“It’s that big?”
“Yes. The one in the Caribbean is the smallest of the six trafficking hubs across the globe.”
“You are right, pistols are my preference, but I’d rather hook up with Gombey. We’re all at risk until Morales meets his end, and I’m all for Darcy’s payback. Liz almost died.”
She just stared him down, narrowed her eyes, and he silently watched as those red lips curled into a smirk.
“Hmm, yes she did.”
He couldn’t help but to consider in the silence between them that she might actually have wished that to happen.
“I suppose Operation Merengue will have to wait until Morales is ancient history.”
“I’m proceeding. Now that I’m back in the field, I’ll be taking over Operation Merengue, utilizing …” she involuntarily smoothed the hair at her temple, “other means.”
He stood and walked to the closet door that led down to the “freezer,” then pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner. “Hope you can at least work off some of that frustration you’ve been holding onto since Paris.”
Caroline didn’t have time to reply. The door closed behind him and he was thankfully out of ear shot, headed down through the dimly lit labyrinth of musty lathe, broken steps, and hidden doors. A brilliant subterfuge, but “rat” line could just as easily apply to this descent into the freezer. He could hear them through the century-old walls.
***
Seven hours ago, Darcy had left Liz on eastbound I-40. At her insistence, she wanted it that way—and, of course, she assumed she’d be riding alone back to the farmhouse. Yeah, like he’d let that happen. Dixon was waiting in the H2 at her exit as soon as she got off the interstate. A dirty trick, for sure, but he couldn’t help smothering her and was also afraid she’d get lost finding the farmhouse. In fact, Dixon would have been annoyed if she returned home alone, which of course, Darcy never would have allowed anyway.
Her song, the “Flower Duet” was playing in their helmets when the exit sign came into sight.
“This is your exit,” he said as calmly and reassuringly as he could. “Ride it north to Rambler’s Road.”
“I remember.”
“I love you, Lakmé,” he barely voiced.
“I love you, Fitzwilliam. I’ll be waiting.”
God, he hoped she would be because his plan was going to take a whole hell of a lot longer than a week.
The sun had been up for a good forty minutes and the lavender sky burned bright in the east, beckoning him away from her. “Keep that satellite phone with you at all times and I’ll call you when I get to DC.”
“Okay …”
He could hear the tremble in her voice. “Liz, don’t worry.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Babe … I promise you. I will be back. You can count on it.”
And that was it; the last he saw of her in his rear mirrors was her turn off onto the ramp before the comms went dead in the growing distance between them.
After that last communiqué with her, he had shut his emotions down. She was back at the compound now, safe and sound with four men who, he knew, would give their life for her. They’d all gone through hell at Pemberley and had proven their loyalty. She’d always called them by their first names (except Dixon because he insisted); her kindness and respect to each of them made them feel like family. If she knew Dixon’s whole sordid story brought about by the drink, she’d more than likely be afraid of him.
Higgins, a former Navy man like himself, was brilliant and loyally trustworthy … and lethal. As for Hank Lennox and Adam Bell, those young guys had just come from multiple tours of hell in Afghanistan and had nowhere to go; he hired them immediately following an extensive background check. Homelessness should never be the only recourse for any person, especially a vet transitioning back to civilian life. Wherever he and Liz eventually set up home, it would be their home if they wanted to or remain in North Carolina until they could get on their feet.
He and his new beast (a Harley Davidson Softail Breakout nicknamed “Black Ice” for his recaptured persona) rolled into Georgetown with a bellowing growl. At three in the afternoon, on a day hot enough to melt the pavement, the Prospect section was busy and the traffic murderous, making the chip on his shoulder and the scowl on his face all the deadlier.
Nothing had changed since the last time he’d been in this neighborhood for the intel briefing of Operation Virginia Reel a little over a year ago; that mission had restored his life. It seemed prophetic that he was returning to Obsidian’s headquarters for another op, knowing full-well that it would also restore his life literally and figuratively.
