Rogue wave, p.1
Rogue Wave, page 1
Rogue Wave
The Inland Seas Series - Book 2
Gwyn McNamee
Rogue Wave
by Gwyn McNamee © 2019
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Michelle Johnson at Blue Sky Designs
Cover Models: Zack Salaun and Bahar
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Editing: Proofing With Style
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. Cutter
2. Valentina
3. Cutter
4. Valentina
5. Cutter
6. Valentina
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8. Valentina
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10. Valentina
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12. Valentina
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14. Valentina
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16. Valentina
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18. Valentina
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20. Valentina
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22. Valentina
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24. Valentina
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26. Valentina
Epilogue
About the Author
OTHER WORKS BY GWYN MCNAMEE
There are always waves on the water. Sometimes they are big, sometimes they are small, and sometimes they are almost imperceptible. The water’s waves are churned up by the winds, which come and go and vary in direction and intensity, just as do the winds of stress and change in our lives, which stir up the waves in our minds.
* * *
Jon Kabat-Zinn
Acknowledgments
There are never enough words to thank the people who help me get my books ready for publication. My husband supports me completely and helps in any way he can when I’m stressed out and trying to finish a book - whether it is a bottle of wine or bourbon, a few hours of quiet work time while he takes our daughter out on an adventure, or a good vent session. I can’t thank him enough for all he does.
To my amazing beta readers and my super alpha reader, I literally could never do this without you guys. You help me see the flaws in my own writing and make them better.
Again, a thank you to Jacquelyn Burton and Catherine Horn Gianelloni - your expertise on all things maritime has been invaluable. Thanks for helping me assure these stories are as accurate as possible.
1
Cutter
The four men sitting around the table couldn’t be more completely fucking oblivious to me watching. Laughter and jokes float through the summer afternoon air while they eat more food than I thought humans were even capable of ingesting in one sitting.
I guess it's true…Italians love to eat.
My stomach gurgles.
Maybe I should've taken E up on his offer of breakfast before I left this morning instead of eating a protein bar on the way here. One of his big spreads would have tasted a lot better and filled me up for the endless hours of surveillance. As it stands, I’ll be stopping for a massive meal once these assholes settle in for the night and I can head out of Chicago and back toward the warehouse.
Milo lounges on the grass next to the bench with his face resting on the top of my foot. He releases a heavy sigh. I glance down at him. He raises his eyebrows and stares back up at me as he offers a low whimper.
Demanding little shit.
I reach down and scratch the top of his head. “I know, boy. Just a little while longer. We’ll have E make you something special when we get home. I promise.”
Work has to come first today.
I reach into the paper bag next to me and grab two treats. Milo rises on his back paws and snatches them from my hand. That will appease him long enough. They can’t be here much longer. It’s already been almost an hour since they sat down for lunch.
A train rattles by on the track between where I sit in Monument Park and the focus of my attention, obscuring my view of Moretti’s patio and my targets. This location certainly isn’t ideal for recon, but it’s as close as I can get and still remain inconspicuous. The park and Milo give me the perfect cover to watch my prey, even if I do lose my line of sight for a few seconds a couple of times an hour.
The metal monstrosity passes, once again revealing the Marconis and their henchmen.
One goon stands outside the door to the patio, blocking anyone else from coming out, even the servers. They hand off food to him, and he lumbers over and sets it on the table. A strikingly tall, thin woman with long, sleek black hair in a dark suit that hugs all her perfect curves stands like a gargoyle sentinel behind the table where Il Padrone, his capos, and Arturo eat.
It’s the first real chance I’ve seen to get the job done. When Warwick gave me the okay to take Il Padrone and Arturo out, I knew it wouldn’t be an easy task.
This has to be done delicately so the innocent don't get hurt and the hit can’t be traced back to us. Surveillance on them over the last week hasn't presented many opportunities for me to take them out.
But here…at this restaurant…this lunch spot…it's a perfect set-up.
Between the church behind me, the train station immediately to my left, the parking lot, the Edison Park Bowling Alley, and restaurant building next door to Moretti’s, and the park I’m currently in, I have any number of places to set up with my rifle. They’ll be dead, and I'll be long gone before anybody even realizes what happened.
God, please let this be a regular lunch place for them.
It’s the first time I've followed them here since I started planning the hit, but Il Padrone seems to be a creature of habit. If this turns out to be his regular Friday lunch spot…I’m golden. Between now and next week, I’ll gather more intel on the area. By then, I’ll be ready.
