Donatello’s first indignant reaction was that they should’ve knocked. However, if he was being completely honest with himself, he knew he never would have heard them even if they did knock. At that moment, he was on the big, round bed in the master bedroom on the far side of his townhouse apartment mounting a skinny, fifteen-year-old male prostitute who was half his size. It was a clear night outside. The master bedroom had a twelve-foot-high ceiling, a large, circular mirror over the bed, and the entire north and east walls were taken up by floor-to-ceiling windows. The drapes had been pulled open and all of the bedroom lights were on, providing a spectacular view of Atlantic City and the smaller towns and cities up the coast and halfway to Staten Island and New York City.
It was an amazing sight, as anyone who had been in Donatello’s penthouse had to admit. That was pretty much what the three Gumbahs thought after they kicked in his bedroom door, marched into the brightly lit bedroom with their guns drawn, and stood at the foot of the bed, staring down in astonishment at Carbonari and the boy.
“How dare you!” Carbonari shouted as he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder at them. “Get out of here! Get out of here!”
Donatello could scream all he wanted but when the kid underneath him looked back and saw the three angry men with pistols, he screamed too, quickly disengaged himself, and bolted for the bathroom as fast as his feet would move, locking the door behind him.
“Where’s da goddamned money, you freakin’ pervert!” Cheech screamed as he pointed his pistol at Donatello, too flustered to keep his composure.
“What money?” Donatello screamed back and tried to cover himself with the sheet. “What are you talking about?”
“Da money, you moke, da money. You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about!” Cheech stepped closer, cocked his pistol, and pointed it at Donatello’s head. “Da money never got dere, and Angelo ain’t screwing around wit you no more, you… piece of crap.”
“Angelo? I sent him the money, all eight and a quarter million. It went out a couple of hours ago, so put that damned gun down.”
“Bullshit! Angelo says it never got dere. Da account’s empty. There ain’t nuttin’ in it, and I ain’t puttin’ nuttin’ down.”
“Call him! Tell him to look again. We sent it up there, I swear.”
Cheech stared at him for a long moment, debating what to do, until he finally pulled out his cell phone with his free hand and began to do the unthinkable. He began to dial Angelo’s office phone number in the restaurant, until a better idea suddenly popped into his head and he put his cell phone away. Keeping his pistol pointed at Carbonari, he walked to Carbonari’s desk, picked up his desk phone, and dialed. He expected Barbara to answer as usual, and was surprised when Angelo himself picked up the phone.
“Yeah, what da hell do you want?” Angelo had Caller ID and thought it was from Carbonari. Cheech put him on speaker just as Angelo began his rant. “You son of a bitch, where’s…”
“Dis ain’t da guy, it’s me,” Cheech jumped in.
“Oh, yeah? Well, all I want to know from you is when’s his goddamned funeral?”
“He says he sent it, all of it. I told him you said dat thing is empty, but he said to tell you that you should look again. He said he sent it. He said he sent all of it.”
“You tell dat freak I did look! I looked a couple of times because I couldn’t believe he was freaking stupid enough not to send it when I told him to. And you wanna know what we found in dere? Videos! Videos of him and dat other guy, dat Dutch freak Von Greasy, or whatever. It was da two of them, together, doing it. Dat’s what’s in dat account, a bunch of goddamn videos of the two of them. You know what I mean? I thought I was gonna puke.”
“Yeah? Well, if you wuz here a couple minutes ago, when me and da boys walked in his penthouse, you wudda puked for sure. Guess what we found? Him and some kid doing it.”
“No, wait a minute, Angelo, this is all some mistake,” Carbonari pleaded as he crawled across the bed toward Cheech and the telephone. “Somebody’s setting me up, I swear!”
“Take care of him. I don’t ever want to see him again,” Angelo screamed back.
