The SUV sat only feet away. Mako ran to the car, opened the back door, and waited while Saba, treading gingerly over the crushed limestone paving, climbed in. Before the door closed behind him, the car spun out, surely leaving ruts from the tires. John was at the wheel, his wounded left leg not a problem driving the automatic vehicle. They sped down the driveway, only to see a set of headlights flash behind them as they turned onto the road.
Mako could only hope another guest had seen them leave and decided it was in their best interest to exit as well. After making a left turn, John accelerated. Mako, straining to see behind them, saw the headlights again. They appeared sooner than he expected, and unless the guest was a Formula One driver, they had company.
“Car on our tail,” Mako called out to John.
“Got him.” The SUV shuddered as John accelerated. “The lights are low to the ground. Looks like a sports car. I saw an Alfa Romeo in the parking area.”
“Shit.” Mako grabbed the handle above the door as John took a hard turn. To reach Syracuse and the journal, they would have to negotiate the same steep, winding road they had come up. With the high center of gravity of the SUV, these conditions would heavily favor the sports car.
“Open the glove box,” John ordered Faith. She had been so quiet that Mako had forgotten she was there until she handed John his 1911.
When a bullet ricocheted off the rear bumper, Mako, once again, regretted being unarmed.
38
En route to Syracuse
Mako felt the outside wheels lift as John took another tight turn. The winding roads of the foothills favored the sports car behind them. Mako looked back, noticing its headlights were brighter now. Able to speed around the turns faster, the Alfa Romeo was steadily gaining. The best Mako could hope for was a mechanical failure. It was an Italian sports car—the inevitable breakdown would happen—but when?
The shots had stopped, either from not wanting to send the SUV and its occupants over the guardrail to their certain deaths or because the road was winding enough not to allow their pursuers to aim.
Mako suspected it was the former. “Whoever it is, they want us alive.”
“Everyone who knows where the journal is hidden, is in this car. They can’t afford to lose us,” Saba said.
“Maldonado knows if he’s checked the security cameras,” John muttered.
Mako looked back at the car, now only a few hundred yards behind them. The sports car gained on them on the turns and fell back on the straightaways. Mako wondered about that, thinking its occupants might be worried that the SUV would return fire.
“Maldonado has access to the church, and if he knows the journal’s there ... ” John said, loud enough for them all to hear this time.
“Now that we’re all together, it’s our top priority, anyway,” Faith said.
Mako slid over, trying to catch a look at her in the rearview mirror. These were the first words she’d spoken since they’d left the castle. Faith had proven to be quiet and pragmatic, the kind of person that when she spoke, people listened.
“She’s right,” Mako agreed.
“So, to the church?” John asked, leaning his body into the door as he took another hard turn. “Once we’re out of the foothills, we’ll have a better chance of losing him.”
Mako saw the lights of a town below them. Pulling out his phone, he opened the maps app to see where they were. From this distance all he could see were two church spires with lights spread out in between. The classic Sicilian town: church on the bottom of the hill; church on the top. The rest of the town falling in between.
“Why not lead them right to the church? Let them expose themselves, and see who it is,” Saba said.
The road straightened out as it descended to the town. Mako could see John’s eyes flit to the rearview mirror, both to check on the car, but also to catch Mako and Saba’s eyes.
“It appears we have two enemies, but that’s not what’s important. The journal means nothing if we can’t figure out who benefits from possessing it.” John laid out the problem.
Faith turned sideways in her seat. “Follow the money.”
Before he could respond, Mako grabbed the headrest of the seat in front of him as the car barreled around another turn. John had already voiced his displeasure with Italian drivers several times. With the thickening traffic, his complaints became more frequent. He’d quickly adopted the gestures of the locals. Releasing the wheel, he flipped off each car that offended him, almost as if he was enjoying himself. The lights of the town were approaching, forcing John to resume his concentration on the road ahead, and allowing them time to think.
“This is the time to speak up if you want to ditch whoever’s back there,” John said, as they passed a sign for the highway two kilometers away.
“I’d like to know who it is,” Saba said.
“Me, too. If we’re going to figure out who the enemy really is, we need to know who’s back there,” Faith said.
“One thing is guaranteed,” John said, as he cut the wheel to the right and accelerated onto the ramp. “There’s never one enemy.”
Mako knew that was the truth. “Okay, so we take a speed limit ride back to Syracuse and see what they do?”
“Fine by me,” John said. Reaching under his thigh he pulled the .45 he had placed there, and handed it back to Mako. “Just in case.”
Mako took the 1911. After ejecting the magazine and checking how many rounds it contained, he did a chamber check, then reinserted the magazine. The full magazine settled him, though he still didn’t know who pursued them, or if they were outgunned.
Once John had settled into the left-hand lane, they all glanced behind, trying to locate the sports car’s headlights. A steady stream of traffic was pouring in from the entry ramp and merging across the lanes of traffic, making it difficult to distinguish the Alfa Romeo. Several vehicles had the low profile of the sports car, making it impossible to tell if they were still being followed, and which car it might be. Mako chambered a round, and set the pistol on his lap—just in case.
