Miami, 9 a.m.
A man in military uniform followed the Black King aboard a luxury yacht and up to the top deck.
"Care for a glass of champagne, Bob?"
The Black King walked toward the little bar stocked with drinks and asked the uniformed man behind him.
"No, thanks."
The Black King took a cigar from the bar, lit it, and took a puff. "All right, then. Enough joking around."
He braced both arms on the bar, his gaze turning sharp and dangerous.
"Who did you tell about our plan?"
"No one."
Bob answered without hesitation, but the Black King didn't believe him at all. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Emma Frost, the White Queen, who was sunbathing.
She possessed telepathy and could easily find out whatever she wanted to know.
"He isn't lying."
The Black King was clearly pleased with that answer. A smile broke through his stern expression as he looked at Bob and said:
"Good. Then there's nothing left to do here."
"How about we pack up and leave?"
Bob was clearly dissatisfied with the answer the Black King had given him. He pulled a grenade straight out of his pocket.
"I'm not stupid enough to trust you people."
"Now give me my money and let me leave, or we all die together."
The three people on the deck showed no sign of panic at the sight of the grenade. Even Riptide, standing behind Bob, folded his arms and looked at him as though he were a clown.
The Black King stepped out from behind the bar with an amused smile. "Pull it."
Intimidated by the Black King's presence, Bob backed up two steps and placed his finger on the grenade's pin.
"I will. I swear."
But his empty bravado made his bluff obvious at a