Game fucking on.
My fingers practically itch for it.
The Marconis have been a thorn in all our sides for far too long. After what Arturo did to Warwick and Grace, it became clear that things are only going to get worse the longer we’re under their thumb. Arturo is making moves. He has his sights set on Il Padrone’s powerful seat, and it’s only a matter of time before the old man croaks or retires and hands it right over to him.
That would be disastrous for all of us.
Rather than sit back and wait for things to go to fucking hell, through months or even years of being jerked around by Arturo while Il Padrone struggles to maintain control, we’re taking action. I’m taking action.
Maybe we should have done it sooner. Five years of this has been five years too many. But we never expected it would come to this—hijacking ships that are transporting drugs. There are a lot of things the guys will put up with—guns, theft, and violence being the least of them—but after what War went through with his father, drugs are where we draw the line.
It should have been where Il Padrone drew the line, too. It’s inconceivable he’s still keeping Arturo so close after what he did…unless he still doesn’t know everything or is turning a blind eye because Arturo is his nephew and heir apparent. Regardless, the two sure look pretty damn chummy based on what I’ve seen the last week.
They’re practically inseparable. As if Arturo never went behind his uncle’s back.
It doesn’t make any sense.
But why Il Padrone does what he does is irrelevant at this point. He sealed his fate a long time ago when he made his deal with Warwick. It’s just taken until now for War to finally realize it’s time to end all this.
That’s the one good thing Grace has brought to him—clarity.
It doesn’t matter that we’ve gotten away with it for the past five years. It doesn’t matter that we enjoy it most of the time, that the violence and adrenaline fill a different void each of us has in our lives. It’s gone on for too long. We’re too exposed. Being at the beck and call of someone like Il Padrone has been risky since day one, but being at the beck and call of a man like Arturo would be a true death sentence. We can’t sit around and wait for him to take over.
Ending things now is the only way we all walk away unscathed.
I flip a page in the book on my lap without taking my focus off the Marconis. One benefit the glasses provide…they make it a hell of a lot easier to conceal the direction I’m looking. I glance down at Milo again, then back up at the restaurant patio.
My heart leaps into my throat, and I fight the urge to whip my head around and search.
She’s gone.
The beautiful, stoic woman who has been glued to Il Padrone’s side since the moment I started following him is no longer standing guard on the patio.
Where the fuck did she go?
It couldn’t have been more than three seconds that I looked away. I reach down to pet Milo and use the opportunity to casually scan the surrounding sidewalks, the parking lot, and the street that separates the restaurant from the park where I sit.
A couple strolls hand in hand down to the right of the lot. A white Prius turns the corner and makes its way down Oldsted Avenue toward Moretti’s. A black SUV makes the same turn, but there’s no sign of her.
I turn to the left toward the train station. If she crossed the street in my direction, the building would give her a perfect cover.
Shit.
Maybe she only went into the restaurant for something, but a familiar tingle slides up my spine. One that's been a warning system for as long as I can remember. One that’s always kept me alive, even in the worst situations. One I ignored just long enough to almost pay the price once. It’s not a mistake I’ll make again.
I slowly close the book and set it on the bench beside me. I shift my hand to my side so it’s closer to where my Glock sits in the holster on my hip.
Something’s not right.
Arturo rises to his feet from where he was seated next to Il Padrone and leans down to whisper something in his uncle’s ear. Il Padrone chuckles, and Arturo slaps him affectionately on the back before turning and strolling toward the door into the restaurant.
Fuck. Now where is he going?
The goon blocking the door moves to the side and allows him to enter. Il Padrone laughs and jokes with his capos as dread claws at my gut.
Milo climbs to his feet and whimpers. He senses it, too.
Shit.
The Prius turns into the parking lot for the train station, and the black SUV’s engine roars. It speeds up, and a cacophony of gunshots ring out, breaking the tranquil silence of the beautiful summer afternoon. I pull out my gun, grab Milo, and dive behind the bench.
But the bullets aren’t directed my way.
The patio explodes as it’s decimated with automatic weapon fire.
Il Padrone and his capos dive for cover, but it's too late.
Like knocking over dominoes, they fall one by one…
Frank Braone. Angelo Carozza. Michael Grasso. And finally, Il Padrone. The bullets wrack his body. He drops to knees, then tumbles backward onto the concrete with his men. The man at the door there to protect them crumples right along with him.