As the miles ticked by, theories were discussed and discarded. Faith was extremely helpful in analyzing the ins and outs of the art world. Saba seemed closed-minded—in her opinion, everything went back to the Church. Mako couldn’t help but think she had some kind of axe to grind. He filed that away for future thought. John was quiet. He had determined, after several unannounced lane changes, including one where he drove on the exit lane until the last second to flush out their pursuers, that the Alfa Romeo was indeed behind them. It had remained a consistent three or four cars back, only making one mistake when he feigned the exit.
Mako let most of the talk between Faith and Saba go in one ear and out the other. His job was to recover the journal and turn it over to Alicia’s contact. He fully understood it was not that simple, but chose, as he tended to, to look at what was in front of his face, rather than chase ghosts.
John appeared to have heard enough.
“They’re both forgeries.”
“How can you be so sure?” Faith asked.
“We proved it this morning with the journal,” he answered.
“I don’t think it’s quite that easy,” Faith said, turning in her seat to see if Saba would back her up.
Mako noticed Faith’s eyes as they lingered on him before shifting to Saba. He’d seen that look before. She wanted his approval as well, and sensed a cat fight.
“She’s right. You’ve got to step back in time into both the political state of Italy in the early 1600s and Caravaggio’s personal state of affairs.” John provided the history.
“The last part’s easy. He was a twisted mofo,” Mako said. “I’d like to have a beer with him if he were around today.”
“He’s not far off.” Faith brushed a strand of hair away from her face and smiled at Mako. “Italy wasn’t really Italy then. It was broken into several areas controlled by the Papal States, Spain, and countless bandits-turned-mercenaries, several of whic
h grew to what were essentially small armies with hundreds of cavalry and infantrymen.”
“What’s that got to do with our boy?” Mako asked.
“They all wanted a piece of him, either literally or figuratively, and sometimes both. Caravaggio was licensed to carry a sword in Rome, probably not a good idea, as the outcome was a murder that saw him exile himself rather than face the authorities. He continued his exploits, leaving a string of artwork, and blood, behind him.”
“Okay, the dude was stone cold. Bring it back to the Church and the paintings.”
John stopped the conversation as they approached the bridge leading into Syracuse’s old town. “We need a plan.”
As if they all expected the elder Storm to have one, there was a long pause as the SUV crossed the V-shaped channel. Mako turned back to look, and with the thinning late-evening traffic, was able to see the sports car.
“We either set a trap, or draw them out,” Saba said.
“Maldonado is in the wind,” John said. “It makes sense to check the church first. If he finds the journal while we’re dicking around with whoever is back there, this is all for naught.”
They were just a few blocks from the Piazza Duomo. “Sounds good,” Mako said, lifting the pistol from his lap. “How about you drop me around the corner over there? I’ll take a position where I can see the entrance.”
“Not without me, you’re not.” Saba had her hand on the door handle.
Mako knew he had no choice. Any delay and he would be caught in the headlights coming toward them. The SUV slowed. Mako glanced at Saba, who nodded that she was ready. Simultaneously, without waiting for the vehicle to stop, they opened the doors and bailed out on each side. Separating, they sprinted for the cover of the shops lining the road.
Without slowing, the Alfa Romeo sped by a few seconds later. Mako caught Saba’s eye across the narrow street. He gave her the all-clear sign, and she sprinted across. They found themselves a block away from the small café where Mako had spent an hour this morning. His larger tip might pay off now, as It appeared the same waiter was still working.
Taking Saba’s hand, to appear more as lovers rather than spies, he felt the familiar tingling when she returned the pressure. “The café.” Mako led her across the street. They took an empty table, and sat next to each other instead of across. The catty-cornered seating arrangement allowed them a clear view of the church’s entrance.
Twice while they waited for their espressos the Alfa Romeo circled the block. Mako took out his phone and texted John an update. He knew from his childhood that communication was the way to settle down his overly anxious father. The last thing he needed was for the old man to go all cowboy. Between Faith’s inexperience and John’s injury, they were all better off if that pair waited in the car.
Mako had his phone in his hands when the car passed again, and took a chance at taking a picture. The tinted windows prevented him from seeing the occupant, but he was able to get a shot of the license plate.
“Can you run this without getting in trouble?” Mako slid the phone across to her.
“Shouldn’t be a problem.” She pulled out her own phone and texted someone the tag number.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“The Church connection. You think there’s something there?” Mako decided to try and draw her out while they waited.
Saba brought the cup to her lips and sipped the dark brew. “It’s a long twisted story.”
Again she was cut off as the Alfa Romeo came into view. This time it stopped in front of the church. The driver’s-side door opened and Maldonado appeared.
“Shit,” Saba whispered through gritted teeth.
