If The Seas Catch Fire(62)
A short swim that took plenty of work thanks to the bulky equipment on his back creating drag. Between the exertion and holding his breath, his lungs were burning by the time he broke through beneath the dock. Still, he didn’t allow himself to gasp for air. Calling on every ounce of control he possessed, he exhaled slowly, then took in a long, deep breath. And another. And another. Though he’d been here earlier to make sure every electronic security device had been compromised, that wouldn’t do him any good if one of the roving guards heard him panting.
Little by little, his heart slowed down and the burn receded. No one wandered down this way.
Now, to find the boat.
As soon as he zeroed in on the slip number, and saw the gigantic profile of the boat, he realized this wasn’t just any yacht—this was Felice Maisano’s superyacht.
Well, that answered the question about who the highest ranking man aboard would be, assuming Felice didn’t unwittingly bring Daddy along that day. Good—Felice Maisano was an *, and Sergei didn’t mind rattling his cage with a “message” by way of a dead second-in-command. Shooting him would be gratifying too, if the opportunity ever presented itself.
What would Dom think if I killed his—
No, no. Don’t go there. Business, Sergei. Business.
The craft was hard to miss. This section of the marina was filled with luxury yachts, but Felice’s stood out. The ninety-foot, triple deck power catamaran was even more ostentatious than the boss’s extravagant boat, or Raffaele Cusimano’s monstrosity three slips over. It was huge and flashy with all the bells and whistles imaginable. The boat of a man so rich he couldn’t bear anyone not knowing how rich he was. The watercraft equivalent of a diamond-studded Rolex.
As Sergei stealthily cut through the water, he caught a glimpse of the boat’s name on the hull, but couldn’t read it in the low light. If it wasn’t a Sicilian euphemism for “please don’t notice how tiny my dick is,” it should’ve been.
Carefully, he swam between the catamaran’s dual hulls. Toward the middle—safely away from the props and well out of sight from anyone who might look—he went to work, starting with his escape route. There was no way he could drill into the fiberglass hull without drawing attention, but he’d brought several strong suction cups that, when attached to the hulls just below the surface, weren’t coming off for anything. He put them into place, spacing them about two feet apart, and hung off each one for a moment, yanking as hard as he could to make sure they didn’t move. They stayed. Perfect.
With some karabiners and a rope, he secured the tanks and all of his gear to the hooks on the suction cups. Finally, he took off his fins, replaced them with a pair of scuba booties. Then he secured the fins to the pack of gear, pushed off gently, and swam to the dock.
He paused for a long moment, holding his breath, and listened. There were footsteps on planks—unhurried men on patrol—but they were far away. In his immediate vicinity, the only sounds were lines and hulls squeaking against wood, and water lapping lazily against pylons.
He released his breath. Took a few more. Then he hoisted himself up onto the dock. He crouched low so the water dripping off him wouldn’t make much noise. Once the majority of the water had run off, he rose, glanced around again, and boarded the boat. He didn’t worry about leaving wet footprints on the dock or the deck. Any he did leave would be dry by sunrise, any droplets left behind dismissed as a natural consequence of being this close to the water.
Baltazar had taken care of the security and surveillance systems. He’d even had the radar compromised to make sure it didn’t show Sergei swimming between the hulls. The crew would have no idea there was anything wrong—the radar would just show some pre-programmed blips. How? Sergei didn’t know. Baltazar was the technical wizard.
The Greek had also given Sergei a code to get past the security system and onto the boat. According to Baltazar, the system had been quietly compromised. The alarm would still chirp, and the doors still wouldn’t open without the code, but when the cameras and login records were played back, they’d be blank.
Still, Sergei had sneaked onto the marina yesterday and made sure it actually worked—punching it in, then waiting to see if cops or Mafiosi showed up—and it was clean. Good. Couldn’t be too careful. He never knew when a job might be the one where Baltazar decided to sell him out.
Sergei looked around again, making sure he was still alone. Then he entered the code and let himself onto the boat. Jesus f*ck—this thing was even larger on the inside. Gaudy, ostentatious, and perfect for Sergei’s mission. There were ample places for him to lay low and go unnoticed until it was time to make his move. And, for that matter, enough space for him to make that move, get off the boat, and still go unnoticed.
The luxury living area had likely been meant for lavish parties, watching movies on the giant HD screen, and lounging on the plush sofas. From what he’d been told, this room, when closed off, was completely soundproof. All the Mafiosi loved their boats with soundproof entertaining areas—ostensibly for movies and parties, but Sergei doubted that was the only reason.
And anyway, there’d be no movies or parties today. This was business. The sofas and tables had been covered in plastic and pushed to the sides, opening up the wide floor. He wasn’t entirely sure what went on in here during the voyages, but he had a pretty good idea.