Mako scanned the nearby faces and saw his father growing restless. He suspected the old man knew more than he was letting on. Every eye in the room was on Maldonado as he moved towards the canvas. Most of the people gathered thought it was nothing when he stuck his hand in his pocket, but Saba, John, and Mako knew otherwise.
John reacted first. Pushing past Faith, he started toward Maldonado, who was only a few steps away from the painting, but was hindered by his wounded leg. Mako watched as he stumbled. He knew John was the only one in position to reach the bishop in time. He had to trust his father.
Longino’s men inched closer, but seeing no immediate threat, they remained several paces away.
In two steps and a hobble, John reached the canvas at the same time that Maldonado’s hand pulled free of his pocket. It wasn’t a gun, or even much of a weapon—just a pocket knife, which he flicked open. If not for the journal and their own attempt at authenticating the Burial earlier today, Mako would have had no idea what the bishop was up to.
Deciding to save a painting was different than saving a life. To save a person, just redirecting the thrust could result in less damage being done. With the painting, a slash anywhere on it would cause it to be ruined.
Mako didn’t know why the bishop was determined to ruin the Caravaggio, but as the knife flashed, he had no doubt about the bishop’s intention.
Maldonado raised the knife. His hand started its downward motion.
“Stop him!” Mako heard John call out.
His father, limping badly on his wounded leg, was not going to reach the bishop in time. Longino’s men were to the side and slightly behind the painting. The bishop had been careful to use the large canvas to screen his movements.
Hearing John’s warning, the guards instinctively drew their guns. There was a slight pause as they looked to Longino. The mob boss nodded, but it was too late. Mako had to do it himself. He had inched close enough to reach Maldonado and, leaping toward the bishop, he reached for the hand that held the knife and slammed it down, taking himself and the bishop to the floor.
The knife clattered across the stone floor, and was quickly picked up by one of the security men. Mako rolled off the bishop, leaving the security guards to haul him to his feet. Mako was only feet from Saba. A smile crossed her lips, and he felt the heat rise in his face. Before he could respond in kind, the bishop’s voice chilled the room.
“This is clearly a forgery.” Maldonado played the priest card. He shrugged off the grip of the guards, who were loath to manhandle him. “It is my duty to see that this painting is destroyed.” He looked at Mako and John for support.
Mako knew the odds were against them. Two more security guards arrived and moved into position in front of the painting. The bystanders had drifted back into the shadows of the great hall. They were watching, riveted to the drama, but out of harm’s way.
“Step back, Bishop. As far as I know, you are not a qualified appraiser. Let’s leave it to the experts, shall we?” Longino tried to defuse the situation and salvage what he could of the unveiling.
“The Church commissioned the original. It belongs to God,” Maldonado countered. The bishop stepped forward, but the security guards closed the gap between him and the canvas.
Longino spread his hands out. “Then why would you want to destroy it before it can be authenticated?”
Mako thought that was a good question. He scanned the faces again, noticing something was still off with his father’s. The rest of the crowd had stepped back, leaving the six of them, Longino, Saba, Maldonado, John, Faith, and Mako, around the painting. Mako needed answers. He slid across the room to stand by John.
“What do you know about this?” Mako whispered.
“Not now. We just have to make sure the painting is not harmed.”
“Does that mean out of the hands of a mobster?”
“You’re damned right it does,” John responded.
Mako could see his father was agitated. Gripping his hands into fists, John had a scowl on his face. Before they could decide on a plan, Longino whispered an order to the guards, who started pushing the easel holding the canvas away from the fracas and toward the back of the room.
“Nothing we can do now, except get out alive.” John muttered something about losing the battle, but not the war.
Mako realized this might be their chance to grab Saba. She was still by Longino’s side, glued there by the occasional glance from one of the guards. As sideways as the reception had gone, Mako wouldn’t be surprised if bullets would be served up next. He felt naked, having been stripped of his weapon by Burga earlier.