Mako was thinking the same thing, wondering where you drew the line when a bishop was involved. The question resolved itself when Burga stepped out of the passenger door. The gun that had fired on them earlier was no doubt hers—or the one she had taken from him. In the dim light of the entry Mako could see Maldonado unwind his tall frame from the driver’s seat. Together, like old friends, they walked toward the side entrance.
39
Key Largo, Florida
The two “adaptive” divers set their tanks and gear by the tuna door, a passage cut through the transom used to haul big fish aboard. Alicia drew her breath in as one of the men fired several shots at the deck. The distinctive smell of fuel wafted through the bullet holes. At least one shot had hit the tank. The man waited an interminable minute, then he and his partner geared up.
Questions were pointless. The only saving grace was the fuel was diesel and would burn, not explode. That might give them enough time to escape—or cook them alive.
TJ was a gamer, boat captain, and dive guru. He’d been caught up in some of Mac Travis’s adventures, but only in those capacities. This was not in his wheelhouse—or Alicia’s. She was an analyst; her only experience in the field was with Mac’s sidekick, Trufante. Learning from the wily Cajun was a different curriculum than the agency taught. Hopefully something had stuck that would get them out of this mess.
One of the men set his mask in place, cleared his regulator, and stepped off the swim platform. Alicia bit her tongue as she watched him stand easily. The wheelchairs had been a ruse. She had suspected something was different about these two during the checkout dives yesterday. Both men had muscular legs—it should have been ample warning. Her passion had over-ridden her gut. Alicia could see the guy’s head bobbing in the two-foot waves behind the boat as the other man found and turned on the switch for the manual bilge pump. The diver in the water disappeared a moment later, a swath of bubbles the only sign of where he had been.
The smell of diesel was thick in the air as the second man prepared to dive. Sticking the weapon in the cummerbund of the BC vest, he pulled something out of one of their dive bags before tossing them both overboard. He appeared in no rush, as he donned his mask, swung his right arm around his back to snag the regulator hose, and set the mouthpiece in his mouth. With one last look around, he revealed the object he had taken from the bag.
Leaning over, he raised the hatch that covered the bilge, and flicked the wheel, which sparked when it came in contact with the flint. A second later Alicia watched as the yellow glow of a flame flashed against the dark bilge. The diver dropped the lighter, paused to make sure it had caught, and ran for the bow. Alicia lost sight of him as he vaulted off the front of the boat to avoid the fuel slick floating back in the current.
The terror in the groups’ eyes was illuminated as the bilge caught fire. Seconds later, following the trail of fuel pumped overboard, the water surrounding the boat was ablaze. She caught TJ’s and Jen’s eyes and saw their panic. It was up to her to get them out of this. All she could think was, “What would Trufante do?”
40
Piazza Duomo, Syracuse
“Well, I guess you’re right. The church is right in the middle of this,” Mako said, after they absorbed the implications of Burga and the bishop working together.
“And, if John is right about the cameras, they know where we hid the journal.” Saba paused. “I should have thought about it, but we were in a church ….“ They might appear to be BFFs right now, but Carlota Burga’s notorious for her lack of patience.” Saba leaned into Mako for a better view of the church.
Mako accepted his part of the blame as well. Despite the situation, it was hard not to enjoy her touch. It lasted for only a second as the bishop disappeared inside the building. Mako rose, and dropped a ten euro note on the table. The earlier extravagant tip had proven worthwhile; he just had to remember to update his expense account, which usually meant texting Alicia whenever he spent anything. There was no doubt it pissed her off, but he wasn’t about to do paperwork. Thinking of Alicia, he checked his phone as he followed Saba around the corner.
There was nothing. No missed calls, voicemails, or texts. Very unusual. Once the bishop and the journal were squared away, he would have to find out what had happened to her.
Saba
ducked into the recessed doorway of one of the shops lining the street. Mako followed her, peering over her shoulder. Burga had followed Maldonado into the church. Seconds later the door closed.
“Come on. Maybe he left it unlocked. He knows we’re around here.” Mako started for the door.
Saba pulled him back. “Don’t you people believe in backup?” She gave him a frustrated look. “Call John and tell him what we’re doing.”
“I’ve got his gun. He’s got nothing besides a greenhorn and a shot-up leg.”
“How about we ditch your daddy issues? He’s a trained agent.”
Mako knew the only course was to comply, and texted John rather than calling. A second later his phone vibrated with a text saying “OK.” Mako turned back to Saba. “We’re good to go.”
“Give me that thing. Do you even know how many rounds are left?” She took the gun, ejected the magazine, and checked the chamber.
“Only need one. Maybe two if he’s quick.”
“Okay, there are seven and one in the chamber. This thing weighs a ton.” She inserted the magazine, and handed it back to Mako.
“Old school likes his .45s.” Mako settled his right hand around the grip. “Not so bad if you don’t have to conceal it.”
Saba gave him a “whatever” look, checked for traffic, and walked off. After crossing the street, they placed their backs against the old stone walls of the church. It was a conspicuous pose, but with the lights on in the window behind them, it was better than being seen.
Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3) Page 18