by K. J. Howe
Chapter 105
Rif studied the two boats as they came in for a second pass. No way could they break cover and retrieve the nukes from the speedboat below, which was beginning to drift. They’d have to endure the siege, picking the enemy off one by one. The attackers might have more substantial firepower, but the Quantum team had the twin advantages of superior cover and higher ground.
And they had a little surprise up their sleeves.
“Incoming,” Stewart said over the radio.
“We’re all set,” Rif replied.
Neil and Stewart had edged closer in the Nor-Tech, sandwiching the enemy between their boat and the castle. The howl of the Glasstreams’ engines and the tenacious defenders along the castle’s walls had so far prevented the attackers from hearing the throaty roar of the approaching racer.
Rif, Brown, and Johansson fired at the two boats, the occasional expelled shell casing burning Rif’s cheek as it was ejected. His ears buzzed from the continuous blasts, and all three men were being peppered with stone fragments ripped out of the castle walls by the .50 caliber bullets. The racing sloop below absorbed countless rounds, the aft sinking as it took on water; at least it had stopped drifting. Anyway, the cores would actually be safer underwater.
The Glasstreams slowed as they approached, the gunners firing round after round into the ramparts. The bullets that soared high sounded like angry bees as they flew overhead.
Rif pulled back for a moment, allowed Johansson and Brown to continue the answering fire.
“Now!” he shouted into the radio.
The men in the Glasstreams were so intent on their targets that they didn’t see what was coming up behind them—until it was too late.
Rif loaded a fresh magazine into the M4 and started blasting at the boats again while Neil and Stewart opened fire from behind. One Glasstream turned abruptly, almost capsizing, then righted itself, bobbing in the water. The pilot and the two men aboard had been killed.
The machine gunner from the second vessel targeted them, even as the pilot realized they were under attack from the rear and banked sharply, trying to evade the fire from the Nor-Tech.
A groan sounded behind Rif. He turned. Brown slid to the floor of the parapet, having taken a round to the chest. Fuck. No way his body armor could fully withstand the .50 cal ammunition.
“I’m on it.” Johansson grabbed a QuikClot from his kit and started ripping away Brown’s vest in order to stabilize the wound.
Rif kept firing, one of his bullets thumping into the driver. The Glasstream accelerated toward the castle. The machine gunner kept firing, not realizing his driver had been neutralized and was leaning on the throttle. Closer, closer.
Rif threw himself down on the rampart as the boat slammed into the dock and flew over it and into the castle’s wall with a deafening crash. The rampart vibrated, but the Glasstream lost the battle against the ancient stone. Rif poked his head over the edge. Two bloody smudges marked the wall below him where the gunner and driver had been thrown into the wall. The boat was shattered and leaking iridescent fluid into the lake.
Neil and Stewart pulled up to the dock nearby and jumped out to inspect the crash.
“Clear,” Stewart said.
“Brown took a round,” Rif called down. “We’ll get him to a hospital on the mainland. Go help Thea,” Rif said.
“Roger that.” Wheeling the boat around, the two Scots headed back out as the sound of the local police response kicked up along the shore.
Chapter 106
Prospero’s ears buzzed from the cacophony of metal smacking metal and glass as bullets peppered the ferry. Aiming from the empty window frames of the lower deck, Luciano and the remainder of Bassam’s men fired back while Thea, Jean-Luc, and the guard did their best from above. The sulfuric stench of gunpowder flooded the vessel, but all Prospero could smell was a rat. Only three people knew the exchange would take place at Lake Garda: Prospero, Bassam’s top lieutenant, and Luciano.
Bassam’s man had nothing to gain by foiling the exchange; he’d never be able to fence the nuclear material.
Luciano, on the other hand, stood to gain plenty.
Of course.
His nephew’s insolence, his defiant behavior, the surprise attack by Mirsad in Bosnia—it all made perfect sense. But then another thought occurred: Luciano couldn’t have organized all this himself. He didn’t have the resources or the savvy to pull off an attack like this. He had to be working with someone.
Enzo Spruilli.
