Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3)

by Steven Becker

  Alicia had been intermittently asking if he was all right for several minutes. If he tried to respond either verbally or with a text, the woman would see or hear. By not answering, Alicia would assume he either had tech problems or was in trouble. Unfortunately, tech savviness was not in the Storms genes and she might assume his phone had gone dead. Either way, he knew Burga would be alert.

  Burga pushed Saba toward one of the statues situated on either side of the steps. It was as out of the way as any other space in the crowded plaza. Moving Saba toward the horse’s back end, Burga gestured for Mako to move closer.

  The three of them closed into a tight circle and when she was so close that Mako could smell the breath of the woman, she stated her demand.

  Surprising him, she looked right at Mako instead of Saba. “The journal … where is it?”

  A quick risk-benefit analysis told Mako that he needed to make his move now. For whatever reason, and it was highly possible that Saba had thrown him under the bus, the woman believed Mako had the journal. In her mind Saba was disposable. Mako couldn’t risk that.

  People often have a hard time knowing what to do with their hands in a stressful situation. Crossing your arms or leaving your hands at your sides is viewed as an aggressive posture. Placing his hands behind his back in a non-threatening pose allowed Mako’s right hand to reach for the pistol.

  His casual body language relaxed the woman just enough for him to make his move. Separating his hands, which had been interlocked in an “at-ease” stance, he slowly lifted his right hand under his shirt and removed the Glock. Using his leg to shield it from the woman, he shrugged in response to her question.

  Mako got the reaction he had wanted. Frustrated with the non-answer, the woman turned the gun on Mako. At the same instant Mako’s hand flew around his body. Oblivious to the screams of the bystanders, he trained the sights on the woman.

  “Run. I’ll be right behind you.” Now that he had found her, Mako was not letting Saba out of his sight.

  Saba executed a perfectly placed side kick to the woman’s midsection, causing her to hinge at the waist, then slammed her elbow into her back. Despite the velocity of the strike, the woman remained standing. Mako would have liked to make a play to disarm her, but Saba was already crossing the plaza. Mako saw an opening beside the building that Saba was running toward. From his vantage point, he could see a steep, narrow road leading down to the old Forum. Michelangelo had, by order of his patron, purposefully designed the plaza to face away from old Rome and directly toward the Vatican. The stairs leading up to the plaza had been built for horses and donkeys, not vehicles, necessitating the need for a service road.

  Mako could run. From grade school on, he’d been in the top three of every class, including Langley. In a half-dozen long paces, he caught up to Saba. Together they ran down to street level, not risking the time it would take to see if the woman was behind. They just assumed she would be.

  “Take the lead,” Mako said to Saba as they reached the street. “Alicia? We’ve got trouble.”

  “I assumed so from the radio silence. The phone’s too new for you to have burned up the battery already.”

  “If that’s Alicia Phon you’re talking to … “ Saba paused to breath. “We need to get to Syracuse.”

  “I heard. Get to the airport. I’ll have flights booked,” Alicia responded.

  The stairs ended at a main thoroughfare, where Saba turned right. Mako risked a look back and saw the woman about fifty feet back. Saba’s attack had slowed Burga, but the distance allowed for a shot if she wanted to take it. Mako could only hope the woman didn’t want to attract the attention that a gunshot would bring and be satisfied to follow. She too wanted the journal, and with either or both Mako and Saba dead, she would lose her chance to recover it.

  “Where are we going?” Mako asked, slightly out of breath. Saba was in an all-out sprint, dodging the tourists and souvenir vendors as she bolted down the street. Mako loped behind her, hoping she could hold the pace until they lost the woman.

  “The Palatine. I could lose myself there.”

  It made sense. Crowds of people were their friends. Staying to the outside of the rectangular Forum, they sprinted toward Palatine Hill.

  Piazza del Campidoglio, Rome

  Maldonado heard Saba’s warning and immediately scanned the room for any threats. It took only a second to see the woman moving toward them—a woman he unfortunately recognized—and another second to locate the closest exit. It was his situational awareness, ingrained into him from his youth on the streets of Chicago, again saved him.

  These same instincts were partly responsible for his surprising rise in the hierarchy of the Church. He was intent on gaining power not in the day-to-day business of a parish or diocese. It was Rome and the power in Vatican City that he was drawn to. Because of his aptitude for languages, as well as the relationships he had nurtured, he was assigned to the position he wanted: Vatican translator.

  Before the twentieth century, popes rarely traveled. Until the 1980s, some never even left the protection of the walls of Vatican City at all. Security was an issue on the first overseas visits by the papal entourage, an area Maldonado had a knack for. He had helped with the complicated arrangements, working on his own and with Vatican security and, in one case, physically intervened in a bad situation.

  That was how he had originally gotten noticed and endeared himself to two pontiffs Along with his relationship with Archbishop Marcinkus, a fellow American, Maldonado was able to bypass the heavily Italian-centric Roman Curia. Once elevated to a position of trust, it was his shrewdness that had kept him there. Anything but the stereotypical bishop, Maldonado played golf, a rarity for a clergyman and, despite his vow of chastity, he had a reputation as a womanizer. His offices always had the best- looking secretaries.

