Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3)

by Steven Becker

  Saba gripped the wheel tighter, trying to come up with some kind of cryptic message that would let Maldonado know she was in trouble. “Please tell him that I have found a way to authenticate the painting. Please let him know. I think he would be grateful to be informed immediately.” That much was true and she expected his aid would find him directly.

  “Where can he reach you?”

  Saba glanced over at Burga, who shook her head.

  “We’ll call back when we’re closer.”

  20

  Old Rome

  John shook his head like a fighter woozy from a haymaker. The man loomed above him with the recently acquired pistol trained at his head.

  “The journal. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John responded.

  The butt of the pistol slammed into John’s temple, knocking him onto his side. John had to wonder if the man was that quick or if the previous blow had dulled his senses. Whichever, the harsh look on the man’s face left no doubt that he had done this before. John took his time recovering from the blow, feinting as if he was hurt worse than he actually was, though the act was pretty close to his current condition. He had to regain his senses. Playing this game with half-a-deck could be fatal.

  “Again. The journal.”

  Knowing another blow would either add his suspected concussion, John tried to buy some time. Using his hands, he rose to his knees and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. The thug’s question was forgotten when fireworks exploded in front of his open eyes. Carefully, John held his hands palm up in front of him. The gesture not only communicated that he didn’t know, but also placed his arms where he could use them to block another blow.

  “Where is your son?”

  Mako was traveling under his own name. There was little point in lying when the truth could be easily verified. “Heading to Sicily. You have to know that he lost the journal last night.”

  “Foolish man, falling for a woman like that.”

  “We’ve got that in common, anyway,” John said, using the interlude to slowly gain his feet. The man stood back in case John fell, but his aim never left John’s head. John used the brick wall behind him to maintain his balance. Thankfully, the tinge of double vision faded slowly.

  “I don’t have the journal, but I do have an idea who does,” John said.

  The man lifted his eyebrows, signaling him to continue.

  “That woman who seduced my son has it.”

  As it echoed off the walls of the alcove, the sudden shrillness of a cell phone ring almost put John back on his knees. The man pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. After accepting the call, he stepped backwards and held the phone to his ear with his left hand, while maintaining his aim on John with the gun in his right.

  John had spent enough time in the country that he had a fair command of Italian. He could make out fragments of the conversation and had ascertained a woman had been taken. Then, an anglicized word stood out: Vatican.

  Maldonado held the key to whatever was going on, but with a gun trained at his head John would never know unless he escaped. While the man talked, his attention moved away from John, though his aim remained true. John took the opportunity to scan his surroundings. Ten feet below street level and hidden by the alcove, he doubted anyone would be able to react to a call for help before the man either shot or crippled him. Standing was an effort; John had no illusions that he could take the man, even if he had the element of surprise.

  A dozen or so people were spread out over the block-sized excavation. He noticed some were feeding and petting the local cats. Looking around, he saw the site was infested with them. Never a feline lover, he jerked back when he felt one brush against his legs. The man continued to talk, not seeing the cat at John’s feet.

  John took a chance, thinking it was the only one he was going to get. Slowly, while maintaining eye contact with his assailant, he bent over and petted the cat. Gauging the man’s interest, he saw nothing to warn him off his next move.

  Trying to hide his face, he grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck and with a swift motion flung the feline at the man. Claws extended, the cat let out a vicious scream as it latched onto the man’s face. His phone dropped, but for a long second the gun remained pointed at John. The man’s efforts to free himself of the animal seemed to have no effect on his gun hand. Then, instead of releasing, the terrified cat dug its claws deeper.

  The gun hand dropped, and John was on the man in an instant. Grabbing the man’s gun hand, knowing very well that the trigger could inadvertently be pulled, John slammed the man’s wrist into his raised knee. Still plagued by the cat, the man was disoriented, every ounce of his focus intent on dislodging the claws before they gouged his eyes out. With every attempt to dislodge the animal, its claws cut deeper. Finally, the man’s hand reflexively opened and the gun dropped to the old stone floor. John reached down and grabbed it a millisecond before he saw the cat flung against the brick wall. There was no time to find out if it still had any lives left—the cat had served its purpose.

  John pointed the gun at the man, who raised his hands. Backing out of the alcove, he stumbled into the waiting hands of two gendarmes.

  21

  Outside Rome

  There are certain elements of a situation that make it difficult to notice something right in front of your face. Having seen the green-eyed woman in a black car, as he peered ahead every other car on the road seemed to be black, too. So many of the cars looked identical to each other that it was almost impossible to locate the one with the woman.

  It turned out the driver knew a fair amount of English and was more than willing to practice on Mako, who had little more than a spattering of Italian. What he’d found was that whenever he attempted to practice his Italian, he was waved off by the enthusiasm of the Italians wanting to practice their English.

  The driver was babbling to the point of distraction, but Mako was reluctant to silence him. He had already shown both a willingness and aptitude to flex the traffic laws. In fact, a glance at the speedometer revealed they were traveling at 140 kilometers per hour. Mako did the math in his head that this was somewhere north of eighty-five miles per hour. This driver checked every one of the boxes of the stereotypical Italian driver, driving the Focus like a Ferrari and gesturing wildly as he wove in and out of traffic.