Cheech began to say something else but realized the line had gone dead. Angelo had hung up on him again. Cheech turned, looked down at Carbonari, and pointed his pistol at Donatello’s head. Cheech was old-fashioned. He had no use for those fancy semi-automatic 9-millimeter European pistols that seem to be so much the rage with the cops and even some of his own guys these days. He preferred an old-fashioned, gunmetal-blue Colt .357 Magnum Python revolver with a six-inch barrel. As his father once told him as he waved the big pistol in front of his face, “Look, bonehead, if you can’t stop some moke wit’ one ’a dese t’ings, right in his grill, den you can’t stop him wit’ nuttin’.”
Cheech smiled as he watched “the Don” squirm and crawl away from him on the messed-up bed. Carbonari pulled the top sheet up to his chin, tried to cover himself with it, and began to cower.
“You freakin’ coward!” Cheech leaned in closer and screamed at him. He’d always been the top enforcer within Angelo Roselli’s extended crime family, and the “muscle” when the boss needed it. There wasn’t much Cheech wouldn’t do if the old man told him to, and there wasn’t much he hadn’t already done at one time or another. Most of the time, he was paid to do it. Occasionally he did it for revenge, or for spite, or for just plain orneriness, but he had never killed a man for pure pleasure before, not until now. This was one he would enjoy.
Unfortunately for him, that was when the Van Gries brothers stepped into the bedroom accompanied by Joost DeVries and Reggie MacGregor, two of Theo’s mercenaries, and all the fun suddenly escaped from the room like the helium from a two-hour-old birthday balloon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The marina where the big Ferrenti yacht was moored was functional, but it wasn’t designed for pleasure boats. Bob had grabbed the slip because it was the only one in town that could accommodate a boat of the size of The Enchantress, other than the Bimini Bay marina across the harbor. The parking lot was small, made of gravel, and was dimly lit by two sodium vapor lamps on a pair of tall poles. In addition to The Enchantress and a handful of other smaller pleasure boats, there were a half-dozen large, unsightly work-boats that were used for dredging and towing which were docked along the quay. On the opposite side of the parking lot, three tall boat sheds effectively screened the parking lot and pier from the nearby streets and businesses, all of which were dark at this hour anyway.
It took Gramps Benson and Theo’s three mercs — Eric Smit, Lucas Bakker, and the German, Klaus Reimer — less than four minutes to drive around from the Bimini Bay to the marina’s parking lot. They came in two cars and parked in the shadows near the boat sheds, wasting no time moving around the edge of the lot to the quay, and up the pier to the big boat. The narrow pier itself was illuminated by a series of small, low-voltage lights set atop the knee-high utility pedestals. They were fifty feet apart and centered on each boat slip. The small lights might be useful to prevent the occasional drunk from falling off the pier as they returned from the local bars at night, but they did little else.
Benson opted to bring two cars, because he didn’t know what would happen when they reached the boat, or how many people they would be bringing back with them to the Bimini Bay, if any. From the reputations of the men on each side, the last thing he wanted was to get in a protracted firefight with his former Delta comrades. Then again, it might eliminate a few more of his Iraqi Museum heist partners and increase his share, the ever-opportunistic Benson thought.
He and the other men had changed into dark shirts and sweaters in the car but in the dim light, it didn’t matter. The office and nearby boats and buildings were closed for the night, and there was little traffic on the surrounding streets. He had no doubt that Burke would have posted a guard, most likely up on the flying bridge, but the bow of the big yacht pointed at the harbor and the gaudy, blinking lights on the Bim
ini Bay Hotel, not at the parking lot. Hopefully, all that glittering neon would distract the attention of whoever was on guard up there long enough for them to get aboard. That was Benson’s primary concern, because the guard would be armed and the flying bridge would be the most difficult area of the boat to reach.
