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

by Steven Becker

  “Keep an eye out, if you don’t mind. Ghost Runner, out.” Mac was about to set the microphone into its holder when another vessel hailed him.

  “Yo, Travis, that you?”

  “It is, what’cha got?”

  “Seen a few of these yellow chemical lights floating out there a few minutes ago. Thought it was just trash.”

  Mac knew exactly what he was talking about. There was a good chance the lights were attached to BCs. “Can you shoot me your coordinates?”

  48

  Syracuse, Sicily

  After talking to Mac, Mako and Saba remained quiet, until a sudden sound made both turn toward the entrance of the harbor. The engine of a ship coming their way was clearly audible over the sounds of the early morning fishermen preparing for their day. The pre-dawn light showed the silhouette of a massive motor yacht.

  “Longino?” Mako asked.

  “That’s his.” Saba scanned the harbor. “We’ve only got a limited view here. We need higher ground with quick access. I’m sure they’ll stash John and Faith on the ship. We need to stop them before they reach it.”

  “You’re right about that,” Mako said, glad that her first priority was his father and Faith, not the journal. Looking back at the outline of the buildings behind them, he found what he was looking for. “That hotel there.” The only other buildings taller were churches.

  “That’ll work.” Saba got up and started walking.

  By the time they covered the dozen or so blocks to the Grand Hotel Ortigia, the sun was casting its first rays on the building. “Rooftop restaurant,” Mako said, seeing the sign beside the entry doors.

  “You know as soon as we order, Burga will show up.”

  “Portability, dear. We Americans have some things perfected. I think I’ve eaten more meals in a car than at a table.”

  The only way to describe her derisive laugh was European. Regardless, she followed him into the hotel. The elevator took them to the top floor, where they entered the restaurant.

  “We’d like a table overlooking the harbor,” Mako asked one of the waiters.

  They were led to a small table and ordered espresso. Positioning themselves so they could see the harbor through the mass of the lattice-style concrete railing, they scanned the breakfast menu. When the waiter returned they ordered breakfast.

  “So.” Mako glanced back at the restaurant to see if their conversation could be overheard. This early, only a few tables were occupied and those were scattered around the dining room and balcony. They were safe.

  “Back to the Vatican.”

  Saba sipped from her cup. “Right. The Institute for the Works of Religion.”

  “Say what?”

  “The Vatican Bank.” She waited until she had his attention. “The Church would rather talk about sex than money.” She had him now. “I’ll spare you the history lesson.”

  Mako nodded, not sure if she was ridiculing him or just wanting to save time. He waited for her to continue.

  “Until World War II the Church was constantly teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. During the war, however, they prospered, mainly as money launderers. Cloaked with their religious status, the unique entity was allowed to do business in the United States and other allied nations. Fortunes were amassed.

  “No one really knows what assets they have, and though there have been reform efforts, the Church wants to keep them secret. There is a rumor that there’s trouble now. Pope Francis wants transparency, and it couldn’t come at a worse time. Between the lawsuits against them for child abuse and some bad management decisions, they are having to borrow to pay off the multi-million-dollar settlements. The art is collateral. They did the same thing with securities in the 80s”

  Their food arrived. Digging in, Mako summarized. “So, they have a basement loaded with artwork that may or may not be forged, and they use it to pay their bills.”

  “Basically.”

  “And now Longino’s wanting to go off the reservation and sell the Nativity.”

  “I haven’t wrapped my head around that situation yet, but it sounds that way.”

  With one eye on the water and another on their plates, they ate in silence, quickly devouring their breakfast. Mako sat back first. The food had cleared his mind, and a thought occurred to him. Before he could verbalize it, Saba interrupted him.

  “Look, something’s going on down there.”

  49

  Key Largo, Florida

  With the coordinates entered, Mac released the lines and spun the bow toward the main channel. Seconds later he was on plane heading toward the location the fisherman had given him. Tempering his expectations, he knew a sighting of two fluorescent glow sticks was far from confirmation that TJ and Alicia were alive. Several other explanations quickly came to mind. Parents gave their kids the sticks to play with all the time. The tide could have taken them out to sea. A more probable explanation was they were discarded by a fisherman who had used them while deep-dropping for swordfish. When fishing deeper than a few hundred feet, the lights helped attract the predators.

  Despite having the GPS coordinates, current and drift needed to be factored into his route calculation, making finding the two light sticks akin to finding two needles in a haystack. Searching like this, on a micro level, the vastness of the ocean was revealed.

  As he approached the waypoint, Mac kept a vigilant watch, scanning the water with his binoculars while the autopilot steered Ghost Runner. Back and forth he swept the glasses, searching for any sign of life on the ink-black water.

  An alarm from the chartplotter told him that he was approaching the spot. Mac set the binoculars down and steered toward the icon on the chart, then slowed and waited for the boat to drift. Once a true sailor’s art, through the use of electronics judging currents and drift was now more of a science. Zooming in on his location, Mac watched the thin line on the screen that showed his path of travel. He set a mark, then reached for his phone and opened the stopwatch. When a minute elapsed, he made another mark, then measured the distance. The chartplotter showed him the direction, while a quick calculation gave him the speed.