  “Up ahead,” Mako said, pointing to another black sedan.

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  The car lurched forward as the driver accelerated. They quickly reached the slower-moving car and Mako turned away. It wasn’t her. What he needed was a bird's-eye view. Touching his earpiece, he woke the connection. “Alicia?”

  “No, my name is Lucia,” the driver said.

  After giving him plenty of euros, now stuffed in Lucia’s pocket, Mako was already in deep enough. He turned his head and pointed to the flesh-colored bud in his ear.

  “You some CIA spy or something?”

  Mako couldn’t resist. “Bond. James Bond.”

  Both men chuckled at the reference to the iconic spy. Without directly answering the question, Mako had answered. “We could use some help.” He said Alicia’s name again.

  “I’m here. Just helping TJ on the dock.”

  She sounded out of breath and Mako pictured the diminutive woman hauling dive tanks. “I need you.” He hated to say the words.

  “Let me get upstairs.”

  He could hear her breathing as he imagined her walking down the dock and taking the single flight of stairs up to the apartment located over the dive shop.

  “Almost there. What do you have?” Alicia asked.

  Mako could see Lucia straining to hear the conversation. He shrugged and ignored him.

  “Okay, I’ve got your location. What the hell are you doing? Last I heard you were flying to Sicily.”

  “I saw the woman.”

  “Vehicle?” Alicia was all business now.

  “Black
Focus. And don’t say it, I know, half the cars in the country look like that.”

  “It’ll take a minute to load the traffic cameras, but we should be able to track her. What are you driving?”

  “I took an Uber to the airport. The driver’s cool.” Mako saw Lucia smile. Whatever happened, short of violence, the driver was all-in.

  “I’m gonna grab TJ. He’s better at this than I am.”

  Mako continued to check out each black car they passed, but there was no sign of her. Estimating it had cost them five minutes to exit and return to the freeway, he really didn’t expect a hit yet. Assuming they were traveling at the speed limit, for every minute the black Focus had on them, it would take five minutes to make up the time. Plus, there was always the chance the Focus had exited already.

  “Yo, Mako.”

  “Hey, TJ. Did Alicia fill you in?”

  “Right on, brother. I’m on it. Okay, I’ve got you now. Tracking the cameras ahead of you. Black cars over there are like grunts on the reef, man. You’ll have to check them one at a time.” He paused.

  Mako imagined TJ sitting in his captain’s chair, populating his monitors using the double joysticks built into the arms. “Roger, that.”

  “Two coming up on your right.”

  “Got ‘em.”

  Mako leaned forward to confirm what he expected, that neither car was the one. Without any kind of breadcrumbs to follow, this was futile. To Mako, patience and perseverance seemed like weaknesses; things had always come naturally to him.

  Several more black cars came and went, and then he saw her.

  Their eyes met, but something was different. She clearly recognized him. There was no smile or frown; she didn’t turn away, as he had expected. Instead her eyes bore into him. He could see fear on her face.

  “Pace that car. That’s the one.”

  “Cool,” Lucia said, slowing slightly to maintain spacing.

  “We’ve got her,” Mako said into the mic.

  “Right on. I’ll grab the plate at the next camera and run a trace.”

  “Ten to one it’s an Uber like this one,” Mako said.

  A hurt look came over Lucia’s face. “There is no other Uber like this one.”

  Dealing with an Uber driver’s fragile ego was low on Mako’s priorities, but the driver had been an asset. “You the man.” He reached over and fist-bumped him.

  The smile returned, and Lucia leaned forward, concentrating on the car in the left lane.

  Mako wasn’t sure what to make of her. Ducking slightly to avoid a direct line of sight, he looked back at the green-eyed driver. Her glance darted back and forth, as if she were looking for something. It was then that Mako glanced at the passenger, realizing it was the woman who had chased him and John earlier.

  Just as he made the identification, his phone rang. There were only two people who had the number, and he was already connected to one.

  “Dad?”

  “Listen, Mako. I’m in jail. I’ll text you the info. Get Alicia to hook me up with a local lawyer and get me out.”

  The call disconnected, as if someone had taken the phone from the older Storm’s hand. Shit, Mako thought. Just as he finally caught a break, the old man ends up in jail. Relaying the information to TJ, he waited for the text.

  Outside Rome

  Saba had spotted Mako before he saw her. With her low opinion of Storm, it would have been a disappointment if she hadn’t. Instead of looking away, as if he had caught her doing something wrong, she held his gaze. Forced to choose between Carlota Burga, who sat in the passenger seat pointing a gun at her, and Mako Storm, who had to have figured out it was she who had stolen the journal, Mako was her only ally.

  Using eye movements, she tried to signal him that she was in trouble. Then his car slid away, and she thought her attempt had failed. But when she looked across at the traffic in the adjacent lane, he was still there, his car keeping pace with her’s.