It had to be revenge for Marco’s death. The CIA agent had waited years to pay back the Salvatore family for his father’s killing, an impressive display of patience and cunning. And this was the perfect opportunity: steal the nukes, squash the deal, and finish Stefano’s son off so Luciano could take over the business. Then again, the men in the Glasstream were firing at the ferry with his nephew on board. Had Luciano been duped? Did Enzo play him too? It didn’t really matter: Enzo knew as well as Prospero did that there were a dozen people who would be more than happy to take his place if Luciano didn’t survive.
Prospero looked across the passenger deck of the ferry and located Luciano taking cover behind one of the doors to the hold. As the barrage continued, the old man edged his way closer to his nephew’s position.
The machine gun operator finished another pass at the ferry, the driver veering away before Thea and crew could take them out. Prospero climbed to his feet and bolted the last few meters to Luciano, ignoring the throbbing in his hip. Realization passed between them. His nephew swung his SIG Sauer toward him.
But Prospero was too close. He grabbed his nephew’s gun hand and twisted two fingers back with a vicious jerk. Snap. The gun clattered to the deck.
Luciano yelped in pain, then nailed Prospero’s bad hip with a ferocious kick. Prospero staggered backward, waves of agony ripping through him. The joint didn’t just hurt; it felt loose, unstable. Vertigo setting in, he stumbled forward, grabbing the lapel of Luciano’s jacket with his right hand. If the little rat fucker wanted to play dirty, he was all in, fucked up hip or not.
Luciano tried to pull away, but Prospero yanked him tighter, slightly off to one side. A collar choke would halt any more stuttering. Ensnaring the back of his nephew’s suit, he grabbed a handful of the superfino material with his left hand. Prospero’s right hand slipped underneath his other arm, grabbing the left collar of Luciano’s jacket. A little tug to tighten his grip, and he had control.
He pushed his head into Luciano’s for counterpressure while twisting his wrists as if accelerating a motorcycle. His nephew struggled against the choke hold, swinging his elbows and punching his uncle in the rib cage, but at this distance the blows lacked power. Prospero thought of his father, who valued family above all, and then his sister, Luciano’s mother. Should he back off?
He lifted his head to stare into his nephew’s bloodshot eyes.
The man was a sociopath, loyal to no one. Fuck it. He’d be doing the world a favor. Prospero turned up the pressure on his wrists, compressing the artery in Luciano’s neck. Seconds ticked by, and Luciano slumped to the ground, unconscious. Prospero sank with him, his hip screaming in pain, and kept up the hold until his nephew’s body shuddered and then lay still.
He looked up. The hostages and hired men stared at the two of them, entwined in a deadly embrace on the floor. One of Prospero’s foot soldiers nodded and said, “Bene,” before turning away to face the incoming Glasstream. Nobody else said a word. As he’d suspected, Luciano wouldn’t be missed.
Chapter 107
Thea prepared for the next pass. The machine gun on the Glassman cycled over and over, a steady stream of large-caliber bullets hitting the ferry. She fired back, hitting one of the men in the leg.
She low-crawled across the deck for a better position as the boat veered to the aft end, Jean-Luc right beside her. The noise was overwhelming, bullets smashing into metal and glass. More screams came from below.
She heard a solid t
hunk. Blood sprayed across her cheek. Prospero’s man had been hit, the bullet shattering his skull.
Rif’s voice in her earpiece moments before had unsettled her. Brown had taken one of the big rounds to the chest, and they were trying to get him to a hospital. But then she got a bit of good news.
“We’re on our way,” Stewart said, his Scottish burr never sounding better.
In the distance, she spotted the Nor-Tech closing fast. The reinforcements were most welcome, given the pounding they were taking. She shoved in a fresh magazine while Jean-Luc continued firing. One of his bullets connected with the machine gunner, and the man slumped on the platform.
The driver panicked, his main protection gone. He turned away from the ferry, but he was still within range of their M4s. Thea and Jean-Luc fired on full auto, spraying the boat until the driver collapsed. The Glasstream stalled in the water as the ferry chugged along.
She inhaled a deep breath, scanning the water for any other attackers.
