Rex Dalton Thrillers: Books 1-3 (The Rex Dalton Series Boxset Book 1)

by JC Ryan

  The 2010 Ducati Multistrada 1200 S Touring model was a marvel of Italian engineering. 1198cc, 4-stroke, Liquid cooled, 4-Valve, Desmodromic, L-Twin, 2-cylinder. 110.3 kW. About 147 horsepower. This will do! Glad it isn’t red. Rex didn’t realize as he circled the bike that he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Do you like it?” Catia asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “It’ll do.” He said kind of unenthusiastically but then turned to her and grinned. “Just joking. It’s perfect.”

  “I’m sure you’d prefer a red one,” she said with a hint of a smile. She didn’t tell him this one was hers, and she’d chosen the white because red wasn’t her color.

  “No, red attracts too much attention.”

  “Ah. Good. Then I’m happy.”

  ***

  THEY COULDN’T DISCUSS their background. This was on Catia’s mind as she watched Rex fall in love with her motorcycle. If they could have, she’d have told him she was an avid biker herself. She could spare the Multistrada because she’d relegated it to second-best when she bought her beloved Ducati Streetfighter S.

  The Streetfighter was her baby. She used it for amateur racing and for road trips over weekends and holidays. No one rode it but her. Admittedly, she had a soft spot for Rex, but even he didn’t merit her best bike. In fact, no one did, not Rex, not the Prime Minister – not even the Pope. She swallowed a momentary giggle at the mental picture of the Pope with his mitre and long robes, tooling through the streets of Rome with his right hand raised in benediction and the skirts of his robes flying.

  Rex was examining the Multistrada as if it was a fine painting, nodding and smiling.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  By the time he’d told her the bike was perfect and the color was fine, she’d composed her face to neutral pleasure at a job well done.

  Maybe someday I’ll let him ride on my Streetfighter. As a passenger.

  ***

  Naples

  WITH A BRIEF embrace, all business now, Rex thanked Catia for the excellent choice of transport and rode off, still wondering how she’d acquired it so quickly. He found a service station, filled the gas tank, and got something to eat and a coffee. In Italy, all coffee tasted good.

  Within half an hour of taking his leave from Catia, he was on his way to Naples. He’d stashed his laptop in one saddlebag and his clothing in another. The latter was minimal. He’d pick up what he needed in Naples when he got there.

  Before he left his hotel to meet Catia, he’d consulted Google maps and learned the best route to Naples was on the E45. As he merged onto the highway, he noted the speed limit, 130 kilometers per hour. About 80 miles per hour, but with all that power between his legs, it was impossible to keep to those limits all the way. Not for lack of trying. The last thing he wanted was to be pulled over by the cops for speeding. His trip to Naples should have taken a little over two hours. He did it in an hour and a half.

  Every mile covered territory where history was long and rich. Another time, he’d enjoy taking it slowly, stopping in the cities and villages to absorb it. At times, he was only fifteen miles or so from the coast, but a glimpse of the sea wasn’t possible. Naples, though would afford him plenty of chances to gaze on that incredible blue.

  His first order of business when he reached the outskirts of Naples was to visit his cache. He’d need the documents stashed there to check into a hotel and a few other items.

  The twenty-foot storage locker in a commercial facility was carefully arranged to conceal the tools of his trade. In the first ten feet from the door, he’d stacked an artful and bewildering tangle of furniture, impossible to pass through unless one knew the key. Move anything but the single piece that led through the mess, and the whole thing would collapse, probably killing or at least causing serious injury to any intruder who tried it.

  Rex gingerly moved a bench that was standing on its side, revealing a narrow passage through the rest of the maze to a hidden door.

  Inside the partition he’d installed himself, it was much neater. Stacked on shelves were enough weapons, ammunition, explosives, and tactical gear to start a war. For now, he only required a few things; his documents, the Sig Sauer P226 with three spare clips, night vision goggles, monocular, and KA-BAR knife.

