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

by Steven Becker

  “Damn.” Mako stood up. “I’ll be at the bar across the street.” He had seen enough. Saba didn’t move. As he slipped out of the pew and into the aisle, Mako took one last look at the painting. He just didn’t get it.

  The minute he stepped outside of the old church and breathed in the fresh air of the Plaza, he felt better. He understood the one-of-a-kind thing, though he had no idea how you ranked art, or why anyone would spend hundreds of millions on a painting.

  He strolled across the plaza and took a seat at an unoccupied table outside the cafe. A waiter came over a moment later and handed him a menu, which he brushed away. Saba had fed him before she dragged him through the Old City, doing what she called “surveillance,” or, since the shops were closed, what he called “pre-shopping.” They had already eaten, but his throat was parched. Mako would have liked an Aperol spritz, an acceptable early afternoon drink. Since it was still morning, he ordered espresso. Even for him, before noon was too early to drink.

  Doing his own reconnaissance, Mako studied the people walking through the awkwardly shaped plaza. It was possible that the church had been a design afterthought, as the building was crammed in a corner, its entrance only partially visible from the plaza. He had picked his table to observe the comings and goings.

  As he sat and people-watched, Mako also studied the architecture, or at least what he could see, of the old church. Saba had rattled off a bunch of dates and styles, none of which he retained. He was half-tempted to Google it just to prove that he had been listening.

  He needed to do something to fix whatever he had done wrong with Saba. After sharing that kiss in the cab, she had withdrawn into herself.

  To his surprise, this morning over breakfast she had pulled out the tattered journal. Grabbing it and running had occurred to him. Its authenticity had pretty much been established yesterday with the Fortune Teller. But their relationship was even more complicated than logistics and emotions. Her Interpol credentials had allowed her to take his gun through security at the airport, and she still had the weapon. For his own peace of mind and sanity, he had to know if they were really allied.

  Glancing into his cup, he saw only grounds, and signaled the waiter for a refill. Mako checked his watch while he waited. The church was closed from 11 a.m. to noon, and Saba wanted to use that opportunity to check the Caravaggio against the journal. They had thankfully arrived just as Mass was ending and he knew she was waiting for the priest to reappear. Her Interpol credentials were gold, and there was no reason to suspect her request would be denied.

  It was a pleasant morning, but Mako was starting to get jittery from the double dose of caffeine. He decided he would give it another fifteen minutes then head back in. Catching the waiter’s attention, he asked for the check, and left a sizable tip, though he knew one wasn’t generally required in Europe, learning long ago that generosity often paid off. Besides, Alicia would pick up the tab. He spent the time memorizing the exterior facade of the church, coming to the conclusion that they should charge admission to raise some funds to repair the iron balcony that looked like it was about to fall off its meager supports. The façade reminded him of the buildings in the Old West, where each structure had a fancy storefront, which hid a simple gable roof behind it.

  It was time, and he rose, placing the five-euro note under his cup. Before crossing the plaza, he noticed a couple strolling casually toward the church. It appeared to be a father and daughter, but the man looked very familiar. Mako quickened his pace, catching them just as they reached the double green doors leading to the church.

  “Dad? What are you doing here?”

  Church of Santa Lucia, Syracuse

  As they entered the church, John started to make a beeline for Saba.

  “That’s her,” he whispered to Mako.

  Mako grabbed his shoulder. “It’s cool. We’re together.” Mako didn’t even need to look; he knew it was coming: the shared glance between parents and children that most people outside of the family didn’t understand. This was the “What the hell, Mako” look he’d been getting as long as he could remember.

  “We’ve got a limited time window here, and it’s right now,” Mako said, as he stood aside to allow the tourists, ushered outside by the priest, to exit. The pastor recognized Mako from the earlier conversation and allowed him to pass by.

  “We’ll catch up later.”

  “You have the journal?”