Neil and Stewart circled the Glasstream. “Neutralized,” Stewart said over the radio from the Nor-Tech. Thea and Jean-Luc gave each other a look, and he knew what was on her mind.
“Go ahead and check on the boys,” Jean-Luc said with a nod. “But before you go, take this—from what I can tell, you’ve been running on empty for a while now and that can’t be good.”
She gave him a look of pure gratitude as she took the energy bar that had materialized in his hand, wondering why she had hidden her diabetes from the team for so long. Her worry had been that they would think less of her, but those fears had been unfounded; they just thought of it as part of who she was, like the color of her hair. And instead of thinking of it as a weakness, they just made sure to pack extra snacks.
She wolfed down the nut bar as she rushed downstairs, her boots crunching on the shattered glass scattered all over the deck.
“Nice shooting.” Prospero sat on the floor with one leg out in front of him at an awkward angle.
“Lucky for you,” she said, blowing past him.
All the hostages were facedown on the floor, hidden behind the ferry’s large bulkhead. The fortified steel had provided plenty of protection.
“Anyone hurt?”
People climbed to their feet, looking unsteady and shell-shocked. The only person who didn’t move was Luciano. She did a quick head count. All accounted for, two of whom ran straight into her arms during her census-taking. Ayan and Jabari clung to her like shipwreck victims holding on to a life raft. She kneeled, hugging them both.
“You guys okay?”
They shrugged. “We’re hungry. They didn’t give us any breakfast,” Ayan said.
She laughed. “We can fix that.”
Prospero, limping and clearly in pain, joined them inside. “Everyone okay?”
“Everyone except your nephew.” Prospero looked down at Luciano’s body and shook his head, taking the news remarkably well. “Who were these guys, Prospero?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“The CIA.”
Chapter 108
A few weeks had passed since the hijacking and aftermath. Thankfully, Brown’s Kevlar vest had saved his life. He’d spent ten days in the hospital but was back in the office as a desk jockey until he fully recuperated.
Some circumstances could be fixed; others couldn’t.
Johann Dietrich’s death haunted Thea every day. Gernot Dietrich and the surviving members of the Freedom Guardians who had participated in the attack on the Hagia Sophia were in jail, awaiting trial in Turkey. The punishment would be severe, and she wouldn’t be surprised if the case figured into the ongoing debate about capital punishment in the country. No matter what happened in the sentencing phase, of course, Dietrich had already lost the most meaningful thing in his life. Just ask her own father.
Papa’s scheming had only led to disaster for his family, her brother and stepmother paying the ultimate price for his machinations. Thea burned to discover the real reason Papa had spoken to Prospero Salvatore all those years ago, but he was sticking to the story about the real-estate deal. She knew that was a lie and promised herself she’d uncover the truth one day.
Thea had spoken to Fatima Abboud several times, impressed by the young woman’s courage and resilience. Although heartbroken over Johann, she hadn’t let the horrific events drain the light from her life. Instead, she was more committed than ever to becoming a doctor and saving lives. Johann would have been proud.
Identifying the attackers at Lake Garda had led to a few interesting revelations. Enzo Spruilli had been working with Luciano to steal the nukes and eliminate Prospero in a double cross. The rumor was that Prospero’s father had engineered Enzo’s father’s disappearance many years ago, but the CIA agent could never prove it. Apparently, Enzo had struck up a business partnership with Prospero years ago so he could get close enough to the mobster to exact revenge. The association through Gladio, and the group’s rivalry with the Freedom Guardians, had only helped mask Enzo’s true goal. His mistake had been picking Luciano, hotheaded and impulsive at the best of times, as his accomplice.
After Prospero related the bulk of this history to Thea, the ferry had docked back at Scaliger Castle, and the plane’s passengers were freed at last. Prospero, true to form, had melted away before he could be questioned by the local police. And by the time Thea had informed Gabrielle Farrah and, through her, the CIA, Enzo, too, had disappeared into the ether. If Thea were Enzo, she would stay in the ether—Prospero would not be forgiving if he ever caught up with him.