A large awning covered the flying bridge. Even at night, it cast a deep shadow, making it pitch black underneath, except for the faint glow of a handful of the dials and gauges on the instrument panel. Benson had brought a pair of night vision goggles which he slipped on halfway up the pier. Unfortunately, the interior lights in the main lounge were lit, as were the lights on the aft deck and even the small LED lights that lit up the water around the boat. All of that direct and reflected light rendered his night vision goggles almost useless. Benson squinted and tried to shade the lenses, not knowing whether there was one man or two up there. All he could make out was the dim figure of one large man sitting in the captain’s chair. The good news was that he appeared to be the only one up there. The bad news was that Benson had no idea who he was.
The main lounge was another story. From a hundred feet away, he saw three very animated young men huddled around two laptop computers that were standing open on the dining room table. They were banging away on the keyboards, waving their arms back and forth, laughing and arguing with each other, and totally oblivious to whatever else might be going on around them. He recognized two of them as the young blackjack card counters he had seen on the security cameras the night before, but he didn’t recognize the third one sitting with them. He was short and fat, with unkempt hair and a scraggly beard. Whoever he was, he and the other two clearly were not soldiers, and should pose little danger. Finally, he saw three women sitting on the couches at the far end of the lounge. One was definitely Burke’s wife and one was definitely Patsy Evans. The third one was a mystery, but how much problem could one female cause? Still, if Burke was anything, he was very clever. As Benson knew, there was a pattern to this. Somehow, the card counters, the women, the Deltas, and the man up on the bridge all fit into Burke’s plan.
As Benson and his men approached the yacht, he gave a series of quick hand signals to the others. First, he and Smit would move on the flying bridge, with Benson quickly ascending the stairs and Smit covering him from the aft deck. With that accomplished, Bakker and the German would enter the lounge, neutralize the six sitting there, and search the cabins for any others. As if the assault had been practiced for days, their moves were tight, quick, and it was over in a matter of seconds.
The first thing the man on guard up on the flying bridge heard was Benson whispering from the head of the stairs behind him. “You on the flying bridge, take off the headset and don’t say a word or you’re dead,” he said calmly and quietly. “We have two pistols trained on you and we aren’t accustomed to missing, so don’t force me to shoot.”
Slowly the man removed the PRC 154A Rifleman tactical headset and dropped it on the deck at his feet. “Good,” Benson said. That eliminated the threat of him radioing Burke. “Now, remain facing forward, place your weapon on the deck, if you please, and stand up.” Clearly, the guard had been caught by surprise and wasn’t very happy about it.
“Do it!” Benson ordered. “This is the only warning you’re going to get,” he added, and the man finally complied. He bent over and placed what appeared to be a Glock 9 on the deck at his feet. “Thank you,” Benson told him. “Needless bloodshed won’t accomplish anything for any of us, so come down here.”
The man carefully navigated the steep stairs from the bridge and joined Benson and Smit on the aft deck. Benson looked at him and frowned.
“Who are you?” Benson asked, more than a little curious.
“Ernie Travers, Detective Captain, Chicago Police Department.”
“The Chicago police?” Benson shook his head in amazement. “My, my, the Ghost does attract an eclectic mix of friends, does he not?”
“And you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m Randy Benson, as Bob and most of the others will tell you.”
“Of course, his old exec.” Ernie nodded knowingly. “Well, it looks like you’ve been a bad boy, Captain. He’s not going to take this lightly, you know.”
“Unfortunately, you’re probably right. Unfortunately for all of us.” Benson sighed. “Now, Mister Police Captain Detective, since I hope you’re the sanest and most experienced in this bunch, I have three other men with me, hard, experienced men with guns. I want you to go downstairs with me and tell your people to stay calm and not cause us any trouble. We didn’t come here to hurt anyone. We came here hoping to find the Ghost and the other Deltas, but they appear to be elsewhere, don’t they?”
Benson waited but Ernie only smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. “I suppose that was too much to expect, wasn’t it,” Benson admitted. “All right, downstairs with the others. I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way, won’t we?”
By the time he, Smit, and Ernie stepped inside the main lounge, Benson’s other two men stood on one side of the lounge, guns drawn, and their six prisoners sat on the couch and chairs against the bulkhead on the other side. Benson gave Bakker a questioning look but the big Dutchman could only shake his head his head, no. There was no one else aboard. Again, unfortunate for everyone.