  “Not exactly.” Mako and Saba had decided at breakfast that the pictures of the journal on his phone would be enough to verify if the Burial was legit. Their discussion had been intense. Saba wanted to lock the journal in the small safe in the hotel room. Mako’s plan had prevailed, and earlier they had hidden it behind a stone in one of the niches in the church.

  “What the hell does that mean?” John’s voice was louder than he intended. He lowered it and continued. “You’re off the rails again, Mako.”

  “What about your associate there?” Mako glanced at the woman beside John. He wasn’t sure what to call her. Clearly close to his age, he looked back at his father, wondering if she favored older men. Deciding the inquisition on both ends could wait, Mako caught Saba’s eye. She joined them, nodding curtly to John as they walked toward the sanctuary.

  The church dimmed as the priest closed the double doors. “You have a half an hour. The ladder is in the janitor’s closet.” He pointed to a hallway, walked past them, and disappeared through a small door beside the altar. Mako had no doubt that somehow he would be observing them.

  “We need it?” he asked Saba.

  “I think so.”

  “Come on, Pops, give me a hand.” Mako didn’t want to leave him alone with Saba.

  John followed Mako down the hallway. It had been forty years since he had last been here, but he still remembered the layout, and stopped himself from correcting Mako when he opened the door to a storeroom. Mako then moved to the correct one, and removed the ladder.

  “Who’s your friend, Dad?” Mako tried to phrase the question to be more businesslike.

  “State Department.”

  The Storm family had always operated on a need-to-know basis—no one needed to know anything. Mako probed further. “You think this is a good idea?”

  “And you, with the woman who drugged you and stole the journal? I guess that’s a good idea?”

  “Touché.” They both knew they were at an impasse that couldn’t be solved in the limited time they had. With an unspoken “Later,” Mako carried the ladder to the apse.

  Wanting to avoid any further interactions with John, he set up the ladder and climbed. Hung well above the altar, the fourteen-foot-tall painting reached toward the ceiling, its top well out of Mako’s reach. His current line of sight was at eye level with the group gathered around a woman’s body.

  “You’ll have to find something around this level to verify,” he called to Saba.

  Mako looked down at the trio. John leaned over Saba’s shoulder, with Faith at her side. Each person’s goals and alliances had been temporarily put on hold as they focused on the phone.

  Pinching the screen to zoom in, Saba called up, “I think I’ve got something. He placed the initials MM somewhere.”

  “Michelangelo Morisi,” Faith said, startling them. They were the first words she’d spoken. ”His initials.”

  “Right, that’ll be a piece of cake. A little more direction, maybe?”

  “The half-naked man, digging what I guess is her grave. In his beard, Caravaggio says he placed his initials.”

  Mako stood on the top step, one level higher than the ladder’s warning placard allowed. Knowing he was inches away from a multi-million-dollar painting was not reassuring, as he precariously leaned in for a closer look. At this distance the detail was much greater than he expected. He could see the relief effect created by the individual brush strokes.

  “Nothing.”

  “Be patient. He planted it there so a forger would miss it,” Saba said.

  M
ako leaned even closer. Looking for anything unusual, he squinted to try to change his focus. Still nothing. He knew they were running out of time.

  “I don’t see anything.” Having an overview of the group, he could see his father squirm. John Storm might have been many things, but a squirmer wasn’t one of them. Something was up. “I’m coming down.”

  It was easier said than done. Maintaining his balance with only his shins resting against the top of the ladder, Mako needed some support to lower himself farther, something for his hands to grasp. The painting was off-limits, so he extended himself to reach for the half-round molding set just inside of the Corinthian columns located on each side of the painting.

  His body turned as he grasped the old plaster. Not wanting to look down, he glanced to the side and saw the door that the priest had exited crack open. He had assured them a half-hour’s privacy; Mako expected only fifteen minutes had passed.

  The door eased open a little more. Mako had no doubt the priest was watching and listening from somewhere, but it wouldn’t be through a cracked door. Old churches had all kinds of nooks and crannies, sometimes placed intentionally, sometimes a relic from a past remodel. The priest would know every inch of the church.