Even the Broken Arrow had its own mysterious history. Back in 1956, the CIA had conspired to “disappear” two nuclear cores en route to Morocco so that Gernot Dietrich’s father, the original leader of the Freiheitswächter, could store them in his cellar—in case the communists invaded Europe again. The nukes had been stored down there for years until Gernot hatched his insane plan to turn the world against the Arabs by faking a nuclear attack on Hungary’s Parliament Building. He figured that would make the public more sympathetic to the release of a targeted bioweapon aimed at ethnic Arabs. And at Leopold’s encouragement he’d co-opted Ocean to help him. As it turned out, she not only held a degree in nuclear physics but biogenetics as well—and an ax to grind against the Middle East. She’d abandoned her career in Japan to work in an African lab developing genetically targeted medications two years ago, and when Gernot Dietrich came calling, the temptation for payback had proved too much to resist.
She thought of Earl Johnson, the pilot who had never stopped looking for his missing friend, “Slow Joe,” feeling he had somehow failed to keep his team together. And how tough it must have been for Joe and the others who had crewed on the missing plane to leave their loved ones behind, sacrificing everything for the sake of their country’s secret plans to embed militia cells across Europe. Apparently, the men had been given new identities and were forbidden to ever contact their former friends, family, or associates.
But enough of that—tonight was a night of celebration. Papa was hosting a surprise party for Ayan and Jabari, to celebrate their new life in the UK. Thea, Rif, Hakan, and Christos clustered around the restaurant’s entrance, waiting for the boys to arrive with the Wavertons.
The maître d’ and restaurant staff rushed to and fro, finalizing the preparations. Most of the partygoers milled around the bar, waiting for the guests of honor to arrive. The entire Quantum tactical team was there too, of course.
Her father had been trying to reconnect with her since the kidnapping, but she had kept him at arm’s length, sick of the labyrinth of secrets and lies he still refused to give up. It seemed that he was making an effort to change, delegating the daily responsibility of running Paris Industries to his CEO, Ahmed Khan, so he could focus on his charitable efforts. But that also could just be for show. She hated to be cynical, but she suspected things would never be right between her and Papa—certainly not until he came clean about Prospero
and whatever other skeletons were in his walk-in closet.
Christos peered out the window, as eager as she was to see the boys. That much, at least, was genuine, and something they could share.
“Are they close?” Hakan asked.
“Any minute now,” Christos said. “Mrs. Waverton just texted me. She asked who was on the guest list.”
“We should have invited Prospero Salvatore,” Rif said with a big grin.
“Ayan and Jabari did seem to have a connection with him,” Thea said, smiling at Rif, handsome in a dark blue suit. “I’d love to know what that’s about.”
“Stockholm syndrome,” Rif said.
She laughed out loud. “I don’t think so. Prospero seemed genuinely tender with the boys; did you know he asked me on the ferry about starting scholarships for them?”
“Well, we won’t be hearing from him again until he’s good and ready to be heard from,” Rif snorted.
“We don’t need his help anyway,” Christos said. “Everything is taken care of.”
Thea looked at her father—why was his nose out of joint? Was it just that he wanted credit for all the support he’d given the boys, or did this have something to do with whatever was going on between him and Prospero? She shook her head, trying to clear it. Not tonight.
“I still can’t believe the bastard got off scot-free,” Hakan said.
“Helps to have dirt on the CIA.” Thea too was irritated that Prospero had walked away from it all. Dillman and Karlsson had both died on his watch, whoever else it was he wanted to blame. And he had definitely murdered Luciano—there were witnesses to that one. But he knew where the metaphorical bodies were buried and, according to Gabrielle, the CIA was only too happy to help Prospero once they had cleaned up the Italian field office using the information he had provided.
Then again, Prospero had taken care of the boys, and not just because they had given him leverage over Thea; he had genuinely liked them, and besides, hurting children was not in his playbook. Just ask Captain Rivers—his daughters had been returned to him unharmed, as promised. She shook her head: mostly unharmed was more like it; being kidnapped always left a scar, no matter the outcome. Still, for all his sins—and there were many—Prospero had his charms.