by Rob Jones
“Where is the bull, Bruno?”
“On the southern patio.”
“Fire it up.”
“No!” Stefano screamed. “Please... I’m sorry! I never meant to insult you.”
“Goodbye, Stefano.”
The young man screamed and tried to lash out as the much stronger and older Bruno dragged down to the southern patio where the Brazen Bull awaited.
Zito’s mind drifted away from the moment and turned once again to the Irish woman upstairs and the manuscript on the lid of his grand piano just in the next room.
And that weird golden statue.
*
Richard Eden lay as still as the dead in a small hospital in West London. Outside in the corridor the two plain clothes police officers were taking it in turns to get some sleep, but the man they were protecting was unconcerned with their problems. He had plenty of his own, starting with the induced coma he was in and ending with the man they knew as the Oracle.
After getting past the intense security, any visitor to his room who knew the man always responded the same way – a shallow, polite gasp and then an overwhelming sense of pity as their eyes danced over the tangle of wires and tubes keeping Sir Richard alive for yet another day.
Eden wasn’t bothered by any of this. Right now he was sixty feet above the frozen Yorkshire countryside, running as fast as he could over the trainasium. He didn’t now how it had happened, but now he was a young man again, in his early twenties, and working his arse off to get through P Company selection. All he had ever wanted was to be an officer in the Parachute Regiment and this was his one shot at making it happen.
Pegasus Company, or P Company as the men knew it, was the toughest selection test in the British Army. Anyone who put themselves up for it faced weeks of punishing beastings and savage physical exertion, not to mention the notorious aerial assault course.
But Eden was in his element.
Reaching the end of the jump illusion he climbed back down to the ground in a hail of abuse from a screeching drill sergeant but he had done it. He would win the world-famous maroon beret and parachute badge. He deserved it. A commissioned officer in the Parachute Regiment.
Now things changed and he was in the back of a C130 by the rear door. It opened to reveal more black. They were ripping over the English countryside in the middle of the night. It was winter. A freezing cold crosswind clawed at the aircraft and it descended down to six hundred feet.
Civilian parachute jumps started high – usually ten thousand feet. The reason was simple – a better view for the money and more time to fix the chute if anything went wrong. This was not how the Parachute Regiment rolled. The Paras were not interested in sightseeing and a jump from that altitude meant giving the enemy enough time to locate you, track you and shoot you dead before your feet hit the ground.
When the Paras jumped out of a plane they did it at low altitude. This meant there was no time for the enemy to track and shoot you, but it also meant you had only five to ten seconds to fix any problems with the chute because after that you were hitting the ground at terminal velocity.
Eden took a breath. He felt the freezing winter air scratching at him from the cavernous black mouth at the rear of the Hercules. He was number one in the door, and that meant a good free jump and then no problems with the chute opening.
When paratroopers jumped from a plane they moved fast. The objective was to get all the troopers out the back gate and into the drop zone in a few seconds and then the aircraft could climb back up to a safe altitude. It also meant keeping the paratroopers together in the battle zone rather than all over the place.
For this reason, the men stood on either side of the aircraft facing the door in two lines and jumped out at half-second intervals. The faster the better, but this meant those at the back had their air stolen by the men at the front. When a parachute opened, it pulled down air inside its canopy, so when you jumped out right over the top of the man in front of you, there wasn’t enough air for your chute to open fully, and it would stay collapsed until it found enough air to open properly.
Tonight, Eden was first and that meant no air thieves.
The go light flicked on.
No time to think.
Out the door a heartbeat later, falling into the black night. The ground raced up to him. Low-level parachute descent at twenty-one feet per second. Three seconds for the chute to deploy. Full equipment and weapons strapped to him. His mind buzzed. Emergency aircraft exit drill. The ground got closer. The darkness swallowed him whole.