  Figuring it had been about thirty minutes since the fisherman had spotted the glowing dots, Mac extrapolated the distance at just short of a half-mile and spun the wheel to maintain his direction. His excitement built as he approached the center of the area he had calculated. Stopping well short of the spot, he set the throttles at idle speed, engaged the autopilot and started scanning the water.

  Mac knew his calculations were rough. With the large surface area of his trawler acting as a sail, the boat would be drifting faster than an object low to the water—like a body. Glancing at the chartplotter, he saw it was about a hundred yards to the waypoint, the area he expected to find them. As he approached his anxiety increased.

  There was nothing on the water.

  50

  Syracuse, Sicily

  Just risen above the horizon, the sun gave Mako and Saba plenty of light to make their way back to the harbor. It also brought out the early morning crowd. They were slowed every block or so by tourists and locals getting a head start on the day, as well as merchants loaded with goods that they were taking to the open-air market. The former moved out of their way; the latter, burdened down like mules, continued to stumble along, forcing Mako and Saba onto the street where they faced another challenge—Italian drivers.

  They finally reached the marina in time to see a small skiff already halfway to the yacht. Four people could clearly be seen sitting by the stern. It was too far to see their faces, but Mako knew his father’s body language from a distance. He was one of the passengers. That left Burga, Maldonado, and Faith.

  Mako didn’t wait for Saba. He vaulted the stone rail, landing roughly on a walkway leading to the docks. There was no reason to look back. He felt Saba right behind him. They reached a dock where several tourist boats were tied off and stopped. From the selection of old motors in front of them, there was no way to reach the larger
vessel before the skiff did.

  “It’ll take them a while to get that beast moving,” Mako said, hoping they wouldn’t be ready to sail upon receiving the passengers.

  “We can’t take that chance.” Saba walked up to one of the captains and offered her hand. A very brief negotiation ensued, and she handed him a few bills, then waved to Mako to join her. Boarding the twenty-odd-foot open-deck boat, the captain cast off the single line, and spun the wheel toward the behemoth.

  The man said something in Italian.

  “He wants to know if we’re sure we want to go to that ship. Says it is dangerous.”

  “We might not have too,” Mako said. “Tell him to hold up.”

  They were about halfway to Longino’s ship when a panel on the ship’s hull rose, then disappeared, and a dock extended. The skiff with Burga, John, Faith, and Maldonado approached and was received by two men. Drifting on the blue water of the harbor, Mako and Saba watched as John and Faith were escorted onto the dock and, with one of the men holding their arms, disappeared from view. Burga and Maldonado remained.

  “Tell him to head back to the dock,” Mako told Saba, who relayed the message to the captain. The relief on his face was evident. The remaining man on the extended dock handed a long cylindrical tube to the skiff’s captain. Once the tube was secure, he released the dock line. Mako was about to look away when Maldonado, Burga, and one of the thugs stepped back aboard the skiff. The small craft quickly sped away from the larger vessel. Before it had traveled ten yards, the hull panel was back in place, concealing the access.

  “Pretty slick,” Mako said, glancing over his shoulder at the approaching skiff. “Might want to ask your boyfriend here to speed it up a bit.”

  Saba ignored the reproach and said something to the captain. After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he complied, probably breaking the no-wake ordinance. He clearly wanted no part of the mega-yacht or its passengers.

  What were they up to? If they had the journal, why not take off? Bringing Maldonado back to the mainland had to be risky. The bishop was a well-known figure—in Italy, almost a celebrity. For the time being they were forced to keep their theories to themselves as the old two-stroke engine made it difficult to talk.

  “Over there,” Saba said, directing the captain to a different dock than they had disembarked from.

  Seconds later they sprung from the skiff and hustled up the ramp, hoping no one had seen them.

  “They’re going to the church. That tube has to hold the original painting.”

  “Maldonado’s covering his tracks,” Saba agreed.

  They ran into the city, weaving their way through the growing throng of pedestrian, bicycle, scooter, and vehicular traffic. Knowing their destination, they didn’t mind blending in with the crowds. It concealed them, as well as slowed Burga and Maldonado to a point that Saba and Mako actually passed them on the other side of the street. Hoping they hadn’t been seen, Mako and Saba took off at a run.

  Reaching the church they saw the main door open. A couple exited as another entered.

  “This is going to be interesting. I guess the secretary has a key,” Mako said.

  “Hopefully, the only thing she’ll find amiss is the priest absent. C’mon, let’s get inside before Burga and Maldonado get here.”

  They ran for the pair of green doors. Mako yanked one side open, nearly barreling into an older couple. Saba scolded him in Italian. Head down, he backed off, and held the door for them. Saba entered behind him. Together they slid along the back wall, trying to stay out of sight of the handful of early morning tourists wandering through the church.

  “There’s an upstairs balcony.” Mako grabbed Saba’s hand and led her to the stairway to their right. Across the opening to the stairs an old chain held a small sign in Italian that Mako deciphered as “no admittance.” Slowly, so as not to attract any attention, they ducked under the chain, and climbed the stairs to the balcony. Mako walked down the slight grade of the seating area, stopping at the fourth row. Taking two aisle seats, he and Saba scanned the church below. They could see most of the main floor, but the angle of the balcony helped shield them from view. Just as he settled into his seat, he saw Burga, Maldonado, and the thug enter.

