit onyx, benefiting from large skylights that allowed for a great influx of natural light.
Baroness's technical excellence provided her with a top speed of 22.5 knots and a cruising speed of 19.
Her main deck featured an impressive lounge area to aft, with stylish and comfortable seating paired seamlessly with the main salon. There was a formal dining table for twelve, positioned under a striking modern chandelier and deep-cushioned sofas. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view while under.
The bridge deck boasted a vast sunbathing area and a touch-and-go helipad.
'Billionaires are not the most good-natured fellows, but their luxurious assets are always worth hanging out with,' Guiscard told himself.
There was a dedicated party space on the main deck, with a pool, and that is where the ace security expert stood at the moment, while his client, Stuart Spencer, lay face down on a lounge bed. An attractive Asian masseuse was giving the latter a shiatsu rub-down.
"Why don't you join me for a massage, Chief?" Spencer asked, in between groans. "If you prefer your native people, I have a French masseur waiting."
Everyone called Guiscard 'The Chief'. It was a moniker that had stuck because of his history of leading military missions. However, he preferred to be called Chevy, after Chevalier.
"Not while I'm on duty, Monsieur," Guiscard replied curtly. His diction was American, but a tinge of the French accent lingered.
Spencer smirked in approval.
"For the record, I prefer Scandinavian women," Guiscard added.
The billionaire guffawed. "Next time, I will provide for you, my friend."
The coast guard service reported that the sea would be turbulent towards noon. Therefore, the yacht was asked not to venture far from the coast.
However, the party was already underway.
A DJ played upbeat songs from a platform. Topless models, both men and women, played volleyball in the pool area or danced to the music.
Booze, drugs, and finger foods were unlimited. It looked like a scene from a Hollywood music video.
Guiscard frowned at the shameless nudity and substance abuse. The girls were full of silicone, and the men were beefed up with whey. He preferred his women to have natural bodies, borne from diet and genetics, and not from time spent under the surgeon's blade or in the gymnasium.
On the other hand, he was acquainted with the pretentious lives of billionaires and their synthetic tastes.
'They like what they like.'
Guiscard was tall, over six feet.
He had all the defining qualities of a Frenchman.
A tanned masculine face. Deep, aloof, but dreamlike brown eyes that alluded to his mystery. An intimidating sense of confidence. Long brown hair slicked back to perfection. Very often, Guiscard would tie his mane back in a man bun.
He donned a grey trench coat and lightly tinted tear-drop aviators.
The ace bodyguard lacked the negative qualities of a Frenchman.
Lack of casual humor, a certain sense of entitlement, the bias for petiteness, and the prideful sense of sophistication and cultural class.
He was not skinny but with toned musculature from years of combat training.
Guiscard appreciated the good things in life and did not shy away from speaking his mind when something was not up to his standards.
At the moment, he furrowed his brow at the rest of the security team. Spencer had hired a dozen novices from private security firms. They were likely dropouts from the FBI, Homeland Security, and the military.
Green boys pumped with enthusiasm and looking to make a quick buck. They wore tightly woven, shiny suits to look 'cool'. As if they were in an action movie or novel. Guiscard knew for a fact that such clothes only restricted movement and betrayed you when shit hit the fan.
'Amateurs,' he concluded.
"Do you really think those tree-huggers will attack today?" the billionaire posed at Guiscard.
'Tree-huggers' was a derogatory term for environmental activists.
Spencer had received a death threat the previous night. Of course, public menaces endangering a wealthy man's life were nothing new in Norwich.
Stuart Spencer was the Number 5 richest billionaire in the city. The Graysons and the Palmers were at the top.
His primary business was marine foods. Lately, he had diversified his interests, signing a memorandum with a Japanese company for whale oil. Kujira-hashi Inc., the leading whaling corporation in the world, was their supplier in the venture.
However, a sting operation led to breaking news that the company had a dark past of brutality towards marine wildlife. Whales were not the only mammals they killed.
Environmental activists had flocked in hundreds to the Spencer corporate building and staged protests. A riot had started and had disbanded after the police intervened with tear gas.
Then the death threats and attempts began.
Threatening emails. Morbid letters. Poisoned cakes. Exploding parcels. And so on.
The previous night, there was a sinister phone call. The caller, who masked his voice, mentioned critical details about Spencer's itinerary and appointments. He declared with certainty that the billionaire would be dead by the end of the following day.
Spencer's assistant had immediately recommended enlisting Chevalier de Guiscard's services. The ace had been illustrious in rescuing several billionaires in the past from credible threats.
"They could try, Monsieur," Guiscard quipped in reply. "Nevertheless, they shall fail."
"I just wish you had not hired these kids on the side," he added, gesturing at the rest of the security team. "They are likely to get in my way."
"Look at the shore, Chief," Spencer urged, handing him a pair of binoculars.
Guiscard spotted hoards of media personnel lining the coast. They had their ultra-zoom cameras pointed at the Baroness.
"The media knows about the threat on my life," the billionaire explained. "I have to put on a show for them. It is all for the sake of appearances. As far as I am concerned, you are the only bodyguard on my yacht."
The Frenchman nodded, not paying attention.
'I feel it in my bones. Something is definitely about to go down,' Guiscard told himself.