  The pistol and knife he quickly concealed on his person. The rest went into a small backpack, which he would stash in the saddlebag with his laptop. He stood for a moment, slowly cataloguing other items within the storage unit with his eyes, considering and rejecting each item until he came to the stack of clothing. Deciding he wouldn’t need the stealth outfits for now, he closed and locked the door, made his way back through the outer maze, and replaced the bench.

  He took a moment to step back and view the contents that could be seen from the roll-up outer door to the locker. Satisfied that it looked as it should, he rolled down and padlocked the door. Next order of business was a hotel. He chose a tourist-class establishment, checked in under the name on his documents – Reginaldo D’Agostino.

  Matthew Benedict had used a familial coincidence to infiltrate the Camorra. Rex couldn’t. For one thing, the name on his papers didn’t have a connection to the clan Benedict had used for an introduction. For another, they’d no doubt be very suspicious of a newcomer so soon after Benedict’s death.

  Rex needed a different way to gather information, and Benedict had left one clue that might work – the name of a woman. She was a bit older than Rex, but maybe she’d be susceptible to the charms of a younger man. Rex considered his approach, made his plans, and then left the hotel, ready to get to work.

  His first stop was a popular clothing store, where he bought two sets of clothing. He walked out wearing the first, a well-tailored pair of slacks, tight silk tee, flashy leather jacket and shoes. Except for his blond hair, which he’d decided to keep for now, he looked like an Italian male model. The other outfit, which he had in a carry bag, was for rough work. He suspected that might be required before the mission was complete.

  The woman, whose name was Sophia, managed a restaurant and bar on the waterfront, not too far from his hotel and the Port of Naples.

  Rex walked into the place like he owned it and asked for her. He looked around as he waited for her, and saw that he was overdressed, but no one was paying much attention. After a few moments, a woman approached him.

  Rex took in her looks and demeanor as she approached. She was about forty, as Benedict had reported. In her youth, she’d probably been what Americans think of as the typical Italian beauty, an aging and hard-living replica of her namesake, the mid-twentieth-century actress Sophia Loren. This Sophia had the full curves, thick, wavy, dark hair and sultry brown eyes, and even, well-distributed features on a face slightly coarsened by smoking, drinking, and probably too many late nights. She was still a good-looking woman.

  She faltered when the server who’d summoned her pointed with his chin to Rex. Her steps slowed. Rex took it to mean she wasn’t keen to speak with him, despite the fact that he’d given her no reason, yet. Her quick glance into a dark corner showed him why. Two big, mean-looking specimens of Italian thug were sitting in that corner, and they were staring at her, then him. He stared back until they looked away. One was bald and cross-eyed, and the other had thick dark curly hair.

  “I’m Sophia,” she said when her nervous steps brought her to him. “How may I help you?”

  Rex decided to use her tension to his advantage and got straight to the point, “A friend of mine mentioned you. Matthew Benedict. I haven’t heard from him in a while, thought you might know where I could catch up with him.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stammered. “I…I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Her reaction was more or less what Rex expected it would be. He immediately knew she was lying, and the shock in her eyes told him she knew something she didn’t want to tell him.

  “I’m not a cop,” he said, using the amusing Italian slang for it, Puffi. The term, which was Italian
for Smurf, referred to the blue of their uniforms. Rex had never watched the American cartoon, but everyone who did knew Smurfs were blue. It took all his acting ability to say it without laughing. More soberly, he went on. “I just want to find my friend. He spoke warmly of you. I can’t be mistaken?” He made it a question, gazing into her eyes with as much sincerity as he could muster.

  To his relief, she relaxed a bit. “I met your friend a few times. I regret to tell you, he is dead.”

  Rex feigned shock. “What! How? When? I’m…”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know. I only saw his picture in the newspaper. But listen, it is not safe for you to ask. Trust me. I cannot say more, and you must not come back here ever again. Leave Naples. Don’t ask anyone else.”

  “I need to know,” he protested.

  “No, you don’t. The man is dead. It’s sad, I know, but you must not ask any more questions. Get far away from here.”

