He picked up his CANiK, strode the hallway, then down the stairs to his first floor. The luxury Italian stone flooring chilled his feet as he padded into the kitchen. There, he made himself an espresso. While it brewed, he read his texts.
His phone vibrated in his hand, the screen changed to an incoming call from Private. He answered.
“What’s the word?” Gabriel asked.
“The package arrives today,” Z replied.
Z—real name Philip Skye—had co-formed a top-secret organization as an extension of the FBI. As the group grew, it became an independent off-the-grid powerhouse that chased down the country’s most dangerous criminals. Though Z had retired from ALPHA, he hadn’t walked away from the missions. Gabriel had worked with Z before. If Z was involved, the job was off the radar and below the chatter. Though slight in stature, Philip Skye wielded a lot of power.
“Took long enough,” Gabriel said.
“We had to make sure you weren’t being tailed.”
“How?”
“Satellites,” Z explained. “You went to your winery.”
“I’m a caged animal,” Gabriel bit out. “Where and when?”
“The delivery is coming from Moscow, routed through several countries. A driver will drop it at the far-left entrance of the Duomo di Milano, four in the afternoon, local time.”
Gabriel raked his hand through his hair. “No, not Milan Cathedral. Too risky. He needs to stay at the airport.”
“I can’t get word to him.”
Agitation slithered down his back and he released a growl. He hated not being consulted. Yes, he was working with intelligent people but, at the moment, Z sounded like an idiot.”
“Why is he even leaving the airport?” Gabriel bit out.
Silence.
Yeah, Z, you fucked up.
“Does he know what I look like?” Gabriel asked.
“No, it was too dangerous. Use the password sentence.”
“Which airport and what time is he landing?”
“Milano Malpensa, two-thirty.”
“I’m out.” Without waiting for a reply, Gabriel hung up.
On a grunt, he called Angelo.
“The driver got pulled over for speeding,” Angelo said.
“The package arrives this afternoon. You’re flying back with me.”
“The driver is fighting with the poliziotto. If he doesn’t shut up, he’s gonna get arrested.”
“Handle it.” Gabriel hung up, collected his pistol, and strode back upstairs.
“Why do I always have to fix fuckingeverything?” Gabriel growled as he returned to his bedroom to get ready.
THAT AFTERNOON,Gabriel and Angelo waited on the other side of Customs at Malpensa, Milan’s international airport. He glanced over at Angelo. Like Gabriel, he wore a Santini Original suit, white shirt, no tie. His black dress shoes polished to a perfect sheen. Angelo wore his short, dark hair slicked back, every strand in lockdown.
“You got yourself here,” Gabriel muttered. “You did good, Ang.”