But why couldn’t he move anymore? And where had the aircraft gone? Everything was black, and his arms and legs were as heavy as lead. He felt a hideous presence looming behind him in the darkness. Was it the Oracle and his Athanatoi army, hunting him even here in the darkest recesses of his mind?
He felt like he was going mad.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Positano
“So that’s where this Zito scumbag is keeping Lea,” Ryan said. “An exclusive private island crawling with armed security, and it’s up to us save her.”
“And the manuscript and idol,” Hawke said.
Ryan dragged on his cigarette and blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the parasol over their heads. “Of course, the manuscript and idol.”
Hawke peered through the gap in between Lexi and Devlin opposite him and watched a speed boat cutting through the turquoise water in the cove. Beyond it, the sun flashed on the Tyrrhenian Sea. His eyes followed the boat until it vanished behind the cliffs at Laurito, and he was startled back to reality by the sound of Lexi laughing loudly.
Thanks to Magnus Lund and his contacts in Interpol it hadn’t taken more than an hour to identify the gunmen who had raided Flynn’s and snatched Lea. Jake’s CCTV coverage of both inside and outside the bar offered near total coverage and while the men had worn masks they had been able to follow the car all the way out to a small private airfield just north of the city.
After that it was a matter of tracing the aircraft – a Beechcraft King Air registered to a man named Giancarlo Zito. He described himself as a ‘businessman’, but Lund’s interpol man had clarified what that meant, and it turned out Zito was a drug-trafficking mobster with tentacles connecting him to the criminal underworld all over Europe. The intel also hooked up nicely with the manuscript thieves who had been traced to Naples.
And now they were here in Positano studying the mobster’s private island. It wasn’t the first time Hawke had stormed an island but it would be one of the trickier times – locals warned that the tides around the island were unpredictable and dangerous, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Zito was notoriously paranoid about being monitored by the Italian Government and kept a constant guard around the island with several armed men.
“What do you have in mind, Joe?” Kim said.
“From looking at the island on Google Earth, it’s impossible to land there unobserved, especially considering how many men Zito has on the island. It’s too far out to swim to, even for me, so there’s only one option.”
“Parachutes?” Ryan said.
Hawke gave him a look. “No, not parachutes.”
“Was that a stupid question?” Ryan asked.
“He who asks Google a question is a fool for five minutes,” Lexi said, lighting a cigarette and exhaling the hot smoke. “But he who does not ask Google a question stays a fool for life. Ancient Chinese proverb.”
Hawke watched Scarlet Sloane walking back over to their shaded table. She had been in the bars and restaurants asking locals for information. Reaper, who had made the short flight from Marseille, was walking beside her.
“Anything?” he asked.
She nodded. “Just met a lovely waiter chap named Mario.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Here we go again. It’s not enough to break Jack Camacho – now she’s going to shag her way along the Amalfi Coast.”
“You’re only jealous, tiny,” Scarlet said with a wink.
“Who is thi
s person?” Hawke asked.
“Just a barman,” Reaper said.
“One of his friends used to work for Zito a long time ago,” said Scarlet. “He got on the wrong side of him and ended up in traction for a few weeks.”
“Are we still talking about Zito now, or are we back on Camacho?” Ryan asked.
“I’ll put you in fucking traction in a minute,” Scarlet said.
Ryan opened his arms, cigarette hanging off his lower lip. “I’m right here.”
“You’d wet yourself if I came anywhere near you.”
“Now you’re just being rude,” Ryan said.
“What did this Mario say?” Hawke said, bringing things back to business.
“Well, according to him, Zito sends a small boat out to the smuggling ships and meets them in the middle of the Med. The heroin shipment is transferred to the boat which then comes back to the Isola Pacifica. The island’s private so the authorities aren’t interested in the comings and goings of a millionaire’s speed boats, so how does he get the heroin onto the mainland?”
Hawke smiled. “This sounds like my territory.”
“Exactement,” the Frenchman said.
