In the Mouth of the Wolf

Chapter 20

Except for occasional drifting clouds, the sky was clear, winds were no more than eight knots, the evening cool, tranquil. Seawater lapped against boats in the marina and rocks that lined the quay. In the distance were the distinct sounds of cranes and heavy machinery from the commercial docks, where work never ceased, with the loading and unloading of cargo containers.

Grant, Adler, and the team grabbed their gear, then jumped out of the truck. Keeping his eyes trained on Castalani, Grant quietly said, “In bocca al lupo, men.” He gave a quick look at Russo, who nodded and gave a thumb’s up.

Seven men, dressed in cammies, faces streaked with camouflage paint, and rucksacks slung over their shoulders, silently crept in and out of a row of trees that encompassed a small park by the quay. Grant held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. He and his men were approximately two hundred yards from the main entrance of the marina, the only way for vehicles to access the docks.

Standing near a small wooden guardhouse were two men, smoking cigarettes, wearing simple uniforms of black pants, black jackets. They carried small Galesi Model 6 pocket automatic pistols with six shot magazines in side holsters.

Grant pulled out his NVG’s, and began creeping closer to the end of a pebble path leading to the quay. Most of the boats were under thirty feet, with the exception of three larger vessels moored along an outer dock.

As he knelt on one knee, he moved the NVGs side to side, until finally spotting the yacht, with the name “Sacco di Soldi” painted in black Italic lettering across its stern. The starboard side mooring lines were fastened securely to concrete pillars along the edge of the pier. It’s location was opposite the quay, making access to the Tyrrhenian Sea easy and quick.

Continuing to look through the NVGs, he scanned every angle of the boat, noticing dark curtains had been drawn across all windows on the bridge and lower decks, except for a sliding glass door at the stern. Rocca’s statement appeared to be correct. So far Grant didn’t see any guards or crewmen aboard. But that could change.

He scooted back toward his men. Barely whispering, he told them the location, pointing to the yacht, and the location of the marina guards.

Between them and the yacht was mostly open ground. They’d have to take advantage of any boats along the docks, ducking in and out of the shadows and structures as they made their way to the target. Grant briefly thought how much easier this would be with scuba gear. After all, water was the SEAL’s playground.

He and Adler would be the first to head out, with the remaining men following in assigned order, except for Russo who would stay with the prisoners. The SEALs had given themselves a max of twelve minutes to get everyone onboard.

Once their knives were secure in their leg straps, Grant and Adler drew their .45s from side holsters, and as quietly as they could, jacked back the slides. They couldn’t take a chance by depending solely on their knives, not without knowing for sure if or how many men might be aboard, still not fully trusting what they had been told. They had to be prepared if all hell broke loose.

Then, checking one more time, the two crouched low, and hustled to get to the first moored boat, a twenty-five foot cabin cruiser. Everything was relatively quiet along the pier. First impression was nobody seemed to be aboard any of the boats, but also realizing there was always a slim chance someone could be asleep below deck. They had to take that into consideration, and go into what Adler called, “stealth mode.”

Grant leaned around the port side, and seeing no one, he waved Adler forward. Crossing a short pier, they stopped, looked around, then made a dash to the yacht.

A teak gangway at midships undulated with the motion of the boat. Looking up toward the bridge one more time, Grant silently climbed up, with Adler following, walking backwards, watching both their backs. Stepping onto a narrow, teak deck, Grant pointed, and they began working their way toward the stern.

A single sliding glass door blocked their entry to the main deck. Reaching for a handhold, Grant gave a slight tug. Locked. They both peered inside the darkened cabin, crowded with upholstered chairs and couches, small tables with fancy, colored glass lamps that lined both port and starboard bulkheads. In the middle was a large round table, with six high-backed wooden chairs surrounding it. The outline of a ladder came into view at the forward section, leading up to the bridge.

Suddenly, a small light came on in the bridge. They jumped back, one on either side of the door. Grant held up a hand, with his palm facing Adler. Still hearing nothing, he cautiously leaned forward, seeing a man standing at the head of the ladder. He seemed to be stretching, as if he was just waking up.

Grant and Adler looked at each other, as if both were saying, Shit! Without any way to easily get inside now, their only option was to try to lure the guy out to them.

Grant reached for his penlight and flashed it twice toward the stern, signaling the team to hold their positions. Now he worried they would fall behind on their strict time schedule.

He holstered his weapon and started to reach for his knife, then hesitated. He couldn’t take a chance on any blood gushing from a wound, leaving evidence on deck. He pointed to Adler, making the motion of a “neck snap.” Adler gave a nod, then made his way around the starboard side, crouching below the windows, trying to get as close as he could to the bulkhead before slamming his palm against the window.

Grant backed up, stepping along the narrow port side deck, just around the corner from the door. He positioned himself with his elbows close to his side and forearms raised, his hands opening and closing in anticipation.

Another small light suddenly came on, this time in the cabin. They had no way to tell whether the man was still on the bridge, or already in the cabin. Until the lock on the glass door “clicked” and the door slid to the side.

Adler turned slightly, facing aft, preparing himself just in case. He had to take the chance, knowing Grant was ready and waiting. He gave the bulkhead a quick, sharp slap.

The man jumped, then stepped onto the deck cautiously, his head turning toward the pier. Grant leaned his head around the corner, spotting the Uzi. No ordinary crewman, he smirked.

There was only about four feet from where the man stood until he reached the starboard side… and Adler. Grant took a step from around the corner, then moved silently and swiftly. In nearly the blink of an eye, he reached around the man’s head, shoved the jaw to the right with his left hand, as his right hand held the back of the head, then in one swift, lightning motion, immediately snapped it back to the left. Hanging onto the sagging body, Grant softly called, “Joe!”

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.

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.