Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021), A BATEMAN [urban books to read TXT] 📗

had weakened the family. The focus had changed, and his sons had forgotten the old ways. To intimidate and harm one’s enemies, rather than merely kill them meant that there was the chance for further extortion. Yes, the previous generations of Fortez men had killed, but to kill too soon was to close an account, a line of opportunity. His sons had also failed to invest in gold. The precious metal was the true measure of one’s wealth and governments the world over used it to value their currency. Instead, his sons had used Bitcoin and invested in dot com companies that had subsequently folded. They saw their father’s reluctance to change his ways as a failing, but in truth, he had remained with the tried and tested methods. Giuseppe Fortez had resisted investments in stocks and settled only on gold, because everything else in life was a risk that was only profitable for as long as the smart money remained invested. But gold was gold and since the ancient civilisations had dug up the first nuggets, the value and desire has never satiated. But of all things it was their involvement in drugs that had been the beginning of the end. Drugs created stiff and ruthless competition, holes in the supply chain, informers and undercover police, junkies who would sell out their own mother for a fix.

Giuseppe watched the boats tacking back and forth across the water. His villa was located on top of a fifty-foot cliff and surrounded by three acres of gardens. He had more bedrooms than he needed and had managed to negotiate his classic Alfa Romeo Spyder and Mercedes S-class, but his son Gennaro’s vehicles had been shared among the Marino family, as had every remaining asset. Giuseppe had the money he had kept away from his sons in Switzerland, as well as some physical gold bullion in Liechtenstein, classed as offshore investment. The fact that the head of the Marino family allowed Fortez to live and relocate to Lake Como was not lost on him every day. The act may have been seen as weak by some, but Marino used it as testament to his victory. Fortez was a prisoner, a reminder that Marino could have killed him, but had allowed him to run away like a coward instead. The Fortez family dynasty had been ended, and the figurehead now rested in abject poverty, his business and assets carved up and his son’s wives and children cast to the streets with nothing. And there was nothing Giuseppe Fortez could do about it. A stipulation. The price for his life. And to his consternation, he had accepted those terms. However, what he hated most, more than the sad reflection of his wrinkled face as he shaved in the mirror each morning, more than the loss of his family home and the sight and sound his grandchildren running around the terraces, was the Englishman Alex King. The bastard from MI5 who had used his son Luca merely to get to their Russian mafia rivals and had left his son to his fate. The man who had killed his younger son Gennaro in Britain last year. Shot him as he had fled in a light aircraft. He knew that his son had disregarded his own orders, gone to search for the man who had killed his brother, but he could not sit back and leave his sons unavenged. It was not the Italian way, and it was not the Fortez way. He may have lost everything including his dignity, but he was damned if he was going to lose both of his sons and leave their killer walking the earth.

Giuseppe Fortez moved his chair a few inches and felt the sun on his face once again. Like a cat tracking the sun across the floor, ever escaping the shadows. The light across the lake had cast a golden hue on the surface, and a sailing boat had a full sail and was sailing the length of reflective gold, its stern glistening in the sunlight. Fortez reached for his espresso and tested the liquid. It had cooled slightly, and he drank it down, savouring the caffeine hit and with it the thought of having the English assassin killed, but not before his killer delivered him a message, leaving him in no uncertain terms who was behind his execution.

Chapter Twenty-Four

 

North Atlantic

 

Keshmiri Pezhman kept his eyes to the periscope and watched the frigate two-thousand metres to the east. It was an Irish Naval Service vessel running close to Scottish waters, two hundred miles north of Ireland, and as he watched, it turned hard to port and headed towards them. Pezhman gave the order to dive as he dropped periscope. The frigate could have detected their presence, or it could have been a chance manoeuvre, but his objective was to avoid contact at all costs and complete his mission.

The helmsman controlled the plane, while the ballast tanks filled with water and the boat propelled steadily downwards. The crew leaned back in unison as the vessel tilted forwards and headed for a depth of three-hundred feet. They had been making twenty knots, or twenty-three mph. But the Iranian Commander gave the order to slow until the Irish Navy frigate was clear of them. The submarine couldn’t run silently at speed. They had enough fuel and supplies to run for thirty-five days, but it would take just two more to reach their objective. The air scrubbers had been cleaned and vented at the last refuel stop and they could carry out their mission and escape through the Northern Sea Route and the Bering Strait, where an Indian registered tanker now under North Korean ownership and crew, and skirting the trade sanctions, would meet to resupply them and exchange cargoes south of the Andreanof Islands. Their journey should take no more than twenty days. Another twenty and they would return to Iran as heroes. And