  Subverting the power structure as he had, as well as his tastes for “real world” indulgences, had made many enemies along the way, which in his current situation might hurt him. In Rome, especially within the art circles, he was a well-known figure. Being seen exiting through the side door of a museum would surely ignite the wrong kind of gossip. But a quick threat assessment told him that being caught inside a museum with both an Interpol agent and a Mafia boss would have worse consequences than a quick exit.

  Pushing past a tour group, he hit the bar on the steel door, hoping it wouldn’t trigger an alarm. Raising the collar on his jacket to hide his face, he lowered his head as he stepped onto the stone pavers.

  Two figures running caught his eye as they ran down the winding access road caught his eye: Saba Dragovich and Mako Storm. Following them was out of the question. He smiled for the first time since receiving the mysterious call from Saba. With John Storm’s son involved, he expected his old friend would help him out. Instead, he turned to the plaza and started walking at a brisk pace down the Cordonata. Upon reaching the street he waved to his waiting driver, who quickly pulled up the car and, with a glance around, ducked down into the backseat.

  “Back to the office?” the driver asked.

  Maldonado thought for a second. “No. Swing by my apartment and then the airport.”

  25

  Rome

  John held his temper. It was all he could do to make it through processing without incident. Frustrated that after disarming and escaping from the gunman he had walked right into the arms of two policeman, he stomped around the small cell. At least, for now, he was alone. He’d made his one phone call, regretting now that he hadn’t called the Embassy or State Department. Unaware of the Italian procedures, he slammed his open palms against the concrete block wall, and sat down on the spartan bed.

  He knew Alicia had the resources to free him, but time was of the essence. For all he knew the journal was already in Sicily. He glanced around. The cell had no windows, and his watch and other personal effects had been taken when he was processed. At this point, knowing the exact time didn’t matter. It was later than he expected the magistrat
es or judges worked, anyway. A night in prison was not on his agenda. Somehow, he needed to secure his release. Alicia could pull a rabbit out of a hat, but he wasn’t sure she could get him out of jail without a lawyer and hearing.

  The State Department was his best bet.

  With forty years of CIA operations on his resume, John was no stranger to jails. Having had to perform less-than-legal “jobs” on every continent save Antarctica, he could write a travel guide on foreign prisons. There were a whole lot of countries less accommodating than the Italians. At least that was in his favor.

  Most “modern” governments were cautious with their international detainees. By now, his identity would surely have been checked, verified, and with any luck, flagged. He could only hope that his status hadn’t been deleted when he “retired.” Even if it had been, that was something Alicia could fix.

  Through years of dealing with undesirables, prison guards had developed a talent where they could look at you without looking at you. For the majority of guards who hadn’t chosen the occupation to satisfy their masochistic tendencies, face-to-face confrontations with the dregs of society were not desirable. John knew a breakout wasn’t on the table. That would only get him killed. Still, out of habit, he studied the guards and, after a few hours in the cell, he knew their routines.

  Without any interactions to base his bias on, John had to use his gut to decide which guard to approach. Hearing the now familiar sound of rubber-soled boots on the concrete floor, John rose from the bunk and moved to the bars. It was the guard he wanted.

  “English?” John asked as the man walked by.

  Imperceptibly, the man changed the angle of his head just enough to see John out of the corner of his eye. He evaluated the threat and responded, “Some.”

  “I’m American, working for the State Department. Someone should have been here already.”

  “I have no idea of the procedures of the administrators.”

  At least he was honest. “How can I arrange to make a phone call?”

  The man rubbed his thumb against his fore and middle fingers leaving no doubt what it would take.

  John stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, and shrugged. The cell block was mostly full, making gestures safer than talking on the off-chance that another inmate within earshot knew English.

  The guard held up two fingers. John nodded. Two hundred euros to get out tonight would be well worth it.

  26

  Palatine Hill

  Earlier, Burga had insisted, at gunpoint, that Saba leave her bag in the car. Understanding the value of her Interpol credentials and passport, she carried a money belt around her waist. Bags got lost or stolen; for someone to liberate her of the belt would take the knowledge that it was there and the will to take it.

  Entering the grounds of the ancient Forum, the crowds forced them to slow their pace to what she called the tourist shuffle. Negotiating the paths between the ruins to avoid the tour groups, Saba risked a glance behind to insure Burga was in the same predicament. Unless she wanted a shootout, the woman’s firearm had been neutralized when Mako had shown his. Now, it was a strategic game of cat and mouse, with the airport the immediate goal.

  Ahead was the Arch of Titus, near the end of the Forum. The Colosseum rose above the rest of the ruins in the background. To the right was the gate allowing access to Palatine Hill. Reaching inside her clothes to swing the belt around to face her front, Saba continued pushing through the crowds. Once the pouch was accessible, she removed the slim, bifold wallet holding her credentials and continued toward the entrance. While Rome had a surprising number of free venues, mainly churches, the ruins of Palatine Hill were not one.

  “Interpol, please step aside,” Saba called out when they were still fifty feet from the gates. The crowd parted, allowing her and Mako to reach the entrance.