He, John and Faith moved slowly out of earshot.
“Let’s get out of here so we can put ourselves in a position to follow,” John said, starting to limp toward the door.
“What about Maldonado and Saba?” Mako asked.
“Leave the bishop, get the girl.” John hooked his arm in Faith’s, using her as a crutch to accelerate his exit.
Longino frantically waved his hands, directing the staff to pour drinks. They reacted quickly and flutes of champagne were trayed and disbursed. Music started to play in the background. Thinking the drama was over, groups stepped out of the recesses.
Longino started to mingle. His focus now on salvaging the evening, he left Saba standing with the guards.
Mako stepped out of the shadows and approached them.
Longino was deep in the crowd now. Two of the guards were wheeling the easel away, while the other two restrained the bishop. There would not be a better time. Mako had to assume, if given the choice, the guards would watch Maldonado and protect the painting, leaving Saba their third priority.
Mako moved closer, carefully gauging the guards for any reaction. There was no need to attack; he only needed to get close enough to Saba to get her attention. Fifteen feet separated him from the group around the easel. It had been only two or three minutes since John and Faith had left. Unless they’d run into trouble, they should have the car around front any second.
Saba was watching him. He nodded, hoping to communicate to her it was time. Mako watched her gaze swing around to the guards. A questioning look crossed her face, asking him how he was going to do this.
It had to be now. The guards shifted suddenly. Mako turned his head to follow their gaze and saw Burga step out of the shadows. Reaching for Maldonado’s arm, the bishop started to object. Mako didn’t know or care what was happening between them. If anything, it was a welcome diversion. As the guards stepped closer to break up the pair, he held out his hand. Saba moved toward him. With a quick look over her shoulder, she took his hand, and followed him through the room.
36
Key Largo, Florida
Alicia had to decide between her passion and her career. The morning charter had gone well and, with only four divers, TJ and one of their part-time divemasters had handled it easily. Looking down at the dock from their kitchen, she watched the afternoon group assemble.
TJ and Alicia each supported their individual causes. His was veterans’ groups and the reputed benefits diving had on treating PTSD; Alicia’s was working with the disabled to allow them to dive. They also shared a common goal of preserving the reef, and worked with several coral reef restoration programs when they needed volunteer boats. Today allowed them to combine all of these interests, but it would require that she leave the war room and be out on the water.
With the reef less than five miles from the mainland, they were within range of the cell towers. That was the deciding factor. It was evening in Italy now, and she expected a quiet night. The gunshot wound to John’s leg was troubling; however, Mako and John assured her that it was more of a nuisance than a problem. She was well aware of the Storm gene that enabled them to effortlessly lie about themselves. All she could do was hope John had enough sense to stay off the leg and take it easy, at least overnight.
She decided to go on the dive trip.
One of the first lessons Alicia had learned a
t the Agency was that making decisions by committee rarely led to the right choice. However, with John and Saba in the mix now, it was required. Not directly part of their operation, she knew John had no problem acting as a lone wolf and Saba had already shown she had her own agenda. Either could endanger their contract if they weren’t dealt with properly. In order to sort this out, a decision had been made by consensus adding John and Saba to their partnership with Mako.
There were two people who knew where the journal was. With Saba being held by Carlota Burga, the plan they had decided on was to clean up the mess in the church and observe it tonight. If there was a chance to get Saba back alive and retrieve the journal, all the better.
Opening the refrigerator, she relished in the cold air for a few minutes while she pulled out several drinks. There were times, mostly in August, when she felt like pulling up a chair and sitting there. Technically the worst heat was past, as they had slid into fall, which for the Keys meant round three of summer. The skies were clear and blue with only a few puffy cumulus clouds decorating it. Reaching for the sunscreen on the counter, she liberally applied it to her face, grabbed a hat, sunglasses, and the cooler, then headed downstairs.
