Sam Axe was a SEAL.
But that was about a decade and a thousand beers ago.
Now, he’s a former SEAL, which means he’s got all the know-how, all of the training and will, but his fast-twitch muscles are now more like medium-fast-twitch muscles.
Still, sitting aboard the Pax Bellicosa as it banked into the open seas reminded Sam of his old training days. The best part of being a SEAL was the whole teamwork aspect, knowing someone always had your back. It was also fun to go into enemy countries to attack militant forces, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun if the rest of the team was a bunch of assholes. No, Sam thought, the spray of the ocean splashing into his face, it was always better if everyone was invested.
Which is why when Sam got on the boat with Gennaro’s team, he could tell immediately that one of the six crew members, in addition to Gennaro, wasn’t quite with the program.
“Who is this?” he asked Gennaro. He had a thick Irish accent. Gennaro was the only actual Italian on board. His team was cobbled from around the country. The best money could buy… a point Sam thought was probably true in both good and bad ways.
“A friend,” Gennaro said. “He’s providing some security.” Gennaro explained that the family was concerned about kidnappings and such, which was a sly bit of truth from Gennaro. The kid was learning.
“Chuck Finley,” Sam said and extended his hand to the man, who actually recoiled a step before shaking hands.
“Glynn Wilson,” he said quickly, like he didn’t want Sam to hear it.
“Glynn has been on my team for over a year,” Gennaro said, which Sam thought meant he was to be trusted, which would normally be the case except for that recoil. It made him think of Alex Kyle’s men, all of whom were now familiar with good old Chuck, too. He’d need to get a new name one of these days, but it was sort of like a nice pair of jeans. Once you get them worn in, it doesn’t make sense to get a new pair.
Now, as they were cutting through the sea, Sam couldn’t shake the sense that things were askew with Mr. Wilson. It’s not like he wasn’t working hard-god knows they all were, even Sam, shuffling back and forth to either side of the yacht as they swung the sail in and out of the wind-but it was the fact that when Gennaro told them they could take a break, none of the others actually did. They talked amongst themselves about strategy, about reading the wind and the water, trading thoughts with Gennaro. Glynn was right there with them, but he was also working with something in his pocket.
Sam made it a point not to pay much attention to the habits of men’s hands while in their pockets unless there was obvious danger, but in this case it wasn’t like Glynn was pacing in front of a preschool wearing a trench coat, which made it all the more curious. The more Sam watched Glynn, the more Sam began to think there was something very wrong with the fellow.
So when Gennaro called the team back into action, Sam decided it would be wise to use some of his old training, though this was more the sort of thing he’d learned outside of the SEALs.
If you want to pick someone’s pocket, the best method is to employ a team: One or two people to cause a distraction-like a fight or a fall-and another person to actually slip into the mark’s pocket or purse for the treasure. Or four people to bump directly into the person from all sides-like on a subway-while a fifth filches away.
None of those options were available to Sam aboard the Pax Bellicosa, so if he wanted to find out what was going on in Glynn’s pocket, he was going to need to try a less subtle approach.
He was going to have to knock him over.
Casually, of course.
The way a Swan picks up racing speed is by turning the bow of the boat into the wind and raising its large main sail, followed by raising the jib and cutting into the ocean currents. The team shifts side to side to make best use of weight distribution and usually, when there isn’t an uninvited guest aboard, it’s a choreography of brutal elegance as the team slides back and forth, braces the boat, controls the sails and crashes over the water.
The first time, Sam watched Glynn carefully and saw that he was being very mindful not to bump his pocket while the other men were throwing themselves with abandon. On the second shift a few minutes later, Sam decided he’d find out just what was so important.
As the team scurried across, Sam dropped an elbow-casually-into Glynn’s solar plexus, which caused him to double over in pain as he struggled for breath.
“Oh, crap, sorry,” Sam said. He grabbed Glynn and helped him from crumbling down, while at the same time pushing the contents of Glynn’s front pocket out with an-accidental, of course-knee to Glynn’s thigh which Sam then strafed upward into his hip. If there was nothing of interest to be found in Glynn’s pocket, he’d apologize profusely to the poor guy. He really would. As it happened, if Glynn had the benefit of any breath, he would have howled in pain and surprise and he probably would have clamored after his silver BlackBerry, which was now skittering across the deck.
“Oh, let me get that for you,” Sam said and dropped Glynn-not so casually-onto the deck, too.
On the screen of the BlackBerry was a series of texts, the last of which said, I THNK HIS NAME IS VJIVL FIMNLERY. No one said it was easy to text one-handed while on a racing yacht, but Sam gave the guy credit for being close with the last name, anyway. And it wouldn’t take a CIA linguist to figure out Glynn’s finger was just placed one key to the side of his intended spot on the first name, at least. Sam couldn’t tell from the other name on the screen who Glynn was texting-it said TNT911, which was about as covert as calling yourself Saddam-but had a feeling it was probably someone working with Christopher Bonaventura. If he’d been fixing things, it reasoned he’d keep someone on the boat’s payroll just to make sure things went well.
It was enough evidence for Sam, but if it hadn’t been, Glynn’s sudden lunge toward him would have sealed the deal. Sam met Glynn with an accidental head butt to the bridge of Glynn’s nose, which caused the man to slam his head down rather brutally and to bite down hard on his tongue, severing the tip of it.
Sam actually saw it cleave right off and land on Glynn’s shirt. Glynn saw it, too, which caused him to pass out. He fell backwards and Sam could hear the audible snap of Glynn’s arm. It wasn’t a compound fracture, Sam could tell that much, but by the awkward angle it was clear he wouldn’t be playing the violin any time soon.
“Hey, Gene?” Sam said, once it was clear Glynn Wilson wouldn’t be getting up on his own accord, and once it was clear the rest of the team was rather perplexed by the bloody mess on the ground in front of them. “Looks like Glynn here had an accident.”
Gennaro came over and regarded his teammate. “What happened?”
Sam didn’t want to explain the intricacies of their issue in front of everyone, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “He fell,” Sam said. He tried to indicate with his eyes just what that meant. When that didn’t elicit any kind of response, he added, “while texting Christopher Bonaventura.”
That did the trick.
Late that night, Sam told all of us the gory details-the tongue issue was enough to get even Fiona slightly more agitated than a good fight story normally does-as we sat inside my loft. Down the block, the police were still investigating the untimely demise of Rob Roberge, so the street was lit up with halogens, which made the club goers waiting in line outside my window look surprised and bewildered. I wondered if any of them ever saw the sun.
“Where is Glynn now?” I asked.
“We took him to the hospital,” Sam said, “but ten minutes later, he was hailing a cab out front. I followed it to the airport. My guess is he’s on his way to Belfast.”