As instructed, he drove past the Bingley Dance School and turned the corner, driving half a block before stopping in front of an Italian grocery store; its red and green window sign flashed “Prospect Salumeria.” He had to admit, the ruse was clever, and he was curious to see what type of set-up Rick had installed and how it connected to the dance school.
Parked in front, he sat there straddling the bike with the exhausts bellowing and boots firmly planted on the asphalt. In 48 hours, he’d never see DC again. This was it—the beginning of the end of this life as he knew it. There would be no turning back. He kicked the stand, cut the engine, then removed his gloves, leaving his helmet on until he entered the shop. There were cameras everywhere.
A bona fide grocery store by all appearances, it was crowded, but Perry Como’s Italian song distracted waiting patrons two rows deep at the deli counter.
“Ciao, Signore! Take-a da numba and-a we be with you presto,” an old man wearing a stained butcher’s apron greeted, barely visible through the hanging salami above the counter. His bushy eyebrows and short stature was just as Rick described, and as instructed he introduced himself to the former mobster accordingly.
“I’m here from WGL; you called about trouble with your gas meter.”
“Sì, sì! Yes.” He waved his hand to a girl in her late thirties, stocking shelves with cans of tomato sauce. “Rita, cara! Vieni qui. You-a show da man the gas. Signore, my granddaughter will take-a you the way.”
She smiled timidly and motioned for him to follow through the stockroom, the meat processing room, the kitchen, and then finally down a narrow staircase into the basement.
“It’s back here,” she said, walking past several freezer lockers before stopping at a large metal door. Opaque vinyl strips, clouded from age hung at the opening when she pulled the door open to a locker crowded with skinned animal carcasses hanging from tracks along the ceiling. In fact, there were so many, that he wondered if they were real or not. They walked sideways through long rows of cattle and goat until she stopped, slid a row aside with a push of her hand, and then looked up at him with a mischievous grin. They stood at a dead end, facing the back of the cold metal locker: a solid plate of steel. To his astonishment, she wrapped her chunky arms around a side of beef and effortlessly tugged it downward as if it on a bungee cord. The wall popped open on one side and the meat popped back up on the track.
“You might have to duck and hold your helmet in front of you, but go all the way down to the right, and they’ll be a door. That’s where your friend is.”
He peeked his head down the dark hallway.
“Don’t worry. You’ll fit. If Joey the Meatball could, you certainly can but you’re a lot taller. When you’re ready to leave just come back up this way and pull this cord.”
“Won’t the shop be closed?”
“No. My grandfather stays late. He and his goombahs play scopa in another room until my grandmother gets pissed off and makes him kick them out. It’s usually around three in the morning when he goes to his apartment upstairs.”
She smiled, again, and held out her hand bidding him to enter.
A thought occurred to him and he stopped in his tracks. “What’s your grandfather’s name?”
“They used to call him Padrone, but he’s just Vito Cardillo now.”
“I’d like to ta
lk with him after I wrap up my meeting here, just a little confidential business I need to see to, and to see if he can store my motorcycle for a while. Can you arrange it, Rita?”
“Sure! Any friend of Mr. Rick’s is a friend of his, but he doesn’t do business for the Family anymore.”
“But he has friends, and I need a respected Family man to help me with a sticky situation in Italy.”
“He locks the shop at six. I’ll let him know that you’ll come to see him.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
He entered the alley and the wall closed behind him.
Standing in the unfinished space between meat locker and Obsidian’s bunker, he dragged his hand along the plaster wall until touching more steel. Impressive. Rick had certainly gone through great lengths to conceal Obsidian’s operations, but it was friggin’ cold.
He hadn’t time to knock when an airtight pocket door automatically slid open, leading him to believe that somewhere in the darkness a security camera was fixed toward the door. Eyes squinted from the bright overhead lights and the rapidly moving data on the monitors against the wall when he entered.
