Page 38 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
A small smile touches her lips, but she quickly covers it. “Thank you.”
Jackson claps his hands together and leans forward, and Gabriella moves over, allowing for his enormous bulk. “So, how are we going to do this?” He looks around the room. “I vote blow up his house.”
I groan. “No.”
He glares at me. “Well, if you’ve got a better idea…”
I sigh. “We can’t just kill him. Otherwise, someone else will just step in his place with a vendetta.”
“We need to kill off his network first and then starve his business,” Una says.
Gabriella smooth’s her palms over her skirt nervously. “I’ve been keeping tabs on the Bianchi’s for months: their operations, his men, their trading routes.”
Jackson grins, turning to stare at her. “I like her.”
“For God’s sake,” Una huffs under her breath.
Gabriella carries on. “His main business is weapons. As far as I can tell, he gets shipments from the Russians and moves them through Europe, but primarily Africa.” That would be good business.
“Explains why the Bratva might be more willing to lend him the Elite,” Una adds.
“The last Thursday of every month, a boat docks in the port of Aspra. They always receive at least four shipping containers. They’re taken to a furniture factory near Bagheria. I can’t get anyone inside, but my guess is they’re hiding the guns in furniture.” She folds her hands gracefully in her lap. “If we were to take his guns…”
“Any idea how he’s getting his cash?” Una asks.
The two women stare at each other, light to dark. Something passes between them, and I’d hazard that Una did not miss the way Gabriella looks at Nero.
“Not yet. Sorry.”
Una pushes to her feet with purpose. “Fine. Then start with the shipment. We have one week to plan it.” She turns to me. “Sasha, get the details from Gabriella. You and I leave tonight for Sicily.”
She walks out of the room, and everyone else seems to drift away until it’s just Gabriella and me. “Lorenzo,” she calls.
One of her men steps into the doorway, his colossal frame bursting out of his suit. His hands are clasped in front of him as he ducks his head. “Ms. Gabriella.”
“We need to brief Sasha on Enrique’s gun shipment.”
On a nod, he takes a seat next to her and begins.
9
Sasha
I place the binoculars to my face and focus on the only entrance to the port by road. It’s a checkpoint with barriers. The guards are armed, and as each truck pulls up to the gate, they speak to the driver and take paperwork. The same applies when they leave, with more paperwork exchanged. That means any of Enrique’s drivers that come in here need to be the same ones that leave. We need this to be discrete. Nero wants to hide behind Gabriella until the last minute. I think it’s hypocritical to get involved in this fight due to a personal slight, yet remain elusive because the political fallout within his own mafia will cause issues. But Nero is nothing if not ruthless.
The pickup must go ahead just as it normally would. Same trucks, same drivers. We can’t hit them here; it needs to be elsewhere, and that lends itself to further difficulty. The second problem is the trucks are constantly coming in and out, and the shipping containers are sealed. There’s no way to know which shipment is Enrique’s.
I’m going to need the inventory list for the shipping yard. Gabriella claims she has men on the inside of this operation, so it shouldn’t be too hard to acquire.
Una and I have been running surveillance on the port for the last three days, trying to find a way to pull it off because in there, behind those fences, it’s controlled. The vehicles are one hundred percent going to stop, giving us ample opportunity we may not have on the outside. We know where the security men are, and we can control how it goes. Outside that fence, the driver may not stop until he reaches his destination, which, as of yet, is unknown to us. We have the possibility of police and other citizens—a thousand different factors that could go wrong, and I do not like it.
With a grunt, I push to my feet and walk across the hot asphalt of the rooftop terrace. I duck through the door that leads to the dilapidated-looking stairwell. The railing trembles precariously as I brush against it, sending a smattering of yellow paint flakes to the stained and worn carpet. I descend several flights until I reach the lobby. The middle-aged receptionist doesn’t even look up from her book as I pass. The building is a rundown B&B with very little security and a slew of strangers passing in and out. It also has a clear view of the shipping dock. As soon as I step out onto the cobblestone street, I wince against the blinding sunshine that cuts through the tall, tightly packed townhouses. They seem to bow towards each other, making the road ever narrower. Though their exteriors are crumbling away from cracked brickwork, they still manage to look bright and cheery with their colorful paint and flowery window boxes.
