Adler rushed toward the two, helping Grant drag the man inside the cabin. They dropped the body in front of a white leather couch. Grant pulled his penlight and signaled the team with the “all clear.”
“Start searching the bridge, Joe, and hit that light switch on your way up,” Grant said as he glanced at his watch.
With his penlight on, Adler hustled his way up the ladder and onto the bridge. He hesitated briefly, letting his eyes roam his new surroundings. “Where are you, you little bastard,” he mumbled. He went to the right of the wheel, thinking out loud, “How convenient; the key’s in the ignition!” He immediately returned to his search.
Finally, all the men were onboard. Lewis was aft, kneeling on one knee, holding his M16 at the ready, acting as lookout, while the rest of the team used their penlights, looking in every nook and cranny for the elusive canister.
Adler came rushing down the ladder, holding a rusted metal box, similar to large tackle box. “Found it!” he said to Grant with a crooked grin.
“Good job! Where?” Grant thought it incredible Adler found it so quickly. So far luck was on their side. “Maybe there is something to this ‘lupo’ thing,” he mused quietly to himself.
Adler lifted the lid, its corroded hinges sounding like fingernails on a blackboard. “Underneath the console, behind the wheel, there’s a small compartment.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if you can secure it somehow, Joe, especially with our exit coming up.”
“Sure,” Adler said. He set the box on the table and lifted out the smooth, steel canister, then put it in his rucksack.
Grant’s eyes narrowed, but for the time being, it didn’t matter. So far, they were all still breathing, and there wasn’t much more that could be done to protect themselves. It was more imperative for them to get their asses in gear. “Craig, you and Ken get Castalani and bring him here.”
“What about the other guy, sir?” Simpson asked.
Grant was beginning to feel way too lenient. He made his decision. “Have Vince give him one of our personal warning messages, like ‘we will find you no matter where you are’, then cut him loose. Make sure he knows to avoid those two guards out front. Then all of you come back ASAP.”
“Roger!”
Grant turned to Adler. “Joe, just in case, you’d better put that box back where you got it.”
Adler rushed back to the bridge, sliding the box inside the compartment.
A new silver, four-door Maserati Quattroporte II (four doors) luxury car approached the guardhouse, with its high beams glaring.
The guards flicked their cigarettes onto the grass, trying to get a clear view of the vehicle, having to shield their eyes from the bright lights. As the car slowed, the two finally recognized the Maserati and its passenger. Both of them backed away in unison and waved Pino Falcone through.
Once the Maserati had passed, both guards stepped onto the roadway, staring at the magnificent feat of Italian engineering. Whistling in amazement at the vehicle’s beautiful body style, the older guard commented, “Che bella!”
The vehicle had slick Bertone bodywork and was the only Maserati Quattroporte to feature hydropneumatic suspension, front wheel drive, and swiveling directional headlights. The one being driven this night was one of only twelve built for customers.
With a narrow road and gravel lining both sides, the vehicle was traveling at no more than fifteen mph, the driver being careful not to catch any stones in the treads.
Doing the driving was one of Pino Falcone’s bodyguards. He shifted in his seat, readjusting the holster under his right arm, and gave a quick glance at the Uzi on the passenger seat.
Falcone was in the back on the passenger side, feeling comfortable on the soft, cream-colored, handmade leather seat. He leaned against the armrest with his chin resting on his fist. Staring at his yacht in the distance, he had two distinct feelings running through him.
One was caution. He reviewed his conversation, through an interpreter, with the American in Naples. Edwards said the tests on Agent Fierra’s body came back showing he died because of the accident, which itself appeared to be accidental. Edwards had promised him the Agency would do all it could to locate Castalani, as a gesture for Falcone being so accommodating in finding Fierra’s body.
Falcone sat up straighter, pressing his back against the seat, thinking now about his other feeling. Anger. Anger not only because of what Castalani had done, but because Castalani had defied him. The Mafia boss could not allow anyone in his organization to even attempt what Castalani had carried out. He intended to make an example of one of his “soldiers.”
Cranston and Simpson disposed of the dead crewman’s body by shoving it down into the lower deck. Russo and Moore hauled Castalani to the bridge, with a piece of duct tape already sealing his mouth shut. While they held him, Adler fastened him to a captain’s chair with rope, then secured his hands behind his back with duct tape. The chair was positioned to the right of the wheel, ensuring he was in full view from the cabin below. It was the first time since capturing the Italian that Adler noticed beads of sweat across the forehead, eyes wide with fear.
“Headlights!” Lewis whispered, rushing through the cabin.
“Lock that door!” Grant said, before taking one last check that nothing in the cabin had been disturbed, then he motioned for everyone to follow him. They rushed to the bridge, then went to a single door aft of the bridge. It was the only access to a deck above the main cabin.
Pushing the door partly open, he cautiously peered around the corner, seeing a vehicle stopping at the end of the pier. Motioning for everyone to stay low, Grant led the way out the door.
Adler took a last look at Castalani tied to the chair, then he slowly, quietly closed the door behind him.
Falcone’s bodyguard gripped an Uzi in front of his body, swiveling his head side to side as he made his way toward the boat. Walking down the pier, he looked toward the bow, then let his eyes roam along the starboard side, ensuring all windows were closed, with no sign of entry.
He stepped on the undulating gangway. Taking slow steps, he cautiously walked up until he reached the deck, where he stopped briefly, taking another look forward, then turned toward the stern.
Standing in front of the sliding glass door, he put a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes, and leaned closer, trying to get a better view. Peering inside, his eyes scanned the main deck cabin. Looking toward the bridge, he finally spotted someone in the captain’s chair. Waiting momentarily, he unlocked the door, then slid it open and stepped inside.
Moving the Uzi and his head side to side, he walked through the cabin until he was at the bottom of the ladder. He reached for a switch next to the ladder, and a small overhead light came on. His mouth formed a slight, twisted smile as he stared up at Castalani, whose eyes were now wide with pure terror.
Hustling back to the vehicle, he opened the rear door. Falcone stepped out, and adjusted his camel hair coat. All he could focus on was coming face-to-face with the defiant Castalani, the “bastardo.”
Before proceeding to the yacht, he questioned the bodyguard whether the crewman was on board. Hearing the response, he reasoned whoever delivered Castalani this night, had paid the crewman to “turn his back” and leave. That was reasonable and acceptable in Falcone’s mind, since he had used the tactic himself on many occasions. Evidently, the American had kept his promise, and that was all that mattered.