  Words were exchanged. Burga and the thug with the tube stepped back into the shadows, while Maldonado walked purposefully toward the altar.

  “Tell me if I’m wrong, but it looks like he’s in charge,” Mako said.

  “Or Burga has given him his orders.”

  Saba didn’t elaborate as the secretary walked forward to meet the bishop. It was readily apparent from her body language that she was in awe of the man, who spoke to her. A few minutes later the church was cleared and the doors locked.

  “Guess that chain across the stairs is high security here,” Mako said.

  “Sshhh,” Saba whispered. “We don’t know where Burga is.

  After locking the main doors, the secretary said something to the bishop and entered the doorway near the altar that led to the offices and side entrance. Once the door was closed, Maldonado gestured toward the shadows and they watched Burga and the other man walk toward the altar. The cylinder was handed to the bishop, who dropped to one knee, set it on the floor, and with a pocket knife pried the end of the tube off. He withdrew a rolled-up canvas.

  51

  Key Largo, Florida

  Mac popped the transmission out of gear, allowing the boat to drift. He generally took pains to go unnoticed, and using his searchlight went against the grain. Having given up on finding the glow sticks, at this point he felt using the light was a last resort. Reaching toward the ceiling of the cabin, he grabbed the swivel control linked to the light that was mounted above and hit the on switch. The beam shot out in a wide arc, illuminating the water in front of him. He immediately knew why he hadn’t seen the glow lights.

  A huge mat of sargassum spread out around him; there was no way the small glow lights would be visible through the weeds. That gave him some hope. Using its handle, he swung the light, watching the beam carefully as it moved across the water. Mac knew staring at the light would ruin his night vision, as well as attract attention, but there was little choice.

  Glancing down at the chartplotter, he realized he had overshot the mark. He moved the throttle forward to its first stop and spun the boat 180 degrees, running a reciprocal course to the waypoint. The big diesel purred as it moved the boat at four knots. Mac continued to study the weeds ahead. The bow broke through the large clumps and the propeller dispersed them as he passed, making him think a reciprocal heading would provide better visibility.

  After running a quarter mile past the waypoint, Mac spun the wheel and reversed course. It was much easier to see now that the light reflected off the water instead of the weeds. As he approached the waypoint again, he continued forward for another two hundred yards to compensate for the additional drift. Mac swung the searchlight back and forth, becoming more anxious with each pass. He knew he was running out of time.

  The steady beam of the light was suddenly broken by a flash on the surface. It could have been a fish foraging for small baitfish in the broken weeds, or a reflector. Hoping it was the latter, Mac dropped his speed to a crawl and inched forward. He saw it again, and this time, heard a voice.

  Dropping to neutral, he hopped onto the foredeck and bent over the rail. Three figures were huddled together using two BCs as a makeshift raft. Two pairs of eyes squinted in the light; the eyes of a third, a man, remained closed. Mac knew immediately from the short dreadlocks that it was TJ. Mac reached back and swung the light to the side. Alicia and another woman looked up at him.

  “Alicia, it’s Mac,” he called down to the bodies in the water, knowing he and his boat were just silhouettes to the women.

  “Mac Travis?”

  “Mako called. But let’s get you out of the water. Stay there, I’ll swing around and pick you up by the dive platform.”

  “TJ’s hurt. He’s going to need medical atten
tion.”

  “Let’s get everyone on board first. Then we’ll see to him.” Five miles from shore, he could probably reach a waiting ambulance before a helicopter trauma unit would be in the air.

  Moving back to the helm, he judged the group’s position in the water, deciding to back away from them and make a wide circle to keep them clear of the propeller. He doused the searchlight, taking a few long blinks to help his night vision return, then without taking his eyes off the three pulled back and circled around. Once they were within a few feet of the dive platform, he set the transmission in neutral and ran to the transom, grabbing a long-handled gaff on the way.

  From his position up-current of the group, Mac extended the gaff towards Alicia and waited for the boat to bring it within reach. She lunged for it, grabbing the hook. Handing it off to the other woman, she stayed with TJ while Mac pulled the woman to the platform. She released the hook and looked up.

  “Jen?” He knew her from the Turtle Hospital in Marathon. Mac could see her face was covered in soot. “What the hell happened?”

  “We’ve got to get TJ up here,” Jen interrupted.

  Mac again reached the hook out to Alicia. She latched onto it with one hand, with the other firmly around TJ’s neck. Mac slowly pulled them toward the boat. When they were close, Jen held onto TJ from the dive platform while Alicia climbed out of the water. Between the three of them, they hauled TJ from the water, onto the platform, and through the transom door. Another time, there might have been a joke about hauling the biggest tuna ever landed onto Ghost Runner, but Mac saw the burns on TJ’s skin. Realizing how serious the situation was, he ran to the wheelhouse, tossed Alicia his phone to call for help, and pushed the throttle to the limit.

  52