The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) (28 page)

              “If today brings what we’ve planned for, I prefer Malta to Palermo and the police will not ask awkward questions.”

              “The man has a point, Alfredo,” said Adrian.”

              “I know. Let us get moving. Marco, clear the deck. Ready Adrian?”

              “I need a pee. Give me a couple of minutes.”

              The Red Devil bobbed on the surface as Adrian completed pre-dive checks. Simone trod water while he waited. With the shackle released and the diver clear, Adrian angled the planes and descended. “Time to start work.”

              “You were right about my arm. It aches.”

              “Once you grip the controls you’ll soon forget.”

              “A bar of gold is as good a cure-all as anything I know.”

              The work and time progressed until the final bar dropped from the grab into the basket.

              “Take a last look at the old girl,” said Adrian. “At this depth, I doubt if anyone will see her again.”

              Both men peered through the view ports as they circled
Jupiter’s
hull.

              “Well look at that, a Great White having a nose,” said Petros

              They watched as it glided across the hull, flicked its tail and vanished into the dark.

              “Told you they were around... Going up, next floor, lunch. I’m famished.”

              “Any idea how many bars?” asked Petros

              “Lost count after one hundred.”

              As the craft surfaced, sunlight from the late afternoon flooded the tiny cabin.  Simone tapped the hull as he secured the lifting shackle.

              Once on the aft deck and nestled in its cradle, Petros opened the hatch and clambered out followed by Adrian.

              “We have stowed the gold in the engine room bilges. It will not move and cause any problems with ship handling,” said Alfredo.

              “It’s your ship and as temporary ballast it’s in the perfect place,” said Petros. “Did you count them?”

              “One thousand, one hundred and twenty bars as far as I can tell. You’re a rich man.”

              “If I can keep it.”

              “Alfredo, Petros, some gate-crashers are about to join the party,” said Amadou quietly. “Fifteen miles due south, a boat low in the water.”

              “If it is the Cosa Nostra under cover of refugees,” said Alfredo, “they know we must offer assistance.”

              “Who’s going to shout if we sail in the opposite direction?” asked Davide.

              “It might not be them. We could be leaving a boat load of women and children to die,” shouted Tommaso. “The baby we rescued is alive because we care. A ship is not a democracy. Alfredo is the captain and whatever he orders I’ll agree.”

              “We take a look.”

              “Never underestimate your enemy. Amadou, break out the shotguns,” ordered Petros. “Where’s ZZ?”

              “Sleeping.”

              “You’d better wake him or we won’t hear the last of it.”

              On the bridge, Alfredo switched the computer and autopilot to manual. A roar and a plume of exhaust from the funnel indicated engines running. He waited until the red lights on the consul changed to green before setting the throttles to slow ahead. At a range of one mile, the
Tuna Turner
circled the drifting craft.

              Tommaso and Simone gazed across the calm water with binoculars as they checked for signs of life.

              “I will go closer,” said Alfredo. He turned his head and noted Petros, Amadou, Adrian and ZZ concealed behind the steel bulkheads.

              “Nothing,” said Tommaso.

              “You two go below or join the others. I am going alongside.”

              From the bridge wing came the clunk click of shells entering the firing chamber.

              Continuing to circle, Alfredo sailed closer until the boat filled with the dead nestled alongside in the shade of
Tuna Turner
. A corpse shifted. A man stood, shoved the body to one side, dropped on one knee, raised his automatic weapon and fired into the air. Three others appeared from amongst the dead brandishing AK47s.

              Alfredo dropped to the deck and pushed the throttles hard over. The four men on the boat fired. A wall of bullets streamed towards the
Tuna Turner
. Shells ricocheted off steel bulkheads and shattered the windows. Flat on the deck he steered using his feet.

              Petros and his team stood, shouldered their weapons and produced a barrage of accurate fire straight into the boat. At minimum range, the multiple shotgun charges carved into the living, dead and through the worm-infested planking.

              One man scrambled to find cover, slipped and fell blood-covered into the sea. Another brought his AK to his shoulder and fired.

              With bullets whining past their heads, three shotgun blasts ripped the opposition’s chest to ribbons.

              From aft, Amadou and ZZ fired a nonstop barrage until their magazines emptied.

              At a safe distance, the men on the
Tuna Turner
stared as the aged wooden craft filled, sank by the stern and disappeared.

              Gulls dived, screeching for the scraps of dead flesh floating on the surface.

              Amadou fired several shots but the scavengers circled the remains, swooped and snapped at each other.

              Alfredo shouted from the bridge. “I see someone in the water.”

              “Leave him. Maybe a shark will smell his blood,” said Adrian.

              “Let him flounder for a while. In fact for ten minutes sail in the opposite direction,” Petros shouted. “When we’ve dragged him out, he’ll be tired and less of a problem. There’s a few questions I want to ask.”

              Alfredo laughed and headed away from the swimmer. Those on the deck waved.

              Thirty minutes later Tommaso and Marco tossed a rope at the floundering middle-aged man with a red face and chuckled as he attempted to climb.

              “Tie the rope under your armpits and we’ll haul you inboard,” shouted Tommaso.

