On the aft upper deck the SEALs waited. They had to depend solely on the sounds around them. Their patience was about to pay off.
Falcone followed his bodyguard to the stern and waited for him to open the door. He stepped inside, with his eyes instantly focusing on Castalani. Leering at the man, Falcone motioned for the bodyguard to go ahead of him.
Once both men were on the bridge, Falcone walked slowly around the chair, inspecting the rope holding Castalani securely.
Castalani’s brain was racing. Should he tell Falcone about the men hiding on deck? Or should he let them take care of Falcone? He might have more of a chance if Falcone and his bodyguard became prisoners or whatever the Americans had planned for them. There was no way to tell, and at the moment, he wasn’t in any position to do anything. At the moment, he was at the mercy of Pino Falcone.
The bodyguard stepped back, moving away from his boss, but his eyes remained on the man strapped in the chair, taking pure pleasure at the sight.
Outside on deck, the SEALs crept closer to the door. They’d take a step, then get down on a knee, finally splitting up, port and starboard of the door. They planned on completing this phase of the mission without firing a shot. Moore carefully turned the doorknob and opened the door just enough to see the bridge.
Falcone stood directly in front of Castalani, sliding the tip of his finger along the duct tape covering the mouth. “So, Luigi, it has come down to this.” Castalani shook his head rapidly. “Let me show you something,” Falcone said as he walked toward the wheel.
He just started to kneel down, preparing to open the compartment, when a loud sound behind him made him jump. He jerked around, only having a second to see someone jamming the butt of a rifle into the side of the bodyguard’s head.
Stunned, Falcone didn’t move, as men with painted faces came storming through the open door, forming a half circle around the bridge, with all their rifles trained on him.
As Grant approached Falcone, he holstered his sidearm, then roughly pulled Falcone’s arms behind him, tying them quickly and securely. The Italian was about to open his mouth when Adler slapped a piece of duct tape across it.
Watching from his unique vantage point, Castalani felt a moment of relief, thinking perhaps he was being used as a decoy, somebody to lure Falcone to the boat. But it was only for a fleeting moment, as the SEALs ignored him completely, leaving him secured to the chair.
Moore ran to the still unconscious bodyguard, tied him, and taped his mouth. Two of the SEALs rushed down to the main cabin then out the door, taking their places, one forward, one aft, waiting for the word to cast off mooring lines.
Falcone started struggling and kicking with his legs, but Grant held him firm, dragging him to the second chair then shoved him into it. He motioned for Adler, who pulled a bigger strip of tape and started wrapping it around Falcone, pulling him tighter against the backrest. The Italian swiveled his head rapidly back and forth, frantically trying to see what was happening to him, trying to figure out who was doing it, totally shocked and stunned.
When Adler was finished, Grant stood in front of Falcone, with legs apart, arms folded across his body, taking the “in charge” stance. He stared down at the man who had Agent Sam Fierra killed for no apparent, freakin’ reason, after Fierra was merely trying to give the weasel a head’s up. Grant would never be able to figure that out, never understand the bullshit reasoning by “Mafia man.”
With the power he held for so long, controlling so many of his “soldiers,” Falcone had probably never seen an intimidating look before. No one had ever dared. But he sure as hell was seeing one now from the brown, penetrating eyes of Grant Stevens.
Grant gave a quick, slight jerk of his head toward Russo, who knew that was his queue, and he stepped between the two chairs.
The speech had been memorized and would be brief: “Signore Falcone, we have given you Signore Castalani as promised. We thank you for allowing us to retrieve what was stolen by him from the American compound.” Both Italians thought their hearts would burst through their chests, blood pounded against their eardrums, the fear escalating rapidly.
Russo looked from one man to the other as he continued: “But we were saddened to learn that Agent Sam Fierra’s death was from unnatural causes and not accidental. Therefore, signori (gentlemen), we must do what is necessary. We are not sure if either of you will completely understand this… but it is payback time.”
Castalani’s eyes started to roll back in his head, until Russo snapped a finger against his cheek. “Don’t think so, Mr. Castalani. You’re gonna be awake for this!”
Grant waved Adler forward as he stepped toward the windshield, drawing the curtains aside. “Boatswain’s Mate” Joe Adler stood before the wheel, checking that both starboard and port running lights were on. Then he turned the key and primed the engines. He pressed the button, and the powerful twin engines roared to life.
Moore was standing on the aft deck, waiting for Grant’s okay. Once he got the nod, he immediately signaled Cranston and Womack to use their knives to slice through the lines, then he came forward to the bridge.
Adler moved the throttle slowly forward, and the yacht started on its journey into the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Watching from the guardhouse, the two security men merely glanced at the yacht leaving the harbor, hardly giving it a second thought. It wasn’t anything unusual for Don Falcone to take his yacht for midnight cruises. They turned their backs from the pier, each lighting up a cigarette.
Grant stood on the bridge, with a hand resting on the handle of the .45 in his holster. He briefly glanced at his watch, the right side of his mouth curving into a smile. They were ahead of schedule.
He looked at Adler handling this large craft as easily as he handles his ’67 Ford Mustang. Then he glanced at the two Italians, staring wide-eyed at each other, wishing he could get into their heads right about now. What the two didn’t know was they were in for an even bigger surprise, a bigger rude awakening.
Chapter 21
The Tyrrhenian Sea, a smaller water body of the Mediterranean Sea, was bounded by the islands of Corsica and Sardinia to the west, with mainland Italy’s regions of Tuscany, Lazio, Campania, Basilicata and Calabria to the east. Its maximum depth was twelve thousand four hundred eighteen feet.
The yacht “Sacco di Soldi” was cruising out of Palermo harbor, with a destination somewhere in the Tyrrhenian Sea. She was on a northeast heading, with coordinates 38N 13E, about four miles off the coast of Sicily.
The yacht cut through a wide, trailing wake of a cargo vessel now off its starboard bow, slowly making its way to the docks. Within minutes, she was clear of the harbor, and Adler pushed the throttle forward again. The bow started rising from the sea, as he accelerated the boat to her top cruising speed of fifteen knots. Once she reached that speed, he eased back slightly on the throttle, and her bow settled down.
Grant turned to Moore. “Ray, prepare the boat for launch.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Moore signaled for Simpson and Lewis to follow him to the forward deck.
Simpson cranked up the motor of the hydraulic winch, swinging it starboard until the hook hung over the nine foot, white Zodiac. Keeping his eyes on Moore for directions, he lowered the hook until Lewis was able to reach it, finally attaching it to the boat hook. All they had to do was wait for Grant’s order to launch.