TJ was onboard talking to the two adaptive divers, who remained in their wheelchairs on the dock. She nodded to the men, and looked down the dock for Jen from the Coral Restoration Foundation, who would handle the coral installation. After their checkout dive had gone okay, the adaptive divers were scheduled to harvest and plant coral this afternoon. Veterans, especially those with PTSD, benefited from the gravity-free world underwater, without the rules and threats that caused their anxiety. That same environment allowed disabled divers the ability to dive.
In addition to the checkout dive, they’d already done a tour of the foundation’s facilities, where they had crafted the “trees” that held the small pieces of coral as they grew. Their first dive this afternoon was scheduled to be a tour of the coral nursery, a sandy area in twenty feet of water off Hawk Channel, where the PVC trees were placed. The second dive was planned for the reef, where the divers would “plant” the small coral pieces using epoxy to secure them in place.
“You okay with this?” TJ asked as Alicia hopped onto the gunwale to help the first disabled vet into the boat.
“As long as one of us is by the cell phone, we’re probably good. How much trouble could those two get into in four hours?”
TJ knew it was a rhetorical question and laughed. Neither wanted to think about the truth. The two Storms together were volatile enough that they could light a fire without a match.
Alicia worked with the two men, transferring them from their wheelchairs to the gunwale, where they spun around and dropped to the bench. The two leaned over and started to sort out their gear. Jen appeared around the side of the house, struggling with a bin and a large coil of rope. Alicia went to help her, taking the rope from her hands.
“What’s with that?” Alicia asked, as they walked to the boat. She had done several of these trips and never needed rope.
“Hemp rope. We’ve been trying to wind it through the larger pieces of coral and see if it attracts growth. It’s organic, so it’ll decompose without harming the reef or marine life.”
Back by the boat, Alicia hopped aboard, dropped the coil on deck, and reached for the bin holding the supplies they needed. Jen stayed on the dock ready to help with the lines.
TJ fired up the engines, and Alicia climbed up the ladder to the flybridge. She handed him her phone and descended to the deck to brief the divers.
“You all know Jen,” she started. “She’s already given you an overview of what we’re going to do, right? Once we get underway, I’ll do the dive briefing. The weather’s looking pretty good, so I expect we’ll get in at least two dives.”
TJ called down for Jen to release the lines. Tossing the bow first, Jen moved to the stern, untied the line from the cleat, leaving a half-turn still around the base and, with the bitter end in her hand, stepped onto the gunwale and down to the deck. Using the twin engines, TJ pivoted the bow out and called for her to release the line.
A half-mile of canals separated them from open water. Figuring they had about five minutes before the engines would make it impossible to hear, she moved between the men and explained the first dive.
It was a pretty straightforward twenty-foot dive. Being shallower than the thirty-three-foot limit, there were no decompression-related issues to worry about. Jen would show the vets how to harvest the coral that they would take to the reef and plant during the second dive. Alicia would be alongside, making sure the divers were weighted properly and comfortable in the water. The nursery was in a protected area inside the reef where there was generally little current; once they were on the outside that could change dramatically. The key to the adaptive divers’ success was proper weighting. That would be her main focus on the first dive.
Just as she finished the engines surged. After having been re-powered with twin diesel Cummins engines, the converted thirty-eight-foot sportfisher ran faster than many similar boats. Time was a key factor in the success of a charter operation. The additional horsepower cut close to an hour off each trip, allowing them to run three charters a day during the long summer light.
When they were past the last marker delineating the navigable channel from the shallow flats on each side, TJ nudged the throttles forward again. Ten minutes later they were circling the coral nursery. TJ stopped, allowing the boat to drift in the current. Once satisfied, he steered the reciprocal course of the drift, and anchored a hundred feet up-current of the waypoint.
The divers had inflated their buoyancy control vests and were waiting when Alicia splashed into the powder-blue water. She surfaced, gave TJ the okay signal, and released the air in her BC. Alicia stayed behind with the two divers and worked with them until she was certain that they were weighted properly, while Jen led the way toward the PVC towers. Once the two men looked comfortable, they exchanged okay signs and headed toward the nursery.