Scarlet lit a cigarette. “Young Mario says he uses a small submarine to bring the dope from the island into Positano, and from here it’s loaded onto trucks and transported all over the rest of Italy and even further away to countries like France, Switzlerand and Austria.”
“He’s got to be using an Aurora,” Hawke said.
“This is what I was thinking,” Reaper said.
“So the only question is – where does he land the thing when he brings it to the mainland?” Lexi said.
“That cost extra,” Scarlet said with a weary smirk. “For a small bribe, Mario told me he uses a quiet cove to the east of the town in a place called Arienzo. He says this is because not only is it away from the town but it’s got faster access to the main road leading over to Salerno and Zito has a small villa there.”
“Little bastard has it all worked out,” Devlin said with a shake of his head. “And here’s me thinkin’ I should work for a living when all I had to do was get me a minisub and smuggle smack.”
“That’s illegal, Danny,” Kim said.
“So it is!”
Kim sipped the last of her beer and set the bottle down on the table. It was getting hot now and she leaned back in her chair. “Do we know when the next shipment is?”
Scarlet shook her head. “All Mario could tell me was they come every few days because that way the quantities are kept small enough for the sub. He said there hasn’t been one for at least two nights so chances are good that either tonight or tomorrow night we’re on.”
“So all we have to do is get a nice little hidey-hole near that cove and wait for the action,” Ryan said.
Hawke tapped his fingers on the wooden table. “Nothing’s ever that simple, mate.”
“Maybe,” Ryan said with a tired smile. He stubbed his cigarette out and immediately opened his matchbox to light another. “Maybe not.”
Scarlet frowned. “So who draws the short straw?”
“To go and get killed, you mean?” Ryan asked.
“No, the short straw means you have to stay here and do fuck all. Going to the island means shooting and violence.”
Ryan cupped his hands around the match to stop the sea breeze extinguishing the flame. “In that case, count me in.”
“The sub in question only has four seats,” Hawke said. “I’m the only one who can pilot it, plus I want two others.”
“But that’s only three,” Scarlet said.
Ryan shook his head. “She’ll work it out in a second. This is precisely why you shouldn’t drink Scotch at this time of the day.”
“It’s coffee,” Scarlet said, cuffing Ryan around the back of the head.
Ryan laughed. “That coffee’s more Irish than Danny.”
“It is not,” Scarlet protested. “I’m a professional, and I can count as well. Surely we can get four of us into the sub and still have room to bring Lea back? The only question is – who gets all the excitement?”
Hawke rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “We’ll draw straws.”
Kim Taylor pulled the straw out of her drink.
“What are you doing?” Lexi asked.
“We’re drawing straws, right?”
Lexi rolled her eyes, ejected the magazine from her gun and put it in the center of the table. She spun it around and it stopped with the muzzle pointing directly at Danny Devlin. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re on the mission.” She spun it again and this time the muzzle pointed at her. “Looks like you can be my wing man, Devlin.”
“In your dreams.”
“Not fair,” Scarlet said. “She cheated. She must have a magnet stuffed down her bra.”
Reaper laughed and gave a shrug. “I will be forced to stay here and suffer an evening drinking wine on the Amalfi coast. C’est la vie.”
Scarlet stubbed out her cigarette and shot a quick, doubtful look at Devlin. “I still want to come.”
Hawke gave her a look. “You’re staying here, Cairo.” As he spoke, he slipped a box of Magtech nine mil rounds from his bag and started to load a magazine for his Glock. He repeated the process with a spare magazine, and then a third time. The weapon held seventeen nine mil calibre rounds and packing a couple of spares meant he had fifty-one shots for the rescue mission. He put all three loaded mags in his bag with the Magtech box and the weapon and then raised the coffee to his lips for another sip. He fixed his eyes on Scarlet. “Is that all right with you?”
“I suppose so, but what am I supposed to do? Tweaking Ryan’s ears can only amuse a girl for so long.”
