By the time Zendo and his men got to Siracusa early in the morning after their 125 kilometer drive from Messina, he was in no mood to hear what he was hearing from the Italian Mafia men. There were just two of them, since one was shot and killed the night before. He didn’t know the names of these two men, and he knew not to ask. Regardless, Petros Caras would not be happy. If he found out. Since the American professor had not been injured in the shooting, perhaps he wouldn’t have to tell Petros Caras anything. Even though none of this was Zendo’s fault, he had seen far too many simple messengers feel the wrath of that crazy billionaire. Worse yet, perhaps, was the fact that these Sicilians had a long memory and wanted nothing more than to find the bitch who shot their partner.
They sat now at an outside park a few blocks from the waterfront. Two of his men, Niko and that other one, leaned against their car nearby and Kyros sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. Standing a few feet away from the park bench was Demetri. The other Italian stood back by a tree, his right hand behind his back.
“Are you sure the woman shot your man?” Zendo asked the Mafia man in Italian, their only common language.
“Si. But it wasn’t for a lack of trying on the part of that man you speak of. Jake Adams.” The Italian drew in a long puff on his cigarette, bringing the tip to a bright orange. Then his eyes narrowed as he let out a stream of smoke.
“Did you not understand that you were only supposed to observe until we arrived?” Zendo asked, his jaw tight, but trying not to anger the Italian. After all, Zendo was on their turf.
He hunched his broad shoulders. “We took the initiative.” He flicked his ashes in the grass.
Part of that was admirable, Zendo thought. But orders were orders. He saw Demetri shake his head slightly. “Well, from now on we need to play by my rules. You understand?”
“Si.”
“We need the woman safe.”
“The one who shot my man?” the Italian asked, confused.
“No. The other woman. You have a picture of her?”
The Italian checked his phone and found the image he had been sent. He dropped his cigarette into the grass and didn’t bother to rub it out. “This one?”
“That’s her. Our employer needs her. Don’t ask me why. Because even I don’t know that for sure.” Not entirely true. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”
“Not far,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“The Polizia and Carabinieri set up road blocks all around the city almost immediately.”
“People have been known to get through those.”
“Sure, we can. But not outsiders. Once the Polizia showed up last night, my man came around and gave a good description of the three people involved with the shooting. He said they took off on foot.”
“Is that right?” Zendo asked.
“Si. Then the Polizia gave us a tip a few hours ago. A man had his car stolen from that bar across the park.” He pointed off to a nondescript building that could have been a small food market, a coffee shop or a night club.
“How do you know this Jake Adams stole the car?”
“Two reasons. First, nobody steals a car in Sicily unless we know about it.”
“And second?”
“I showed the picture of Jake Adams to the man an hour ago. Even though he was still smelling of alcohol, he said that man spilled beer on his pants in the bar last night and he must have pulled his keys at the same time.”
Great. The legend of Jake Adams continues. “Do your men have any idea how to find them now?”
“We know exactly where they are,” the Italian said with a smile. “GPS. They’re parked outside a restricted set of catacombs. Two of my men are waiting for us there.”
“Call them right now and tell them to wait for us,” Zendo demanded.
The Italian hesitated, obviously not used to taking orders from outsiders. Then perhaps, calculating the amount of money they would make from these Greeks, he pulled out his phone and called his people. When he was done he said, “We’re good. Still there.”
“All right. Let’s go. We’ll follow you.”
●
Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily
The Gulfstream G650 banked around Mount Etna, which showed a little life with smoke drifting from its caldera, and then drifted down to a direct approach to the runway at the Navy base.
Toni Contardo was nudged by a young man with a scruffy beard, one of six men who had shared the private flight from DC to Sicily. She opened her eyes and yawned. Somehow she had managed to sleep most of the way.
“We’re getting ready to land, ma’am,” the man said to her with a thick Texas accent. The men never said who they were or what they were doing flying a government aircraft across the Atlantic, but they didn’t need to tell Toni they were a SEAL team. She knew special forces when she saw them, and especially SEALs.
“Thank you. I won’t ask you where you’re going, but thank you for your service.”
“I’m guessing we’re on the same team, ma’am.” He smiled and took his seat.
They landed and taxied toward the operations building at the base of the air traffic control tower. The SEAL team hung back and let her gather her bag and walk toward operations. Maybe they were simply dropping her off, refueling and heading to their final destination. Probably somewhere in the Middle East.
A man came out and met her on the tarmac wearing a flight suit, introducing himself as Lieutenant Max Stevens. “Welcome to Italy.”
Toni smiled but didn’t give him her name. “Thanks. I understand you met an old friend of mine the other day.”
“Sure did. Jake Adams. He’s quite the stud.”
“You got a man crush?”
“Maybe a little. But that woman he was with was quite the looker.” He shook his hand as if he’d just learned the universal Italian salute to hot women.
Toni had read a briefing on Elisa Murici, the officer with the Italian External Intelligence and Security Agency. Based on her file photo, he guessed the lieutenant was right. “I understand you might have some more transportation for me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Got that Seahawk over there.” He pointed across the tarmac to an SH-60 helicopter painted Navy gray with subdued U.S. insignia. Two sailors were prepping it for flight.
Just then the six men from her Gulfstream flight walked past them carrying huge deployment bags. The one who had woken her said, “You have a good one, ma’am.”
She smiled and said, “You guys take care.”
He nodded and they headed inside the operations building.
“Friends of yours?” Lieutenant Stevens asked.
“No, just a Navy volleyball team.”
“Right.”
“You got a location on our destination?”
“We’re tracking it now. Last had it heading southwest at twenty knots, twenty miles off the coast of Sicily.”
That made sense. “Any idea where they’re heading?”
He shook his head. “No ma’am.”
“Could you just call me Toni? And I’ll call you Max. It’ll make things a lot easier.”
“Sure thing, Toni.” He cleared his throat and continued, “As I’m sure you know, private yachts are not required to file an official cruising plan, although many do for safety purposes. From what I’ve heard of this yacht, it’s quite the specimen. It’s supposed to be one of the fastest yachts ever built.”
“Faster than that Seahawk?” She finally found a smile for him.
“Not quite. I can push 150 knots with that beast.”
She nodded her head. “Are you my driver?”
“Sure am, Toni. Anytime you’re ready.”
“No time better than the present, Max.”
With that the two of them wandered toward the helo.