TEN, TWENTY MINUTES passed. Mischa Barton was lying flat, her head turned toward Rihanna and beyond her, to the harbor. A French soldier stood only a few feet away. Soldiers and people in civilian clothes ran to and fro. Mischa heard several splashes, telling her that people were diving into the water. Some of the soldiers entered their yacht again. Troopers were boarding yachts with dogs, German shepherds in fact, who wore large blue vests that covered their torsos.600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAWLVYGuaFH
What the fuck was this all about?
"Rhi-Rhi, what do you know that I don't?" Mischa said, but a boot slammed down hard on the ground between their faces.
"Une arme!" The shout came from someone standing at the door of their yacht.
"Qui est le proprietaire du yacht? Celui-ci?" shouted a man whose boots were mere inches away from Mischa's face. "Qui est le...."
"I am," the fat American said. "This is my yacht."
"Levez-vous!" A soldier grabbed Mischa by the wrist restraints and lifted her to her feet. "Allez-vous! Allez, allez!" All of them, the four actresses and the fat American, started marching toward the harbor.
"What the fuck is going on?" Nicole Richie said in a hushed tone.
"Don't worry, love. It's got to be some kind of mistake," Mischa called back with no conviction whatsoever.
Commandos had raided every boat. The parking lot was swarming with officials, mostly in plain clothes, not in uniform. An area around one particular car, a black convertible, was cordoned off with barricades.600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwEcFTyvbZa
Soldiers were lifting everyone to their feet and lining them up single file on the dock. But the actresses were getting the "royal" treatment. They were marching ahead of the crowd, all by themselves.600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIGG9CzYVcq
Oh, Lord, thought Mischa. They're singling us out!600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOvL1REQWRb