Holy shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The SUV roars down the street. Tires squeal as it rounds the corner, and I get one last glance at it before it disappears.
No license plate on the back.
Of course.
If you're going to take out the Marconis, you don’t do it in a way that can be traced, which is precisely why I’ve been biding my time, waiting for the perfect opportunity.
Looks like someone beat me to the punch.
There’s another player.
Warwick isn't going to be happy about this. My hand tightens around my Glock, and I ease it back into the holster.
The last thing I need is to be seen with a weapon after what went down. What I need is to get the hell out of here before the cops arrive and start asking questions. I can’t be associated with this in any way. No one can ever know I was here.
“No!” The cry comes from my left near the far side of the train station.
I tense as the mystery woman who has been Il Padrone’s shadow lately darts across the street from near the train station toward the patio.
She was over here. Too close for comfort.
Why? Why the hell did she leave him? Why the fuck did Arturo get up right before the attack?
It’s all a little too coincidental to be an accident.
She leaps over the low iron railing around the patio and drops to her knees beside Il Padrone.
Even from here, across the street with a parking lot and train tracks between us, watching her hand shake when she reaches out and presses it against one of the wounds on his chest sends a familiar pain spreading through my body.
The explosions still ring in my ears even after six years.
As do the echoing screams.
The disorder and confusion tighten my chest as much today as they did then.
And the pain…
I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory, then force them open. This isn’t the time or the place to fall back into that dark hole. My focus needs to be completely on what’s unfolding in front of me.
The woman leans down closer to Il Padrone, her face mere inches from his own. Someone from inside the restaurant shoves open the door to the patio and rushes over to them. He kneels next to the woman, and she glances over her shoulder toward me. Fathomless amber eyes meet mine.
Shit.
That’s my cue to leave. I rise to my feet, grab the book I borrowed from Warwick off the bench, and casually walk from the park toward where I parked several blocks away.
Sirens scream in the distance, but I continue my slow stroll away from Moretti’s and the bloodbath. Running would draw attention—the last thing I need right now. Even though I wasn’t involved, my name in the police reports or newspapers connecting me in any way with the Marconis would be like painting a goddamn bullseye on the crew.
She looked right at me. She saw me and knew I was there. Which means even if I didn’t pull the trigger, I’d be a suspect. She’ll either rat me out to the police or come looking for me herself.
This all went to shit in the fucking blink of an eye.
That seems to be happening a lot lately.
2
Valentina
I stumble out of the cab with tears blurring my vision, but they can't stop me from seeing the blood covering my shirt and pants and staining my hands despite the fact that I’ve washed them.
Il Padrone’s blood.
The man who begged me to help him. The man I swore to protect. The man I promised would never be touched as long as I was watching his back.
I failed.
He's dead…
They're all dead…
All the people he trusted most, gunned down in one fell swoop. A bloodbath on a sunny Friday afternoon.
The cab pulls away, and I drop to my knees on the sidewalk in front of Il Padrone’s mansion and retch. Bile climbs up my throat and splashes against the cement. I repeatedly heave until there’s nothing left in my stomach as the day’s events replay in my head on an endless loop. Every single detail flashes in perfect clarity.
The bright sunlight…
The mouth-watering scent of the food…
The clanking of the train when it passed…
The laughter of Il Padrone and the men…
The gunshots…
The blood…
How could this have happened?
I was so careful. I watched him like a hawk. No one got near him, and he didn’t go anywhere without me clearing everything first. He knew that lunch was a bad idea. I told him, but the stubborn old mulo didn’t listen. Twenty years of eating Friday lunches at Moretti’s made it the easiest and most obvious place to take him out. But he was too damn stubborn to change his routine.
He paid the ultimate price.
And the guy sitting on the bench across from the restaurant must have had something to do with it.
He was there for over an hour with his dog and a book in the middle of August in Chicago. It was sweltering today, far too hot to want to sit out in the sun for that long. And if that wasn't suspicious enough, even with the mirrored aviator sunglasses covering his face, I could feel his eyes on me, on the man I was supposed to guard.
It’s why I abandoned my post to cross the street to check him out. Something about it was all wrong. He wasn’t just out enjoying the beautiful sunshine. He was there for another reason.
Oh, my God. I was so stupid.