After his eyes adjusted from dark to light, his gaze fell to Knightley’s crooked tooth when his friend smiled.
“Dude, you almost had us sending the cavalry out,” he said.
“Sorry, guys. Liz and I spent the night …” He shook his head, stopping the irrelevant explanation, the details between him and his wife. “Traffic was a bitch and I had to stop at the bank.”
His cousin came to him with an unexpected bear hug, then Knightley gave him a firm handshake. “Good to see you, Darce.”
“And you guys, more than you know.”
“How’s Liz holding up?” Rick asked.
“Safe. She’s amazingly tough and sends her love.”
“When you speak to her give her my regards.” Rick leaned back, assessing Darcy. “Well, you look like hell, cousin.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I know, but at least I’m not dressed like I just walked off Savile Row. For Christ sake, you’re a Marine, wearing a three-piece suit and wingtips in a subzero meat locker. Is this for Sarah’s benefit?”
A quirk to Rick’s lips told him all he needed to know—his cousin was falling in love with the British journalist—and the man didn’t answer the query.
“And what are you smirking about, Mr. Clean? How’s that girl you had your eye on back in April?”
“None of your business.”
“Is that it, Knightley? Is that what has you on life support?”
Knightley walked to the monitors, diverting the conversation with a simple. “Maybe. So, this is the estate in Bermuda, huh? Tell me, again, why I’m on this op, ’cause, I gotta say, rifle sniping isn’t my strong suit anymore.”
Darcy rested the helmet on top the titanium EMP box. “Because I specifically asked for you, knowing how much fun you had during BUD/S. I thought you’d want to jump at the chance to light the place up with me like old times.”
Rick changed the image on one of the monitors to the underwater cavity. “This cave is our primary target, accessible through this mangrove swamp canal, which is barely navigable by kayak. The cartel is using it for semi-sub smuggling of narcotics that come in every Sunday. The above sea level cavern is soft limestone and it’s situated below the main house on the eastern perimeter of the estate. Charlie’s intel indicates that it’s patrolled from both land and sea. He spotted two sentries in the grotto itself.”
On the monitor, he flashed an image of a speed cruiser painted with flames. “This boat makes a surveillance pass every hour. ‘Infierno’,” he snorted. “Another sick reference to Diablo’s massive ego. Two of the six patrolling thugs are former Karakut henchmen, most likely absorbed into the cartel after she was killed in Moscow. Sarah’s contact says the subs are bringing in thousands of tons of Fentanyl and cocaine a month for distribution in the US and UK. The local authorities turn a blind eye; so basically, the cartel is running that part of the island. I’m sure the police department is filled with foxes on Diablo’s payroll.”
Darcy turned to face Knightley. “The drugs aren’t our focus—per se—but it sure sends a message that I mean business. That’s why Bermuda is a three-man op. Charlie and his Army drone will drop enough grenade power to level at least 6,000 square feet of the house; you can set the explosives on the hull of the yacht and the dock, and I’ll be detonating the tunnel and cavern.”
“Are there sharks?” Knightley asked.
“Since when do you care about sharks?” Darcy replied question for question.
“I don’t really, but being chum isn’t the way I want to go should I lose the fight. If I wanted to be eaten alive, I would have stayed with my ex.”
“What happened to ‘go hard or go home?’ Man, you grew too soft in Monaco; there was a time when you were the predator.”
“Damn straight about that!”
He flashed a grin to let him know he was pulling his leg. “Aw, don’t worry, Mr. Clean, I’ll always have your six should any big bad great whites start circling around that shiny head of yours. I’m not afraid to stand my ground.”
“Sheesh, who pissed in your Cheerios, Darcy?”
“Morales, the minute he tried to assassinate Liz.”
“Can I continue, boys?” Rick asked breaking up the playful teasing between two old friends. “You two will meet Charlie at 22:00 at Hampton Roads Airport in Chesapeake. He’s flying back from Bermuda, refueling, and dropping off Jane. He’ll have everything you need for this mission: scuba gear, explosives, and navigation charts.”
