Waiters arrived on the deck with plates and platters of finger foods. Tea sandwiches, fish sticks, mini quiche, breadsticks, pigs in a blanket, Gougères, pinwheels, crostini, stuffed peppers, bruschetta, mini tartlets.
The young security guards rushed to indulge themselves.
The Baroness was gliding at an appreciable distance from the land.
For the young bodyguards, it was an easy gig. They were to stay at sea until the end of the day. That was the plan. It was more like a vacation with the underway party and the feast.
The waiters finished their chores and started leaving in a file.
Guiscard's keen eyes fell on one of them.
'He seems odd. Grease marks on the sleeves. The boy is a bit jittery. He keeps looking back at the plates.'
"DON'T TOUCH THE FOOD!" Guiscard warned the guests.
"What's wrong, Chief?" the billionaire inquired, dropping a fish-stick. The bodyguard held up a hand to indicate that he did not want to be interrupted.
A couple of the guards had already taken bites from the cuisines, but they spat out the food immediately.
"You!" Guiscard thundered at the suspicious waiter. "Stop right there!"
"Who? Me?" the waiter asked nervously.
"Is he a permanent staff member?" Guiscard asked the head butler, who stood beside Spencer. "Who hired him?"
"He is Jon, sir," the butler replied. "A replacement for Drew, who was unwell."
"Come here, boy!" Guiscard ordered the waiter.
The latter looked around, visibly panicking. Then his demeanor changed. Suddenly, the boy drew a knife from his belt and charged.
Guiscard casually stepped out of the way and landed a chop on his right arm. The waiter howled as his bones cracked, and he dropped the blade. The bodyguard did not leave things to chance. He landed a sideways kick to the waiter's knee, which shattered with a crunch. Jon fell to the floor, writhing in pain.
The rest of the security team looked on in amazement. The crowd on the lower decks gasped and craned their necks to see what was going on.
"What have you done?" Guiscard asked the guilty waiter.
"Aargh... It is... too... late," the culprit whimpered.
Guiscard was not fond of his questions being ignored. He grasped the waiter by the collars and dragged him to the edge of the boat.
"Tell me what you have done, or you are going overboard!" he mouthed with a scowl. "With your broken leg, you will drown if sharks don't get you first."
The waiter hung precariously, and a push from Guiscard would throw him over the edge into the dark foaming waters.
"Okay! Okay! Please, I have a sick mother! Please don't kill me!"
"What have you done?" Guiscard repeated himself.
"There is a bomb," the waiter mumbled. "In the engine room. I was asked to latch it to the beam frame."
"For God's sake, kid! How did you plan to escape?"
"I would have taken a safety boat."
Guiscard shoved him back on the deck.
"Bind him!" he bid the other security guards. The latter pounced on the waiter, pinning him to the ground.
The tension of the guests on the lower decks was palpable. Some of them stood at the periphery of the yacht, ready to jump if there was an explosion. However, nobody raised a hue and a cry.
There was usually a commotion when the word 'bomb' was announced to a crowd. Therefore, the eerie silence of the guests was not the response Guiscard expected. Perhaps the liquor and drugs had muzzled the urgency of the situation.
"You, and you," he selected two veterans from the security team. "Come with me."
They rushed to the engine room. Guiscard instructed one to evacuate the area and the other to get him a toolbox.
He found the bomb under a basket, firmly welded into the beam post.
It was not a very sophisticated model. Crude and handmade.
The explosive charge was not large enough to destroy the yacht, but it could sink the boat with ease.
The Chief unbuttoned his trench coat and squatted in front of the gadget.
The guard arrived with a toolbox.
"Screwdriver!" Guiscard claimed.
He carefully removed the front panel.
The led display said 02:57.
"Great! It is going to explode in three minutes."
"The two of you can leave," he warned the guard duo. "Just hand me the pliers and be on your way, ready to jump overboard."
"I will stay," the toolbox guy said resolutely, handing him a pair of pliers.
"I am not going anywhere, sir," the other guard asserted while evacuating the last of the crew from the engine room. "You are an inspiration to our profession."
Guiscard smiled to himself. Not all the green boys were worthless, after all.
"Okay! Let's do this," he muttered, taking a deep breath and flipping open the internal panel of wiring.
At least a dozen wires crisscrossed across the terminals. The wires, in turn, had recurrences of colors that formed an unintelligible mess.
"Black."
Snip! He cut a wire.
No apparent change.
01:51.
"Red."
Snap! He cut a red wire.
No change.
A trickle of sweat rolled down Guiscard's face.
01:27.
"Green." Snip!
The clock sped up.
Guiscard shook his head. The guards stepped back, alarmed.
00:49.
"Red! This is going to decide it," he announced, biting his lip.
Guiscard kissed the pliers and sliced the wire.
00:12
00:11
00:10
00:09
The clock stopped.
He dropped the pliers and stood up.
"It's done! It's disarmed!"
The guards had been holding their breath. They gasped for air in relief and high-fived each other. The duo went ahead of the Chief and rushed out of the engine room to declare the good news.
Guiscard walked up to the front deck amidst tumultuous applause. The guards were shouting," Chief! Chief! Chief!"
Spencer beckoned him over.
"This is embarrassing. I just did my job." the ace bodyguard said modestly.
"For them, you are a rockstar," the billionaire explained.
"You saved my life," he added. "I owe you."
"You owe me a quarter-million dollars, as agreed," Guiscard quipped, a smile touching his lips.
Spencer nodded humorously.

Guiscard's phone beeped.
He took it out and moved to a quiet corner to escape the glasses of liquor being shoved at him. The crowd was celebrating with renewed vigor.
It was his agent's message.

Agent ~There is a new gig for you~
Chevy ~Already?~
Agent ~Yep. I got a message that you disarmed a bomb?~
Chevy ~Your sources are everywhere~
Agent ~They are indeed, Anyway! What do you say? Interested?~
Chevy ~Hit me~
Agent ~Ashley Palmer. Yes, the 'Ashley Palmer'. You are in the big league now, buddy. I've sent you the details via mail. Now don't be choosy~
Chevy ~I will decide and let you know~
Guiscard replaced his phone and buttoned his trench coat. He walked to the edge of the stern, his hands clasped behind. The shore was a thick line of paint in the distance, while the high rises of Norwich pierced the horizon like giants. The tallest among them was Malory Towers. It was a titan of the city. A reminder of how high one can aspire. It belonged to the Graysons.
Guiscard felt in his bones that peril and jeopardy awaited him if he accepted the job.
Nevertheless, weren't dangers part of his profession already? He sighed.
'Ashley Palmer.'
'What is she like?' he wondered.
The ace could accept the big break and work for the spoiled heiress.
Alternatively, he could take a few days off and spend a vacation in Hawaii.
"Now that you have slain the dragon, you are welcome to enjoy the party," Spencer said, approaching him with six topless women on his arms.
The Frenchman returned to his surroundings.
"Mr. Spencer, I would love to stay," Guiscard said, in his pro voice.
"However, duty calls. If you don't mind, I would like to borrow one of your lifeboats."