  Rex let his gaze flick to the corner where the goombahs were staring at them again, and then back to her face, a mask of despair and fear. “All right. I’ll go. For now. But I’ll be back. I need to know.” He got up, turned, and left without saying goodbye. He imagined her sigh of relief, though he didn’t hear it. He wasn’t done with her. He’d come back the next day, and the next if need be. Sooner or later he’d be there when the goons weren’t. He could feel their eyes on him, boring holes into his back.

  He figured the restaurant probably belonged to Camorra, and Sophia was probably employed by them, maybe unwillingly if he’d interpreted her fear correctly.

  He wished Curly and Crosseye would follow him outside and try to intimidate him.

  They didn’t.

  He was a bit disappointed.

  ***

  THE NEXT DAY, late afternoon, he was back at Sophia’s restaurant, dressed more like the patrons of the restaurant he’d seen before. As he stepped in, he looked first at the dark corner, and with satisfaction noticed the goons were gone. As he’d thought, they couldn’t be there all the time.

  He flagged down a server, this time a young woman, and asked for Sophia.

  Tears instantly filled the girl’s eyes.

  “She was in an accident.”

  “Dead?” he asked.

  “No, but she is in the hospital.”

  “What hospital?”

  His urgency and concern must have overcome her natural reticence, because she told him without hesitation. He thanked her and excused himself. He asked for directions to the hospital of a passerby. He had a bad feeling about this ‘accident’ and felt that getting to the hospital quickly was essential.

  At the hospital, Rex was relieved that security wasn’t as tight there as it had become in America. He asked for Sophia and received the room number with no hassles about whether he was a relative or had a code.

  When he got to the room, his first thought was it had been a trap all along.

  Sophia was in the bed, all right. She’d been badly beaten. Her face was lumpy and misshapen, bruised, and one eye was swollen shut, the skin around it a nauseating shade of purple. Her left arm was in a cast.

  And in a corner, on a straight chair set at an angle, sat Crosseye, one of the two thugs from the restaurant. He was just rising as Rex arrived.

  He rushed at Rex, raising his hands to push him out of the doorway. He quickly learned that was a mistake. In seconds, he was incapacitated with a broken left wrist and three fingers on the right hand also broken. Rex’s knee connected with his ribs, breaking a few of those for good measure, and his head connected with the goon’s nose, setting off a torrent of blood and a wail of pain. Rex kicked the door closed as he bundled Crosseye into the attached bathroom.

  Rex used a sleeper hold to give the guy a nice rest, tied him up with his own bootlaces, stuffed a towel into his mouth, and left him in the shower, curtains drawn. Rex’s breathing had hardly changed.

  He went back out into the hospital room, smiling.

  Sophia, though, was shaking and looking at him with horror and fear.

  “What have you done? You’ve signed my death warrant, and yours!”

  Before Rex could question her, the door to the hallway opened, and in walked Curly. He took in the scene and drew a knife from his belt, flicked it open, and lunged at Rex, swearing.

  Rex sidestepped the lunge and brought his fist crashing down on Curly’s thick neck. The thug stumbled into the wall and recoiled, throwing both arms to the sides to avoid stabbing himself. Before he caught his balance, Rex had disarmed him and dragged him into the bathroom. He soon joined his buddy in the shower, but in worse condition.

  Rex considered it just retribution for the goon pulling a knife. So, this one would wake up missing a few teeth, which he’d swallowed, and with a broken jaw for good measure, and a broken elbow of the arm he’d used to draw the knife, and a smashed left knee. Rex figured he’d get a nice new titanium knee. Curly was soon cozied up to his buddy in the shower, tied with his bootlaces and gagged with another towel.

  When he returned to Sophia’s bedside, he had just one question.

  “Are there any more of them I should expect? I’m afraid there’s no more room in the shower.”

  Sophia was beside herself. “You are a fool! Now you must take me out of here and get both of us far away if you value your life and mine. Immediately. No one crosses the Camorra and lives. Your friend found that out the hard way.”