  For the last few miles, since Burga had ordered her to turn around and head back to Rome, she had wracked her brain for anything in her power to free herself. There were few options when driving with a gun pointed at you. The vehicle, of course, was a weapon, but anything she did with it would affect her as well.

  Once they had reentered the highway, she slowly increased the speed to ten, then twenty, kilometers over the limit, but Burga had caught her ploy to try to get pulled over, and she was now cruising at the speed limit. Until she actually saw a police car, there was nothing she could do—until Mako had appeared.

  This was the only time she could recall where, instead of trying to avoid another vehicle, she was praying that one would follow. Whatever happened, she needed to facilitate the other car’s effort, not a simple task if Mako’s tradecraft was as bad as she had observed last night.

  Still, there was something about him that intrigued her.

  Putting those thoughts on hold, her immediate priority was getting Maldonado out of the Vatican. The journal was hidden in Rome—not that she would just hand it over. Her phone was gone, but the pictures she had taken were accessible through the cloud. Know your enemy had been beaten into her since the first days of Interpol training, and she had done her homework on Mako’s group. The tech-savvy couple in Key Largo had the resources to bring the journal back to life—at least electronically. In order to do that, she had to make amends with the tall, dark man, who was now peering at her across traffic lanes like a teenager.

  Carlotta Burga was a different problem. That enemy had slipped under her radar. Stereotyping was generally a bad idea, but when it looked like a duck, and quacked like a duck.… The Mafia was still the Mafia, and extortion was one of their prime tactics. Saba knew their relationship with the Church went back decades. As the Church had decided to back, or at least aid, the Nazis in a fight against communism, brushing all the group’s monstrous sins under the rug for the greater cause, so had they allied with La Cosa Nostra to keep the communists out of Italy. And like every storekeeper who paid for “protection,” the Church had found that once you became intertwined with the Mafia, it was near impossible to extricate yourself from their clutches.

  Saba set those thoughts aside, too. Somehow she needed to turn what she had done to Mako last night to her advantage, but first, she needed Maldonado. From her initial scan of the journal she had noticed that Caravaggio had made reference to several paintings whose providence were not in question. One in particular came to mind, and it was close at hand. The Fortune Teller, whose fraternal twin was on display in the Louvre, hung in the Capitoline Museums. Set behind the Vittorio Emmanuel II monument, the site was perfect for her purposes. If she could arrange a meeting there, it might be possible to escape.

  “I need to try Maldonado again.”

  “Be my guest.” Burga went to her recent call log and pressed the number for the Vatican offices, then handed her the phone.

  Burga was so preoccupied with something that she forgot to put the call on speaker, Saba noticed, as she took the phone from her captor’s hand. With Burga listening to only one side of the conversation, she might be able to arrange the meeting without Maldonado ruining the party.

  The same voice she had spoken to earlier picked up the call. He clearly remembered her, and transferred her to the bishop.

  “Ah, my dear. I hope this is good news.”

  “Indeed, Bishop. Can you meet me at the Capitoline, near the Fortune Teller?”

  “I’m assuming that you have the journal?”

  “A question of authenticity has come up. I think it would be wise to compare the journal against a known painting.” It wasn’t an unusual request. The journal’s value came in its ability to authenticate the paintings in Sicily. There were notes about several others in it as well. If the journal were a forgery, there might be errors. It had always amazed Saba that even with the stakes so high how lazy forgers and criminals could be.

  “This is unusual, but if you have it, I will meet you. An hour?”

  “Tha
t would be fine. I’ll see you then.” When she heard the call disconnect, she added, “Bring the original, not copies.”

  She handed the phone back to Burga, tentatively glancing at her face. There was no sign she had sensed the deception. That problem handled, as Saba drove toward the city, she concentrated on moving her two pawns, Mako Storm and Bishop Maldonado, into place.

  22

  Key Largo, Florida

  After she finished saying goodbye to the last of their charter clients, Alicia ran up the stairs to their apartment. She hoped she hadn’t appeared impatient with them. Some tip money had surely been lost with TJ already upstairs guiding Mako through the streets of Rome. Return customers and their goodwill in recommending their shop were critical to the business’s survival. Though her mind was racing ahead to the problems in Italy, Alicia tried to concentrate on the people who regularly paid their bills. Glancing back at the gear strewn across the deck of the boat and the dock, she continued to the front door. People were important; the boat and gear could wait.

  “What have you got?” she asked TJ, while sliding in front of her own computer. About two-thirds of the wall monitors were lit, displaying an assortment of traffic cameras and maps.

  “We found her. They’re heading back to the city.”

  “That takes care of Mako and the woman. What about John Storm?”

  “Jail.”

  “Get the hell out. John Storm’s in jail?” Alicia was stunned. Of all the players least likely to get locked up, it was the senior Storm. “What happened?”

  “Not much for details, but Mako sent me a text with some information. Sending it to you now.”

  Alicia’s phone pinged, alerting her to the text from TJ. It was pretty straightforward, just the address and phone number of the questura where John was being held. “I’ve got this angle. Let me know if anything changes on your end.”

  “Will do. As soon as they hit the city center, all hell’s probably going to break loose.”