“You call Lund,” Hawke said. “And ask him what the hell we’re supposed to do when we get the manuscript. As for the rest of us, we’re heading out to Zito’s island as soon as we can get hold of that sub. Lea’s depending on us.”
*
Alex Reeve gripped the plush, leather armrests of her seat as the colossal Boeing VC-25 started to descend toward the British clouds. For a while, she tracked the progress of the aircraft’s shadow as it danced on the cloud-tops, but then the descent pushed them lower and the plane and its shadow became one as they ploughed into the cloudscape. Seconds later a wave of turbulence started to bounce her around in her seat.
Air Force One was almost a flying palace and cost millions of dollars to keep in the air on every flight. It was the safest plane in the world, carrying the most sophisticated anti-missile flares and radar jammers. She knew this thanks to Agent McGee who had bored her with this and a lot more, including how technically any aircraft carrying the President automatically became “Air Force One”, but there was one thing that was the same as every other plane she had been on: the turbulence.
At least it wasn’t the E-4B NAOC “Doomsday Plane”. NAOC stood for National Alternate Operatons Center and was a flying bunker to be used by the President in the event of a serious attack on the United States. That one really freaked her out.
“Buckle up.”
She looked up to see Agent McGee looming above her. For once, he wasn’t wearing his mirror-shades and she was able to look into his eyes. With the glasses on he looked like any of the other agents, but now he had become human again, and he looked kind. “Consider it done,” she said with a half-smile.
He gave a brief nod and then sat down opposite her, buckling himself in. “We’re on the ground in five minutes,” he said. “Then it’s straight to the hotel. In the morning we go to the G8 summit. After that we’re at Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen and have dinner and then the next day the President will meet the Prime Minister in Downing Street. After that he’s going to address both Houses of Parliament in Westminster Hall and then it’s wheels up. All set?”
Alex nodded. “Sure.”
“We’ll keep away from the press as much as we can, but they always get something, okay?”
Another nod. They always get some
thing, she thought. Pictures of the poor wheelchair-bound President’s daughter splashed across the tabloids; column inches devoted to what had happened to her, what life she led, what she was wearing, her hairstyle. “Thanks Brandon,” she said quietly.
“No problem. It’s my job. I’m on your security detail, not the President’s, and I’ll do my best to make sure you’re protected at all times.”
A sense of politeness made her give him another brief smile, but the truth was she still had not come to terms with her father’s new role as the world’s most powerful man, and that coupled with a sense of her own vulnerability made her uneasy. Now, glancing out the window she saw the green fields of England’s rural south as Air Force One turned to final approach and its landing at Heathrow Airport. Wondering what Joe Hawke and the rest of ECHO were doing, she closed her eyes and prepared for a whirlwind couple of days.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lea Donovan opened her eyes and saw nothing but white. She blinked and noticed an ornate chandelier suspended from the ceiling. The scent of roses and cedar wood drifted over her face. She blinked again and heaved herself up on her elbows.
She was on a large four poster bed covered in white sheets, and beside her was a small table with a glass of water and a bowl of potpourri. Now she smelled the cinnamon and cloves. It was all very comfortable.
But not safe.
She took a deep breath and swung her legs off the bed. Pushing through some silk voiles. She emerged into a large, expensively furnished bedroom and took in her surroundings. Modern, clean lines and abstract art on the walls. Eclectic tastes.
A scream.
“What the hell was that?” she muttered, walking over to the window.
She heard another horrifying, blood-curdling scream. Was it some kind of animal? It sounded almost like a bull in tremendous pain, but there was a human quality to the agony that gave her the jitters.
The room had two large windows each with its own juliet balcony. She went around to the other window and pushed it open. The screams were louder now, and coming from behind the house. She considered climbing over the balcony and lowering herself down to the ground. Leaning over the top rail of the balcony she counted the windows down the ground and realized she was three floors up: no dice on the escape plan.