The Saint of Thieves by Dana Haynes

Author:Dana Haynes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
Published: 2022-11-28T20:57:17+00:00

C40

Finnigan and Fiero made it back to their boat a little after midnight. The hoods at Casa de Pittori hadn’t spotted it, although they’d patrolled nearly this far north.

Anticipating a possible swim, the partners had left a thermos of soup broth and a cache of warm clothes onboard. They stripped, dried off, dressed, and sipped their soup until they stopped shivering.

Fiero said, “The wire was buried.”

“Yeah.” That explained why their perimeter recon hadn’t turned up any overhead wires.

“Can you sail in the dark?”

“Yes, but the white of the sails against the skyline would be worse than the sound of the motor.”

She started up the motor and piloted the MacGregor north, away from the guards but also away from the truck awaiting them at Santa Maria di Lugana. Lake Garda was narrow, barely sixteen kilometers wide. When she got five kilometers away, Fiero crossed west, moving toward the other shore, then south toward safety.

Finnigan used the binoculars to keep an eye on their wake. “Other boats are out tonight.”

“A few,” she said. “To be expected. It’s a glorious night.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He kept an eye on the running lights of a motor launch a bit behind them and closer to the center of the lake. It seemed to be running parallel to the MacGregor and had been for a while.

When that boat met up with another, a powerful spotlight on the prow snapped to life.

Finnigan caught Fiero’s attention and pointed it out.

“Could be them.”

“It is,” he said. “It’s cop behavior. Out on patrol, flagging down other drivers who look suspicious. Hitting ’em with the light just to see if they run. Typical patrol officer style.”

She said, “McCool’s ex-cops.”

“Looking for us.”

As they headed south, they spotted more pleasure craft out on the calm waters, despite the hour. They began to hear laughter and music.

They spotted a second patrol boat, also with a high-power spotlight. This one traveled in their direct wake. That meant one boat scouting the western edge of Lake Garda, and another scouting the eastern edge. It had sidled up to a few boats in the last twenty minutes, hitting them with the light and likely a few pointed questions to the passengers.

“Too many of McCool’s guys have seen us,” Finnigan said. “First, in Rome. Then at that junkyard in England.”

Fiero kept her hand on the wheel, her eyes far ahead. At their twelve o’clock, the waters around the town of Sirmione were bustling with watercraft. Amplified music bounced off the waves. Someone was DJ’ing a party. The white facade of Rocca Scaligera, the castle with half of its courtyards submerged, gleamed under fixed spotlights that dotted the grounds.

At their ten o’clock, the waters between them and Santa Maria di Lugana—and their truck—were quieter.

Finnigan said, “If I knew for sure someone with our skill sets had tried to sneak onto my property, from the lake side—”

“—then first I’d set up boats to chase them,” Fiero finished the thought. “If that failed—”

“—I’d send guys by car to the public marinas and wait for ’em there.

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