Opening his desk drawer, he removed two passports and a brick of one-hundred-dollar bills. “Your new identities,” he said handing them out.
“Edward Ferrars,” Darcy said aloud, opening the forged British passport. “Had to be British, huh?” he joked.
Knightley leaned against the desk, folding his arms across his chest. “So this is a tit-for-tat, Bang and Burn mission. I like it. Then what?”
“Then we bullet out of there, recover from the dive then fly out the next day. I’ll be HAHOing over Panama with my Baretta.”
“Panama?”
“Morales has a compound up in the mountains there … and I’m going solo at that point.”
“That I definitely don’t like. What if something happens? There’ll be no comms, no back up …” Knightley objected, looking to Rick for agreement. “It ain’t gonna happen. We work in pairs, a team, Darcy. Or did you miss that in training?”
Incredulous, Knightley looked to Rick for a second time. “Did you approve this? We do not go into battle alone.”
“I did not approve it, but Iceman is rather impenetrable in listening to sound reasoning.”
“That’s right; not on this one, and nothing is going to happen to me. But if there is a fuck up, then I want you to be the one to break it to Liz. I’ll rely on both of you to be there for her.”
“What? Nothing is going to happen, and I’m definitely not suited for that particular mission. I think Charlie … or her sister?”
He couldn’t help it; he rolled his eyes and shook his head. Sweet as his sister-in-law was, that would be one mission he’d rather someone who could relate to heart-wrenching grief. She’d probably crack some nitwit joke about being single.
“No. I’d rather you talk with her.” Turning from his friend, he spied the image of the shooter at Pemberley. Many times over the last week, this image and those dark, lifeless eyes crossed his mind—and Higgins’. In fact, after that horrifying day Higgins had become obsessed with settling the score.
“Are you going after him?” Rick asked.
“He’s no longer worth Obsidian’s focus.”
“I disagree. His mission for Morales may not be complete. After all, you are still alive.”
“I wasn’t meant to be the target. Diablo’s picking off all of you, one by one, to get my attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he, again, looked at the photograph of the assassin w
ho tried to kill Liz. “I don’t think we’ll see him again.”
Rick bitterly laughed. “Iceman is so confident.”
“On this … yes I am. He’s just a stupid kid who got charmed by the money that comes with the life of a hired gun. Let it go.”
He removed the image from the tack board and handed it to his cousin. “I already deep-sixed this, you should, too.”
Ever the director of Obsidian, Rick ignored him and tacked the photo back on the board.
6
Bermuda Triangle
August 4
Paget Parish, Bermuda
Despite the cloudless nautical twilight, a storm was about to hit Bermuda. Over a mile out from Hungry Bay’s shoreline, the choppy water told the story: it was going to be a big one. For Knightley, and him, the almost 2000-meter tactical dive to Hungry Bay would be cake—even in these rough surface conditions.
With binoculars in hand and bare feet resting on the transom, he searched for Infierno’s third pass and readied his mental outlook for the mission ahead. The boat rocked, tugging the submerged fishing lines hanging over the edge of the boat, but he ignored them, instead visualizing the op strategy for what felt like the millionth time since his secret pre-dawn visit to these exact waters. All his plans had been made, everything in place, now just came the explosive execution, and a bottle of Jack Daniels afterward. Yes, he had intentions of at least a “lost week” bender after this part of the op in Paget.
Absorbed in his revenge, he ignored his heart, pushed down all thoughts of the ramifications of the “real” Operation Gombey—the one he alone strategically planned since even before July 22nd using Obsidian’s intel. His only prayer was that nothing would go wrong and “The Count” Edmund Dantes’s words resonated in his mind: “And now...farewell to kindness, humanity and gratitude. I have substituted myself for Providence in rewarding the good; may the God of vengeance now yield me His place to punish the wicked.”
In Good Conscience Page 9