Tod Goldberg - The End Game

“Just coming in off the Pax,” he said. “Listen, change of plans.”

“You don’t know the plan,” I said.

“I know my plan,” he said. “One of Gennaro’s guys is in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“I had to break his arm.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And he’s probably going to have a bit of a speech impediment thing for a while,” Sam said. “Nothing major. You ever bite the tip of your tongue off?”

“No.”

“Heals right back. Like a lizard’s tail. Anyway, we’re heading back in now from another run. Looks like I’m on the team tomorrow. For safety reasons.”

“Okay,” I said. His voice sounded slightly thick, like he was battling the flu. “You all right?”

“These Swan boats? They’re not much for smoothness. Not exactly like being out on the QE Two.”

“Dramamine didn’t help?”

“Turns out Dramamine and beer aren’t the best combination before going out for a spin with Gennaro and his crew.” He gave a wet cough and then continued. “You were right about the bugs. I swept the place and found ten of them. And not cheap ones, either. Dinino had that place covered. He knew Gennaro would turn to someone. I left them where they were, told Gennaro to just stay cool, keep doing what he was doing, that we were in control of the situation.”

“We are,” I said.

“We are?”

I filled him in. “What did you hear from Jimenez?”

“A lot of bitching.”

“Anything else?”

“What Nate says jibes. Jimenez says rumor is Dinino is in big. Gambling debts from betting on his own team,” Sam said.

“Gennaro was winning,” I said.

“That’s the thing,” Sam said. “Jimenez thinks he’s been betting on them to lose.”

“And the pictures?”

“They want their money. These guys will bring the pain one way or the other. And that’s what they traffic in, you know. Sweet guys.”

“Well,” I said, “they’re gonna get their money.” I explained to Sam what Barry was going to do tomorrow. And now that I had Strabo’s credit card, I knew there’d be at least one high limit charge going through.

“That’s the sort of thing that ends up on the news,” Sam said.

“All the better,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was already late. “What happened on the water?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “about that. Anyone asks, my name is Viv Finley.”

“Chuck isn’t available?”

Sam cleared his throat. “That’s what we need to talk about.”

In order to become a Navy SEAL, you typically need to spend thirty months training under the most intense physical and mental stress imaginable. You’re not just learning how to parachute out of planes, dive into rough seas holding an M-14 sniper rifle, swim into live combat, blow up boats and fight hand-to-hand, you’re learning how to do all of that at one time. There’s a reason only the best of the best qualify to be SEALs.

Sam Axe was a SEAL.

But that was about a decade and a thousand beers ago.

Now, he’s a former SEAL, which means he’s got all the know-how, all of the training and will, but his fast-twitch muscles are now more like medium-fast-twitch muscles.

Still, sitting aboard the Pax Bellicosa as it banked into the open seas reminded Sam of his old training days. The best part of being a SEAL was the whole teamwork aspect, knowing someone always had your back. It was also fun to go into enemy countries to attack militant forces, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun if the rest of the team was a bunch of assholes. No, Sam thought, the spray of the ocean splashing into his face, it was always better if everyone was invested.

Which is why when Sam got on the boat with Gennaro’s team, he could tell immediately that one of the six crew members, in addition to Gennaro, wasn’t quite with the program.

“Who is this?” he asked Gennaro. He had a thick Irish accent. Gennaro was the only actual Italian on board. His team was cobbled from around the country. The best money could buy… a point Sam thought was probably true in both good and bad ways.

“A friend,” Gennaro said. “He’s providing some security.” Gennaro explained that the family was concerned about kidnappings and such, which was a sly bit of truth from Gennaro. The kid was learning.

“Chuck Finley,” Sam said and extended his hand to the man, who actually recoiled a step before shaking hands.

“Glynn Wilson,” he said quickly, like he didn’t want Sam to hear it.

“Glynn has been on my team for over a year,” Gennaro said, which Sam thought meant he was to be trusted, which would normally be the case except for that recoil. It made him think of Alex Kyle’s men, all of whom were now familiar with good old Chuck, too. He’d need to get a new name one of these days, but it was sort of like a nice pair of jeans. Once you get them worn in, it doesn’t make sense to get a new pair.

Now, as they were cutting through the sea, Sam couldn’t shake the sense that things were askew with Mr. Wilson. It’s not like he wasn’t working hard-god knows they all were, even Sam, shuffling back and forth to either side of the yacht as they swung the sail in and out of the wind-but it was the fact that when Gennaro told them they could take a break, none of the others actually did. They talked amongst themselves about strategy, about reading the wind and the water, trading thoughts with Gennaro. Glynn was right there with them, but he was also working with something in his pocket.

Sam made it a point not to pay much attention to the habits of men’s hands while in their pockets unless there was obvious danger, but in this case it wasn’t like Glynn was pacing in front of a preschool wearing a trench coat, which made it all the more curious. The more Sam watched Glynn, the more Sam began to think there was something very wrong with the fellow.

So when Gennaro called the team back into action, Sam decided it would be wise to use some of his old training, though this was more the sort of thing he’d learned outside of the SEALs.

If you want to pick someone’s pocket, the best method is to employ a team: One or two people to cause a distraction-like a fight or a fall-and another person to actually slip into the mark’s pocket or purse for the treasure. Or four people to bump directly into the person from all sides-like on a subway-while a fifth filches away.

None of those options were available to Sam aboard the Pax Bellicosa, so if he wanted to find out what was going on in Glynn’s pocket, he was going to need to try a less subtle approach.

He was going to have to knock him over.

Casually, of course.

The way a Swan picks up racing speed is by turning the bow of the boat into the wind and raising its large main sail, followed by raising the jib and cutting into the ocean currents. The team shifts side to side to make best use of weight distribution and usually, when there isn’t an uninvited guest aboard, it’s a choreography of brutal elegance as the team slides back and forth, braces the boat, controls the sails and crashes over the water.

The first time, Sam watched Glynn carefully and saw that he was being very mindful not to bump his pocket while the other men were throwing themselves with abandon. On the second shift a few minutes later, Sam decided he’d find out just what was so important.

As the team scurried across, Sam dropped an elbow-casually-into Glynn’s solar plexus, which caused him to double over in pain as he struggled for breath.

“Oh, crap, sorry,” Sam said. He grabbed Glynn and helped him from crumbling down, while at the same time pushing the contents of Glynn’s front pocket out with an-accidental, of course-knee to Glynn’s thigh which Sam then strafed upward into his hip. If there was nothing of interest to be found in Glynn’s pocket, he’d apologize profusely to the poor guy. He really would. As it happened, if Glynn had the benefit of any breath, he would have howled in pain and surprise and he probably would have clamored after his silver BlackBerry, which was now skittering across the deck.