* * *
On the following morning, after a turbulent ride aboard a Lufthansa Airbus A320, Gage arrived at Terminal 1 of the Nice Cote D’Azur airport. He rented a small sedan from Europcar and exited the airport to the east, headed into the mouth of the large seaside city of Nice. After following the coastal road for a bit, Gage headed north into the hills—to the inland side—to the bad side.
His errand took all of 15 minutes.
Once Gage had purchased a pistol with ammunition from a small time hood, he pondered his upcoming meeting with Il Magnifico. They were scheduled to have a late lunch on the drug baron’s boat—something Gage wasn’t entirely comfortable with. A boat is extremely private—too private. It’s quite easy to kill a passenger, sail to deep water, weigh him or her down, and make them disappear forever. The sea is a deep and secluded place, even the Mediterranean. Gage was certain there were numerous secrets already buried on its floor. He had no intention of joining that dubious club.
Because of his concerns, he pulled into a parking area and made a transatlantic phone call to his old buddy Ron Alley, the friend Doctor Kudlak had jokingly referenced. It was nearly 6 A.M. in South Carolina—knowing Ron, he’d probably been awake for a few hours.
“Yello?”
“At your age, I’m guessing your prostate is keeping you up at night?”
“At least I can still get it up,” Ron replied, following that with insults regarding Gage’s paternal heritage and lack of endowment.
Following the spicy diatribe, the two men shared a laugh and caught up for a couple of minutes. Once the chitchat was out of the way, Gage told his fellow retired Green Beret about his upcoming lunch.
“You think it could go bad?” Ron asked.
“I don’t think it will, but anything’s possible. That’s why I’m calling. If you don’t hear back from me at all, will you put him on your list?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll take care of him. Il Magnifico…Colombo?”
“Yes. Vincent Colombo…Il Magnifico. Pharmaceutical drug runner.”
“Shit, I’ll do it based on his name alone. I hate stupid names like that.” Ron paused. “B’sides, I been wantin’ to go back to Europe, anyway.”
“So, you’re waiting until you have to kill someone to go back?”
“It’d give me a solid excuse. I could use it as a tax write-off—call it a ‘necessary business expense’. My accountant, she’s pretty creative.”
Good old Ron.
“I really don’t think I’ll have a problem,” Gage said. “You’re my just-in-case.”
“Well, you’re right to be concerned,” Ron said. “That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Why? You know something about this guy?”
“No. But I know a little something about making people disappear off’a boats, and your concern is spot-on. Davy Jones’ locker makes a mighty fine, mighty private graveyard.”
“I appreciate it.”
Gage pondered his concern over today’s meeting. Bottom line, he trusted Marcel. He wouldn’t send Gage into a hornet’s nest.
But, shit happens, he reminded himself. And if it did happen, and if Gage were to disappear, he was confident Ron would rain hell down on Il Magnifico.
His basic precautions taken, Gage slid the Renault into gear and motored for a half-hour to the west, to the gleaming French Riviera town of Antibes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ragazza Sexy was the name of Il Magnifico’s “boat,” as his assistant had termed it. Gage stared in wonderment at the moored vessel. If that were a boat, Gage would like to see what a ship looked like. She was large and sleek, anchored about five kilometers offshore. She was every bit a yacht, approximately 50 meters long, sleek and aggressive. The majority of Ragazza Sexy was painted white, with accents of blue and gold trim. Gage later learned that she boasted comfortable sleeping for 12 guests and an attentive crew of 18.
He’d arrived at Port Vauban Antibes early on purpose. Once he’d reached the point at Quai des Milliardaires, Gage watched as the yacht’s launch swiftly approached to fetch him. There were three suit-wearing men aboard the launch. They greeted Gage in a friendly manner and stepped to the long dock where they informed Gage of their intention to pat him down. Gage allowed it without protest, showing no reaction when the searcher located the bargain-priced Llama Max-1 pistol under Gage’s coat.
Gage had paid the street corner hood 220 euro for it an hour before. He’d gotten quite familiar with the pistol on the ride over.
“What is this?” Il Magnifico’s man asked, appearing rather insulted when he opened Gage’s coat as if there were a poisonous viper inside.
“Move your hand, please,” Gage said. When the man did, Gage removed the pistol, popped the magazine out and cleared the round from the chamber.
“You must leave that pistol on the launch,” the man said, seemingly mollified now that Gage was unarmed.
“Do you have a weapon?” Gage asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you armed? And are these other two men armed?”
“Yes, we are, but we’re security.”
“What about the rest of the people on the yacht?”
“Monsieur, this is not acceptable.”
“What’s not?”
“You’ve come to meet with Il Magnifico on his yacht, as his guest. A guest isn’t rude to his host.”
“Look, I don’t care if it’s acceptable or not,” Gage said, keeping his tone neutral. “He’s the one who wants to meet with me.”
“Very good, but you cannot be armed.”
“If anyone else is armed, then I’ll be armed, too.”
The security man shook his head. “Not possible.”
Gage rammed the magazine back into the pistol but didn’t chamber a round. “Then I guess the meeting’s off.”
Now the security man appeared worried. “No, monsieur. You must come with us. Il Magnifico is waiting. Lunch has been prepared.”
“Then he can just keep on waiting and eat by himself,”