The coral “trees,” ten-foot-tall pieces of PVC pipe with thinner, shorter PVC “branches” attached with T-connectors, were planted in the sand. Dangling pieces of coral were suspended from them with monofilament fishing line, which made the trees look like Charlie Brown Christmas trees.
Alicia checked the men again then started the collection process. At ten-minute intervals she caught her divers’ attention. Pointing to her pressure gauge, she signaled for them to indicate how much air they had left. With a full tank being about three-thousand PSI, and the safe limit to surface five hundred, after a half hour she expected each diver to have about a half-tank remaining.
The first diver laid two fingers on his forearm, indicating he had two-thousand PSI left. The second diver set only one finger down. Divers ran the gamut in air consumption and there was little you could predict ahead of time. She would have to watch the second diver, and made a mental note to check again every few minutes.
With mesh bags full of coral to plant, they surfaced twenty minutes later, and with TJ’s help climbed aboard. Alicia helped TJ with the anchor while snacks and drinks were offered around. With the second site a little more than a mile further out, TJ motored at a relaxed rate while they changed their tanks over for the second dive. With the shallow depth of the first dive, there was no need for a surface interval, but with the seas running two feet from the southeast it would have been a bumpy ride at a higher speed.
By the time they had reached the second dive site, the equipment and divers were ready to get back in the water. Alicia moved toward the men, squatting between them for the dive briefing. This dive was more complicated: deeper and with more current than the nursery site. Jen had already shown them how to epoxy the coral to the reef during the dry-land training this morning. She would do a quick review and turn it over to Alicia. The powder blue water color told Alicia that they hadn’t crossed over the reef yet. She told the divers they had about ten minutes before the next dive. Wanting to che
ck her phone before they splashed, she started for the stainless-steel ladder that led to the flybridge.
A wave caught Alicia off-guard as she set her foot on the first rung, dropping her down to the deck. She looked back, only to find a gun pointed at her. Both of the divers had pistols out. One was aimed at her, the other at Jen.
“Come down to the deck,” one man yelled, motioning the barrel up at TJ.
“You two in the cabin,” the other man ordered the women.
“Bring the phones down, too,” the first man said as TJ descended the ladder. He and Alicia exchanged worried looks.
There was no choice but to comply. As Alicia moved back into the cabin she tried to think of anything in it that could be used as a weapon. There were no guns aboard, not even a bang stick. Dive knives were fairly useless as weapons. With their thick, short blades forged for prying as much as cutting, they were more of a tool. The mandatory flare gun came to mind. There were two onboard; one below decks and one on the bridge. Even if she could get to one, firing it on their own craft was a recipe for disaster. The cartridges could easily start a fire and kill everyone aboard.
She and Jen huddled together. One of the men kept his pistol trained on them, while the other tossed their phones overboard, and grabbed the hemp rope that Jen had brought. Moving to TJ first, the man bound TJ’s hands behind his back, then tied his ankles together, leaving him squirming on the deck. Then he turned to Jen and Alicia.
37
Castel Noto, Sicily
Once past the onlookers, Mako quickened his step just as Saba pulled her hand from his. The regular tapping of her heels on the stone floor suddenly ceased, and he glanced back to see she had stopped. Before he could question her, she removed the stiletto shoes that Longino had provided for her.
A few seconds later, now unencumbered, she caught up to him. They were out of sight of the guards and Mako maintained a fast walk, expecting a guard to be at the entrance. Once the doorway was in sight, he slowed. Though he would have rather run to the doors and smashed through them, acting normal was their best chance to escape. Through the open door of a room that looked like a converted coat closet—or in the case of a castle, an armory—Mako could see a single guard was focused on several small screens, probably monitoring what was happening in the reception room. Slowing further to appear as if they were just leaving, they walked by. The man merely nodded to them. Once past him, Mako fought the urge to look back, breathed out, and pushed the door open.
Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3) Page 17