  Calling out to the group at the altar would alarm whoever was there, but Mako wanted down. If it was a real threat, standing where he was made him an easy target. The hold on the molding gave him enough security to bend his knees and drop one foot to the rung just below the top. Now that his feet were apart, his balance improved enough that he could release the molding, and he scurried down to ground level.

  A sideways glance at the door told him nothing had changed, and he leaned in to look at the journal on his phone. “Someone’s behind the door,” he whispered, nodding his head to show the direction.

  Saba and John betrayed no sign that anything was amiss. Faith, lacking their training, immediately looked toward the door.

  Saba and John, both seeing her mistake, reached slowly for their concealed weapons. To a trained agent, their movements telegraphed their intention. Just as the lights illuminating Caravaggio’s painting caught the polished slide of John’s 1911, a shot ricocheted off the altar. The door opened and standing there with her weapon trained at Faith was Carlota Burga.

  32

  Syracuse, Sicily

  Burga had the drop on John and Saba, whose weapons were still at waist level.

  With her pistol trained on Faith, Burga stepped out of the doorway. Either John or Saba could have taken the Mafia boss out, but not before she shot Faith.

  “Drop your weapons and step away from the woman,” Burga motioned to the first row of seats.

  Two grating sounds of steel on stone echoed through the old church as Saba and John dropped their guns.

  “None for you, lover boy?” Burga asked Mako.

  He was unarmed and raised his hands. “Check if you want.”

  Burga again gestured for the group to move to the first row. The looks on their faces showed there was no option—at least for now, and they complied, leaving Faith standing alone by the altar.

  Without moving his head, Mako scanned the church hoping to find the priest’s hiding place. Surely, he would help if he was witnessing this. There was no sign of him. If he was watching from a hidden place, it was well concealed, and Mako shifted his gaze to Faith.

  Mascara ran down her tear-streaked face. Behind the smudge marks, he noticed that she was remarkably pretty in a down-home kind of way. Under different circumstances he had no doubt his father would try to get them together.

  “The journal, please.”

  “We don’t have it. Only a copy on my phone,” Saba explained. “Let her go. She’s not part of this.”

  “Exactly why she is so valuable. Come here.” She motioned for Faith to move toward her with the barrel. Meeting her halfway, Burga picked up Mako’s Glock, which Saba had dropped, and John’s 1911 from the floor and stuffed them into her waistband. “I expect the original is not far. Whatever the case, you have twenty-four hours to bring it to me and I will release the girl unharmed.”

  “Take me instead. I’m more valuable to you,” Saba said.

  Mako felt badly he hadn’t offered first. He was sure to get a lesson in chivalry from his father later.

  “I think not. An innocent American is gold.” Burga reached for Faith’s arm.

  Instead of pulling away, Faith rolled into Burga, taking her by surprise. An elbow to her solar plexus, followed by a backhand slap to her face, threw the Mafia boss off-guard. Before she could recover, Faith grabbed both of her wrists, swung underneath her arms to face her, and smashed her knee into her stomach.

  Mako was the first to move. Crossing the stone floor, he grabbed Burga from behind. Before he could restrain her, a gunshot fired. The bullet ricocheted off the stone floor, doing no damage, but it was enough of a distraction for Burga to make her move.

  Bringing her knee to her chest, she landed a front kick into Faith that threw her halfway across the room. In one blow Burga had shown the violent streak she was known for. Mako still had his arms around Burga when another shot fired. Again. using the distraction, Burga elbowed Mako in the stomach.

  It was a basic martial arts move, and Mako was ready for it. Opening his stance to avoid the heel ready to slam onto one of his feet, Mako sucked in his gut, avoiding the major force of the blow from Burga’s elbow, and crumpled to the floor, hoping she would fall for the feint. Bent over on his knees, Mako waited for Burga to make the next move. Peering out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the woman approach, her pistol rising.

