Free Tarantula by Mark Dawson Page A

held the pistol in a steady two-hand grip, trigger finger indexed above the trigger guard.
    As he got closer, the moonlight revealed that it was a soft-top Lancia Flavia.
    The door opened. “Number Eight,” said the quartermaster as she got out of the car.
    He relaxed and shoved the pistol away.
    She was carrying a slim documents case. She went around to the trunk and popped the lid. “Here,” she said, pulling back the oil-stained blanket that had been spread across the compartment, exposing the case that had lain beneath it.
    Milton unclipped the case and opened it. There were ten grenades inside, little metallic nuggets nestling in a foam insert.
    “Fragmentation, stun, and smoke.”
    “Very good, Q.”
    Milton closed the case, latched it shut, and left it in the trunk. He went around to the Lancia and got inside. She did, too.
    “Did he call out?”
    “He did,” she said. “Two times. First of all, he spoke to the Englishmen.”
    “Saying?”
    “That he wanted to see them tomorrow morning. He said he had news on their business, that it could only be delivered in person. And then he made this call.”
    She took an iPad from the case and, flipping the lid back to wake it, she touched the screen to activate an app and waited for it to boot.
    A list of MP3 audio files was displayed.
    She hovered her finger over them selected the one she wanted, and tapped the screen.
    Ernesto Gorgi Di Mauro’s voice was unmistakeable.
    “It’s me.”
    “Si.”
    “I have something I need you to do. The four Englishmen, from today. You know?”
    “Si.”
    “They are staying at Il Palazzo Decumani. Do you know it?”
    “Si.”
    “Tomorrow morning. Antonietta will call you. Clean and quick. No mistakes.”
    The call ended.
    “Where is the hotel?” Milton asked.
    “The Via del Grande Archivio. You need my help?”
    “No,” he said. “I’ll find it.”
    She nodded.
    “What about the money?”
    She swiped the MP3s away and opened another app. A map of southern Italy appeared on the screen.
    “The tracker is working very well.”
    “I should hope so. It’s as big as a house.”
    She ignored that.
    “Here,” she said, resting a manicured fingernail against the screen.
    Milton looked at it. The map showed Naples, Salerno and the curve of land to the west that included Messina and then, finally, at the tip of the boot, Palermo. There was a single, small red dot that pulsed on and off. The dot was steady and unmoving, just to the west of Agropoli, north of Castellabate and just a few miles to the south of where they were now.
    “Great,” Milton said. “A yacht. I should’ve guessed.”
    “You are going to get wet.”
    “Do you have—”
    “A wetsuit? Yes, in the back. I have estimated the size you will need. And there is a waterproof bag for your equipment.”
    “You think of everything.”
    “It is my job, Number Eight.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    IT STARTED raining soon afterwards.
    Milton stocked the waterproof bag with the wetsuit, grenades and his weapons. He slung it onto his back, got on the bike and rode back to Naples. He found a twenty-four hour café and bought himself breakfast and a pot of strong coffee. He took a seat next to the window and watched the sun rise over the horizon, the sea transitioning through black to deep blue to emerald blue as the light was thrown across the dark vault of the sky.
    He meditated quietly, allowing himself to slip into a peaceful state where the noise from the kitchen, the thickening traffic and the chink of cutlery on china were all phased out. He pictured what needed to happen, laid out each of the tasks that he had to accomplish in order to fulfil the parameters of the assignment. Infiltration, execution, exfiltration. He would need to repeat the process two times. Each was dangerous, with a multitude of things that could go wrong. Unknowable things, things that could not be predicted and planned around, things that he would have to react to, on the fly.
    That was the