Chapter 9 - The Maid with the Loaded GunThe darkness didn't stay quiet for long.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the fog like sudden lightning.
Pop-pop-pop!
Suppressed gunshots hissed through the damp night air.
Men shouted in Italian.
Panic erupted across the deck of the Bella Donna.
“Kill the generators!” someone roared outside the shed.
Heavy footsteps splashed violently through the mud.
Someone was running straight toward my shack.
My heart hammered in my throat.
I pressed my back against the rusted generator casing.
I raised the Glock with both trembling hands.
The wooden door was kicked off its latch.
A beam from a tactical weapon light cut through the gloom.
A tall guard in a wet trench coat stepped inside.
The red Bellini crest was embroidered on his lapel.
He raised an MP5 toward the breaker panel.
Then his flashlight beam hit my boots.
His eyes widened.
He swung the barrel toward my chest.
I didn't think.
I squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The recoil violently kicked my wrists upward.
The deafening report echoed inside the small tin shed.
The bullet struck the guard square in the collarbone.
He screamed, staggering backward into the doorframe.
He raised his weapon again with his uninjured arm.
I fired a second time.
The round caught him in the center of his chest.
He collapsed into the mud outside like an empty sack.
Smoke poured from the barrel of my gun.
My ears rang violently.
The smell of burnt gunpowder filled my nose.
I had just shot a man.
My knees gave out.
I slid down against the metal generator, gasping for air.
Suddenly, a shadow blocked the doorway.
I raised the gun again in blind panic.
A large, calloused hand clamped over the slide, locking the hammer.
“Easy,” a deep voice commanded.
Luca.
His face was lit by the faint harbor fog.
He looked down at the dead guard in the mud.
Then he looked at me.
“Good shot,” Luca said softly.
He pulled me up by my elbow.
His grip was solid.
Reassuring.
“Come on. The yacht is secured.”
I stepped out of the shed.
The dock was littered with brass shell casings.
Four Bellini guards lay motionless in the mud.
Marco and his men stood on the gangplank of the Bella Donna, their weapons lowered.
We boarded the yacht.
The salon was a war zone.
Glass from broken champagne bottles crunched beneath our boots.
Vanessa Bellini sat huddled on an ivory leather sofa.
Her evening gown was torn.
Her mascara ran in dark black streaks down her cheeks.
She looked up at Luca.
Her face was twisted in pure terror.
“Luca... please,” she whimpered.
Luca didn't look at her.
He walked over to the mahogany desk at the far end of the room.
A laptop was open on the surface.
Plugged into the USB port was the glowing blue hardware dongle.
The offshore transfer progress bar read: 89%.
Luca looked at Michael.
“Unplug it.”
Michael stepped forward and yanked the blue drive out.
The screen flashed red: TRANSFER TERMINATED.
Eighty million dollars remained safe.
Luca slowly turned around.
He looked at Vanessa.
“Where is he?”
Vanessa began to weep hysterically.
“He left ten minutes ago! He took the tender boat!”
Luca stepped closer to the couch.
“Where did he go, Vanessa?”
Vanessa pointed a trembling finger toward the south side of the harbor.
“The old Moretti grain silos,” she sobbed.
“He has Don Bellini’s private army waiting there.”
Luca’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out and looked at the screen.
A text message.
An image attachment.
Luca opened it.
His face drained of all color.
I stepped beside him and glanced at the small screen.
The photo showed the front porch of my mother’s small cottage in Boston.
Two men in dark suits stood outside her front door.
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Beneath the photo was a single sentence:
“Bring the flash drive to the silos alone, Luca. Or the maid’s mother dies first.”
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