As the two groups stared at each other, Jimmy got a long look at Lucas Bakker. “You! You’re the son of a bitch who shot Ronald in the foot, aren’t you?”
“You want one too, little man?” Bakker answered in heavily accented English as he lowered his Glock 17 automatic and pointed it at Jimmy’s foot. “That was my .22. I use it on pests. This is the one I use when I want to make really big holes in someone.”
“That’s enough,” Benson called him off. “Now tell me, where, oh where has the elusive Major Burke gone? Who’s going to be the first to tell me and save the others some needless pain and anguish?” Benson asked as he looked around from face to face.
“I will. It doesn’t matter anymore,” Ernie Travers answered as he looked at his watch. “He and a dozen Deltas went to the casino about fifteen minutes ago. Some went by boat, some by car and some by helicopter, to take the penthouse. By now, they are no doubt in control of the place, as Carbonari, Martijn Van Gries, and the rest of your people over there can tell you, even the half-dozen Mafia thugs who came down here from New York.” Ernie paused and watched them glance at each other and shift back and forth nervously.
“You have a vivid imagination, Detective. Helicopters? And a dozen Deltas?” Benson asked, trying to sound confident, but the body language on the other two was unmistakable.
Ernie didn’t stop. “It’s a very quiet night. I haven’t heard any gunshots so I assume it all went as planned.” Finally, he looked at Benson and shrugged. “With those new stealth helicopters they have down at Fort Bragg now, what do you think happened?”
Benson looked at the others, and then at Smit. “Call Theo,” he said.
Ernie continued anyway. “Your best move is to get out of here right now, and out of Atlantic City, because they’ll be coming back.”
Smit kept his eyes and pistol trained on the prisoners but he pulled out his cell phone and pushed a couple of speed dial buttons. Seconds later, someone answered. A few quick sentences passed back and forth in Dutch before Smit rang off and looked back at Benson.
“He is lying,” Smit said. “Everything is quiet over there.”
Benson shook his head. “Nice try, Captain-Detective. I expected nothing less from one of the Ghost’s friends.” He turned his eyes on Patsy. “Miss Evans, I need a brief conversation with you in private, if you please.” Benson motioned for her to accompany him.
She stood and took several very nervous steps toward him, until he reached out, grabbed the gold necklace, and ripped it off her neck, snapping the chain. Startled, she screamed and raised her hands to her neck. Jimmy immediately jumped to his feet and went for Benson, shoving him in the chest with both hands. The effect on Benson was minimal.
He barely moved, but he raised his Beretta and brought it down hard in the center of Jimmy’s forehead. The slightly built Geek collapsed on the deck like a sack of flour at Benson’s feet.
Dorothy didn’t appreciate that at all. She flew out of her chair and was almost on Benson before Klaus Reimer stepped forward with his pistol. Dorothy was tall, muscular, and far more powerful than she looked, and compared to calf roping or bull riding, one macho kraut didn’t concern her very much, even if he had a 9-millimeter automatic in his hand. She grabbed his arm, twisted, and flipped him halfway across the room, breaking his wrist, dislocating his shoulder, and throwing him into Smit and Benson at the same time. All three of them ended up in a heap against the bulkhead with Reimer on top, screaming in pain. His automatic came to rest on the deck at Dorothy’s feet. She bent down to pick it up, just as Benson’s Beretta went off. He may have been trapped beneath Reimer; but his aim was unerring and the bullet caught her in the midsection. She bent over, dropped to her knees, and toppled onto the deck.
Linda rushed forward to help her, but Benson crawled out from under the other two and shoved her angrily back onto the couch.
“No more!” Benson screamed as he pointed his pistol at the others, his own men included. “I didn’t want any shooting! What part of that didn’t you understand?” he said as he bent down, picked up Reimer’s pistol, and jammed it in his belt.
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