  Flicking the wallet open, Saba subverted the line, directing Mako toward the handicap entry, where she flashed her credentials. The attendant made an attempt to verify the ID, but Saba continued unabated. If there was a security force here, it was minimal, and she doubted, even if she was trying to get in for free, it was enough of a breach to call for reinforcements.

  “Come on. This is our chance.”

  “You know your way around here?” Mako asked, snagging a map from a holder mounted on a pole. “All looks the same to me.”

  Saba glanced back, “She’s going to have to wait in line. Hurry up,” she said, and bolted up a series of steps. The ruins here were of the wealthy neighborhood from Rome’s glory days. Now, all that was left of the residents’ power was the size of the foundations they passed. Otherwise the hill looked like many other urban parks, cut up by paths and heavily treed, rather than landscaped.

  Mako had shown that he was in shape, at least to run, but by the time they climbed two more steep flights of uneven steps he was winded. Standing with his hands on his knees, his body language told Saba to take a breather.

  She climbed one more set of steps at a brisk walk instead of a sprint, allowing them a short respite to catch their breath. The stakes were too high for a full-fledged rest. They looked back at the stairs. There were few straight lines in the park, outside of the decrepit foundation walls, leaving no clear line of sight to the entrance. Burga could be stuck in line, or one landing below. Saba guessed somewhere in the middle, leaving no time to waste.

  “That’s it for the stairs.” Saba pointed to the Colosseum. “We’ll work our way over there and grab a cab.” The park was bordered by a black cast-iron fence. The vertical spindles in between the larger posts were smooth and, with only a top and bottom rail running horizontally, would be near impossible to climb.

  “Ask Alicia to find us a way out.”

  “We can just wander out the gate down there,” Mako said, pointing to an exit.

  She had overlooked the simple solution, something Mako appeared adept at finding. Throughout her career, if there was one trait that had held her back, it had been her knack of making things complicated. In her defense, working in the world of stolen art, few things were cut and dried.

  “Sounds good.” She left the well-worn path, taking off cross-country in the direction of the gate. They were descending now, and after catching her breath, she started to move faster. The only problem was the hillsides, which were barren of vegetation, leaving Saba and Mako exposed. It wasn’t a full minute after she realized their predicament that her eyes locked onto Burga’s.

  She was making her way up a stairway they had ascended just a few minutes ago. Stopping with her hands on her hips, the woman surveyed the area. They ducked into a copse of trees. Saba’s choice to leave the trail system left her and Mako only a hundred feet from Burga. The advantage they had gained was now lost. Saba could tell from Burga’s body language that she was heavily winded, but looking at Mako, she decided he wasn’t in much better shape.

  Mako had his Glock drawn, and was about to swing into a shooter’s stance when Saba grabbed his arm and pulled the weapon out of sight. “That’s going to cause more problems than it’ll solve. A gunman out of uniform here is going to start a panic.” She thought about that for a second, realizing maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. The park was lightly patrolled, and even if they were subdued by the security guards, as long as there were no casualties, her credentials would be enough to walk away.

  “Fire a few shots at that hill.”

  Mako raised his brows in a questioning look. There was no time to explain. Burga had left the trail. The only thing in their favor was the uneven terrain that had her picking her way toward them, forcing her to use all four appendages. Until she reached better ground, she would be forced to come to a complete stop to shoot. Saba lost her patience. Grabbing the gun from Mako, Saba fired three shots at the grass embankment.

  Screams followed the gunshots. Turning back to the hill, with the gun extended in front of her, Saba started running for the cover of the trees at its base. Ahead was the ruins of the stadium, and beyond that
the street. In between was a cluster of buildings. Many of the ruins were less than six feet tall, remnants of walls and columns from the ancient buildings. Some defied time, standing their full two stories with part of the roof structures still intact. It was a random pattern that Saba hoped would provide enough cover to conceal them.

  They were halfway down the hill when a clump of dirt flew up two feet to her left. A millisecond later a blast echoed through the ancient buildings, which, even over two thousand years, had never been filled with that sound. Another shot struck closer, forcing Saba to serpentine the rest of the way down the hill.

  Saba reached the trees first, and turned with Mako’s Glock extended, ready to provide covering fire for him. It wasn’t necessary, and he reached the trees a second later. Burga was half-running, half-falling down the hill. She’d had to make a decision to shoot or follow. The terrain made it impossible to run and shoot with any accuracy at the same time. Saba suspected from the placement of the shots that they were more for effect than to cripple or kill them. Without stopping to take aim, a shot from a handgun would be inaccurate.

  A left-hand arrow on a sign pointed them in the direction of the Temple of Apollo and then the street. Mako stayed a step behind, allowing him to glance back every few steps to locate Burga. Once they entered the ruins, they scrambled through what remained of the door and window openings and vaulted low walls in what he hoped was a direct path to the street.

  They stopped just short, finding themselves standing on top of a stone wall. Below was the field of the stadium, its old structure visible in the columns and foundation walls. A ten-foot drop separated them from the next step in their escape plan. Stairways at each end of the stadium provided access. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the time to reach them and still maintain a lead on Burga. Nodding to each other, they crouched and launched themselves off the wall.