  With his head down, he couldn’t see the others, and wondered why they hadn’t intervened. There was no time to look for them. In slow motion, Mako watched the weapon move to his head. Just as it reached chest level, he swung his leg out, executing a low sweep kick. Burga, unprepared for the move, lost her footing. Mako sprang up and grabbed her, smashing her head back into the stone floor, causing her to release her grip on the 1911, which slid across the floor.

  Just as Mako was about to reach for it, he heard an unfamiliar voice. “Leave it and step back with your friends.”

  Mako hesitated. This was his chance to take control of the situation.

  “Do what he says,” John said.

  Mako backed away from the weapon, and looked toward the side door, which led to the storerooms and janitor’s closet. Standing there was a man wearing a black suit, shirt, and priest’s collar. He was older, but tall and athletic looking, certainly not a stereotypical priest. The pistol he held extended toward Mako didn’t hurt his image, either.

  “Put it down, Bishop,” John said. He stood and walked toward the weapon on the floor. The priest remained silent. John picked up the gun and pointed it at Burga. “She’s the one you want.”

  “What I want is the journal,” the bishop said.

  John stepped toward Burga, but the bishop’s voice stopped him. “Maybe our Interpol agent can take her into custody.”

  Saba took the cue. She stood up and walked over to Burga. Turning to Mako, she asked him to find something to restrain the Mafia boss.

  “And once she is in custody, you will get me the original copy of the journal.”

  Mako brushed past the bishop as he entered the hallway. Opening the first door, he scanned the shelves, finding a small roll of twine. Back by the altar, he leaned behind Burga, and was about to squat down to tie the woman’s hands behind her back when Burga rose, slamming the back of her head into Mako’s chin.

  Stunned, Mako lost his balance and landed on his butt. John had the gun, but with Saba and Mako standing right by Burga it was useless. Saba, sensing his problem, started to back away, but before she took two steps, Burga reached behind her back and pulled out Mako’s Glock.

  She wasted no time. Grabbing Saba around the neck, she placed the tip of the barrel against Saba’s temple and started walking backwards toward the door leading to the priest’s office. Disappearing through the portal, Mako gas
ped as a single shot rang out.

  John went for the bishop, but before he reached him to strip the gun from his hand, another shot fired, this one much closer. John doubled over in pain, clutching his thigh, where a small circle of blood appeared. Mako, not seeing that his father had been shot, ran to the door. A flash of light disrupted his vision, which was acclimated to the dim church. Instinctively he ducked, but it was the exit door opening. A second later, it slammed shut.

  Mako sprinted toward the steel door, passing a body on the floor with blood pooled around the chest. His first thought was Saba. He stopped to verify his fear only to find it the priest. There was nothing they could do for him now. Burga had taken Saba. Mako stormed down the hallway and slammed into the exit door’s crash bar. The bar didn’t budge. He tried again, taking his frustration out on the door. A second later, he felt John at his shoulder.

  “She pinned it, and I can’t see where the mechanism is,” Mako said.

  “I’ll take Faith and go out the main entrance. Keep at it.”

  John left him struggling to free the bar. Several long seconds later, he found the button and, pressing it, opened the door. Squinting in the bright light, Mako found himself staring into a crowd of people. It was lunchtime and the plaza was crowded. Even with his height enabling him to see over the crowd, there was no sign of Burga or Saba.

  Faith and Maldonado came running around the corner with John limping behind them. Mako saw his father was hurt.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked.

  John shot a look toward the bishop. At first Mako thought it might have been because of his language. “It was an accident.”

  Mako moved toward his father, who held up a hand, indicating he was okay. Faith bent over and bound her scarf around his leg. He winced in pain as she cinched it tightly.

  “Where’s the journal, Mako?” John asked, as he picked up his gun, which had slid underneath the pew.

  Mako had a decision to make. He knew where the journal was, and how to access it. The simple solution would be to call Interpol and alert them to the danger Saba was in, and let them clean up their own mess which would leave them free to recover the journal and complete their contract.