  Rex held his hand up to get her to stop talking. “First, you’ll tell me the truth. Who did this to you?” He gestured at her face and arm.

  “They did.” She nodded in the direction of the bathroom.

  “Why?”

  Bitterly, she twisted her mouth as she answered. “Because they didn’t like it that I spoke to you yesterday. They hadn’t vetted you, so that wasn’t allowed. You are at fault. They didn’t believe me when I said that you only asked about your friend, and I told you I didn’t know him.”

  “What happened to my friend?”

  “What do you think? He got too nosy about some big deal they’re working on. Please, we must leave. Now.”

  “We have some time, unless you’re stalling until someone else comes. You know more about that deal than you’re saying, don’t you? If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll take you with me when I leave here. Otherwise, you can explain what they’ll find in the shower by yourself.”

  ***

  A TEAR TRACKED down Sophia’s cheek. If she stayed, they’d kill her. If she went with this stranger, she’d be leaving her life behind. But would that be so bad? Her life was worthless and without meaning as a pawn of the Camorra anyway.

  She’d never seen anyone stand up to those two bullies in the shower and come out on top. She’d never seen anyone challenge the Camorra and live to tell the story. Maybe this man, who moved so fast, it was a blur in her memory, could protect her and help her get away from these animals.

  Maybe not, but she was dead anyway.

  “I’ll tell you all I know,” she said.

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  He helped her dress in her bloodstained and torn clothes, promising he’d replace them once he had her safe. When she was ready, he opened the door and looked both ways in the hallway. The coast was clear. He helped her shuffle to a service elevator and sneaked her out of the hospital with no one to see her condition and report the escape.

  Getting her on the bike was a bit trickier. She’d have to hold onto him with only one arm, but there was no other choice. He settled her on the passenger seat and then climbed over in front of her. She put her good arm around him and he patted her hand.

  “Hang on tight,” he said. He pulled away from the curb where he’d parked as sedately as if they were in a hearse instead of on a two-wheeled rocket.

  He took her to a CRC safe house. He’d avoided it before, in case he needed a bolt hole in the next few days, but there was no way to sneak Sophia past the concierge at his hotel.

  He made Sophia as comfortable a
s possible at the safe house and went back to the hotel.

  There he cleaned his room out, hastily wiped down everything he’d touched, and checked out.

  “But sir, you paid for a week in advance,” the clerk said.

  “Sorry, bad news. Family emergency. I have to get to Sardinia in a hurry. It might already be too late.”

  The clerk was sympathetic, but not so sympathetic that he’d refund the overage. Rex shrugged. He wouldn’t make a fuss. The money was not a problem — it was the principle of it. He just wanted to be gone without making a scene that someone would remember.

  Back at the safe house, he put the battlefield medicine he’d learned in Delta Force training to work. The safe house was supplied with first aid materials, but he’d stopped at a pharmacy for painkillers before returning. He tended to Sophia’s injuries with new dressings on her cuts and bruises.

  While he did that, she told him her story.

  It was probably a common one.

  In Naples, she told him, jobs were scarce if you didn’t align yourself with a member of a Camorra family. She’d worked her way up from waitress to manager of the restaurant, but the price was to become the mistress of one of the high-ranking capos. When he’d tired of her, he’d left her the consolation prize of the restaurant management work, but she was watched at all times by his henchmen, who included the two hoodlums Rex had decimated at the hospital.

  When her absence at the hospital was discovered, his description would go out along with hers. All of Naples will be on the lookout for them, and they’d both be dead within twenty-four hours if he didn’t do something to prevent the Camorra from finding them.

  “Tell me more about the deal that got my friend killed,” he said, ignoring her accusation and prediction of doom.

  She didn’t know many of the details, as the negotiations always went silent when she or one of her employees approached the table where they were being hammered out. Fortunately, she wasn’t the one who’d talked too much to Benedict, so she’d been safe when the infiltration was discovered. All she could give Rex was a few names and the impression that the deal was to be concluded within the next few weeks.