              A few minutes elapsed before he hung as a drowned rat from a davit.

              “Tommaso, does he speak English?” asked Petros.

              “I’ll interpret for you.”

              “I have a few questions,” said Petros as he stared into the man’s eyes. Deliberately he pushed his shotgun into the captive’s crotch. “Tell the truth and you live. Lie and I promise you, your head will leave your shoulders.”

              Tommaso repeated the words.

              In Italian the man screamed, “If I tell you anything I’m a dead man. Shoot me.”

              “We don’t have much time and I understand the code of silence that forbids you from betraying your comrades. So you die, but not by my hand. My friend who once worked for Gadaffi,” he pointed to Amadou, “is a master of interrogation. When he has finished you will want to die.”

              From behind, a knife flashed through the air and into the suspended man’s thigh. Blood flowed from his lower lip as he stifled a scream.

              “I forgot to mention he has an assistant who loves to practice his knife-throwing. The other leg, ZZ.” The second blade found its mark.

              “Kill me,” screamed the man.

              Are you ready to answer my questions?” asked Petros in a quiet voice.

              “You know I cannot.”

              “Then we will leave you suspended and give you time to reconsider.” He wrenched both blades out of the bloodied flesh. “Feel better? Mind you, you’re losing a lot of blood. I’ll give you an hour at best before you die. I’m told it’s not painful. Time for coffee. I’d bring you one but you won’t be in a fit state to drink it.”

              With his face contorted by pain he spluttered, “My Padrino will have his revenge.”

              Petros glanced left and right. “I don’t see him.”

              “You will.”

***

Roland Wallace and Donald Mercer stepped out of the dark green Jaguar and strolled towards the front door of Petros’ home.

              Donald pressed the bell push and stepped back.

              The moment Maria opened the door, Donald grabbed her throat and slammed her against the wall.

              “Shut your mouth,” said Roland. “Who else is in the house?”

              At that moment Maria understood fear. “I’m on my own.”

              “Where’s your little girl?”

              Maria stared through the window as Charlie loped towards the house. “She’s at my mother-in-laws’. I’m picking her up later when I join them and the rest of the family for dinner.”

              “You will call them and say you have a headache and will they look after the child.”

              Her hands shook as she gave a defiant stare, “And if I don’t?”

              “Then you will be responsible for others being hurt. He pointed. “My man Don loves a fight.”

              A growl, deep and intense came from the kitchen.

              “What the fuck...”

              The weight of a full-grown Alsatian smashed into Donald and sank his teeth into the flesh of his right arm.

              The animal’s sharp fangs found bone as he pulled.

              Donald shrieked and kicked out.

              Terror gripped Maria. “Bastard,” she screamed as she powered her right knee between his legs and raked his face with her fingernails.

              With an ear-splitting yell, he staggered backwards and collapsed to the floor dragging the animal with him.

              She went to kick him while he was down but Roland shoved her away and armed with a nine-millimetre pistol, lashed at the dog’s head.

              “You bastard. Run, Charlie,” screamed Maria.

              With a yelp, the animal ran through the open kitchen door, into the garden, disappearing into the foliage.

              Blood dripped on the polished wood floor. “I’ll kill that fucking animal. When I’ve done with the dog, you’re next.”

              With a mocking smile, Roland’s tone akin a teacher addressing a naughty pupil, “Don, keep your mouth shut and your hands to yourself. Go outside and he’ll rip your throat out. She’ll bandage your arm and you will not touch her unless I say so.”

              Scorn filled her voice. “He needs a hospital, preferably mental.”

              “Be reasonable. Soak it in antiseptic and bandage it.”

              Donald dragged Maria by the arm to the kitchen as blood poured from his wounds.

              Roland, gun in hand, followed. “Nice place. Your husband must be worth a bit.”

              She washed and poured TCP into the torn flesh and grinned. “Not such a big man now, are you?” The bandage she wrapped as tight as she could. “Keep it raised.”

              Roland pointed. “You will sit in the chair by the window and make your call.” He wandered to the lounge window and sat on the built-in seat overlooking the Thames.

              Numb, she made the call, cutting her mother-in-law off.

              “What do you want?”

              “Your husband to do as he’s told.”

              “That’ll be the day.”

              “For you he’ll do anything.”

              “You don’t know him. When he returns, he’ll fry your balls and eat them for breakfast.”

              He struck out with a clenched fist, hit the side of her face, grabbed her hair, and pulled her head back. “One word from me and Don will fuck you, and when he’s done you’ll wish you were dead. Is that what you want?”

              Her mind raced. Could she deal with these morons? She stared at him and her eyes blazed. Her right hand grabbed his balls, squeezed and twisted.

              Roland screamed and smashed her between the eyes.             

              Out cold, she crumpled to the floor.

              “Let me do her,” said Donald.

              “Later. Remove her clothes and tie the bitch up.”

              Semi-conscious she lay on her side and curled into a ball.

***

Alfredo shouted from the bridge. “Petros, someone is asking for you on the radio.”

              Petros charged up the steel ladder to the bridge.

              “Channel 7.”