by Roddy Wix
Beretta paddled to a stop at the villa’s dock as his cell phone buzzed signaling the message he’d been waiting for.
Joey OK. Enroute to airport. Good hunting. See you on Bermuda.
See you on Bermuda? Possibly not. Frank wore a grim smile as he set about securing the kayak and gathering his pouch from the watertight compartment. He slid on a vest with large pockets containing the rest of the C4 and clips of ammunition for his side arm. He holstered his Glock pistol and picked up an Uzi from the small dry storage compartment. Ready to do battle he climbed the steps leading to the first level of terrace. Lights blazed in the grand salon, but the ornate room appeared to be empty.
He worked his way around to the kitchen in time to see the chef and her assistant scurrying out of the house. They took off at a dead run toward the motor court. Apparently the other intruder had given them the opportunity to bail out. Interesting. Frank stepped inside only to be overwhelmed by the smell of gas. He sensed that he and the mystery guest were on similar missions. Returning to the terrace he watched through the enormous windows as the mysterious attacker tried unsuccessfully to push Duccio out the front door. With the two of them distracted Frank decided to make his own move on Serge.
At the back of the house he retraced his earlier route and climbed the downspout to the third floor balcony. Frank, staying low, darted toward the open French doors and his showdown with Malroff. He stepped past the threshold with his Uzi held waist high. Serge, admiring himself in his fresh dark blue suit, caught sight of Beretta’s reflection in the grand mirrored wall of his bedroom.
“Well, if it isn’t the Big Bad Wolf. I was wondering when you would come skulking into my house.”
“You must have been wondering a long time. I’m only twenty-five years late.” Frank stood his ground though he did not move closer. The loathsome man turned to face him. Malroff's thin cold lips wore a cockeyed smile.
“Oh, no, no, no. I haven’t thought a bit about your failure all those years ago. Although, as I already told you, I have missed my playmate. You see, I'm just getting dressed to go meet your beautiful little Joey though I admit I wondered if you wouldn’t pay me a visit to beg for her release.”
“No begging, Serge and no mistakes this time. You know why I'm here.”
“Of course. According to you I’m dead. Except, it seems I’m not. And I thought you were a professional assassin. A dark agent of the CIA. So, why am I still alive?” Serge moved slowly toward the sofa with his hands up.
“Because I’m arguing with myself over how much pain I want you to feel before the end.”
“Not very professional of you, Frank."
“True, but this isn't a sanction. It's personal, Serge. I wanted to look you in the eye while you die.”
“I see.”
A razor edged throwing star seemed to materialize in Serge's hand and he hurled it with impressive force and accuracy. Frank dodged to his right but could not completely avoid the spinning blades and they tore into his left shoulder. The vest offered a little protection but the wound stung like a son of a bitch and blood began to flow. Serge raised his hand to fling another star when a gunshot echoed in the grand atrium followed by an explosion that rocked the core of the house. The Russian sprang to his feet and dashed toward the doorway.
At the same time Tommy the Grave Robber burst into the bedroom. As he climbed the staircase to the third floor the loyal Duccio took a shot at him and, in doing so, set off a conflagration that turned the first floor into his own funeral pyre.
Tommy, singed and smoldering bellowed, “You bastard. Malroff, you owe me two million dollars.”
Surprise registered on his face at finding Beretta standing just inside the terrace doors. The distraction proved costly. Before he could say anything more Malroff flung the other star at Tommy and this time with greater accuracy. The elegant little weapon found its mark and cut the man’s right carotid artery. Blood began pulsing out of his neck and he reeled backwards clutching at his throat.
Serge never before met the GraveRobber though he now regarded the man to be a bungler and a colossal failure. He spat out, “I owe you nothing, you fucking imbecile.” The crazed Russian followed after Tommy as he staggered backwards onto the open landing overlooking the three-story atrium. It was obvious to Frank what Serge had in mind and he simply looked on as he shoved Joey's kidnapper over the railing and into the raging fire. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend.
Beretta, like Katya Yusupov, had anticipated this moment, again and again visualizing what torture he might visit on the deserving lump of toxic humanity known as Serge Malroff. As Katya learned with Farouk Farnazzi, Frank understood that the time had come to have done with it. His Glock spit two rounds at Serge and the force drove him over the edge after Tommy the Grave Robber. Frank strode to the place where Serge had been and took off the vest full of C4. He dropped it on the floor and walked back into the bedroom. Standing in the open French doors and looking out at Lake Como he pushed a detonator switch.
Explosions ripped the villa apart breaking every window within a hundred yard radius. A fireball shot skyward and was plainly visible for miles. By the time the blaze got under control the roof had collapsed, as had the exterior walls above second floor. Serge Malroff and his home had been reduced to a smoldering heap of debris.
The local police arrived to find the chef and her assistant standing by the front gate in shock. They reported that a man had come into the house through the kitchen entrance and, at gunpoint, ordered them to leave. The chef's helper added that, as he was leaving, the intruder began turning on all the gas appliances. Not long after they exited there was a massive explosion. They both agreed that the man was medium height with grayish hair and an athletic build, but that was all the two living eyewitnesses remembered.
69.