The Family
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Disclaimer: I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or any other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. 🙂
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Summary: The team must infiltrate the Italian mafia to stop a series of high-profile assassinations before someone else dies.
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Author's Note: This story started as a one-shot rescue scene, written for my friend Caroline Bennett (Caro) for her birthday. Over time, this scene was expanded and became this story. Special thanks to Caro for allowing me to share her story on this site!
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Chapter 1
The white-haired gentleman in the navy blue suit slipped through the door at the back of the class and took an empty seat. Just a couple of minutes later, the professor dismissed the students with a smile. Jim waited patiently until the last student was gone, then he got to his feet and walked to the front of the room.
"Psychology," Jim began. "A most fascinating field of study."
"That it is," affirmed the young professor as he recognized the codespeak.
"Is it true that psychologists make the best criminal profilers?" Jim asked.
The psychology professor nodded. "Our department chair published a whole encyclopedia on profiling last year," he advised. "It's here at the lectern if you'd like to take a look."
With that, the young educator exited through the rear entrance. Once the door closed behind him, Jim walked to the podium, reached down into the first shelf, and took out a small black box. He scanned his thumbprint, then entered the three-digit code. He inserted the silver disk into the slot and watched the video screen carefully.
"Good morning, Jim," came the customary greeting, then the familiar voice began.
"During the past three months, a total of five important figures in Italy's political and military circles have been tragically killed," said the voice, as the video screen showed scenes depicting the aftermath of various criminal activities.
"Even though no two assassinations have been alike, we believe that the same individuals are responsible for all of them," the voice continued.
Suddenly, the scene switched to a photograph of five dark-haired Italian men, their arms encircling one another's shoulders. "The Tagliatis are a large family with multi-generational connections with the Italian mob."
The video screen zoomed in on the man standing at the far right of the photograph. "One of its members, Antonio, has recently been captured by Interpol. It is believed that he has intimate knowledge of the killings, but he has refused to talk to authorities. It is also believed that the younger Tagliatis receive their orders from another individual, possibly a higher-ranking family member, but that person's identity is unknown."
The video screen changed to display a stately, Victorian house surrounded by sand, which Jim inferred was the Tagliati mansion. "Your mission, Jim, should you choose to accept it, is to get inside the Tagliati organization, uncover the mastermind behind the assassinations, and stop any further killings."
Jim barely paid attention as the voice droned on with the familiar disclaimer. "As always, should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This disk will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim."
Jim had closed the black box and exited the classroom long before the disk erupted in a puff of smoke.
Chapter 2
"So where are we off to this time, Jim?" Max asked, as the five team members settled in for the briefing at Jim's condo.
A small smirk crossed the team leader's lips. "Italy," he replied simply.
"Italy?" repeated Shannon. "Quite a dangerous place right now, judging by what's been on the news lately."
Jim nodded almost imperceptibly at Grant, who was sitting in Jim's customary place at the computer screen. The other team members watched as images projected on the display screen.
"Last month, a Senator was killed in a car bomb," Grant began, his voice even, as the screen showed the badly charred remains of a large sedan. "Then a Navy Admiral was found floating in his pool."
A click of the keyboard, and the picture changed to a stock photo of an office building. "Three weeks ago, a state police officer lost his life in a hit-and-run during a traffic stop. Two weeks ago, a member of the Chamber of Deputies was gunned down outside his office."
The agents watched as the picture changed again, this time to a photograph of a young man dressed in camouflage. "And five days ago, this young Army officer dropped dead during a routine training exercise. He was twenty-two."
"Is there a connection?" Shannon inquired.
"We believe so, though I'm still working on that," Grant answered.
"Who's our suspect?"
"More like suspects, Nicholas," clarified Jim, as Grant pushed a button on the keyboard, revealing the same candid photograph Jim had seen on the disc when he'd received the mission.
"The mob?" Max asked, incredulous.
Jim smirked again. "The Tagliatis have a long history of legal trouble, including ties to the Italian mob. What you're looking at is a group of cousins whom the IMF believes is responsible for this round of killings."
Again as the disc had done, the screen panned to the right and zoomed in on the smiling figure. "Antonio Tagliati was picked up by Interpol two days ago as a person of interest after a witness came forward and reported that he'd visited the Admiral at his residence before his death. As far as we know the family has no knowledge of his arrest."
"Giving me a chance to take his place," Nicholas surmised with a wry grin.
Jim nodded. "Someone is ordering these hits, and we hope you can figure out who." The elder agent handed Nicholas a file with extensive information about Antonio Tagliati and his crime family.
"Has Antonio said anything to the authorities?" Shannon questioned.
"Not a word," Jim answered, "and there isn't really enough to hold him for long or to tie the other cousins to any of the killings. So we have to work fast."
"There's only so much that I can find out from the outside," said Grant, handing Nicholas a small lapel pin which he recognized from previous missions as a miniature camera. "Plus, I'll be busy keeping an eye on you," he smiled at the dark-haired agent, as Nicholas accepted the pin and returned the smile.
"We definitely need somebody on the inside," Jim agreed, turning his gaze toward Shannon and Max. "The three of us will need to take a closer look at each of the victims to try to determine their connection."
The two younger agents nodded in response. "That connection will be our best chance to figure out how to shut these terrorists down."
Chapter 3
Nicholas let out an audible sigh as the huge Victorian mansion loomed in the distance. From behind the wheel of the yellow cab, Grant glanced in the rear-view mirror at his teammate. A worried frown crossed his lips.
In the years they'd worked together, they'd often found themselves in some precarious situations. It had to be nerve-wracking for Nicholas, each mission pretending to be someone else. But being the professional that he was, he rarely let it show.
This time, Grant could tell that the anxiety was getting to his friend.
"You all right, pal?" he asked.
The countenance of Antonio Tagliati stared back at Grant from the backseat, then a moment later broke into Nicholas' disarming grin. "I'm fine, Grant," he assured the black agent, "though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit nervous about playing the role of a mobster."
"You'll be great," Grant encouraged him. "Just remember, as long as you're wearing that pin, we can see and hear everything. If there's any sign of trouble, our base is just a few miles away."
"I know," Nicholas answered.
"And the mic works both ways, so let us know when it's safe to talk to you."
"I will," Nicholas promised. "Thanks, Grant."
Grant flashed him a grin as he parked in front of the old Italian beach house. He rounded the cab and opened the door.
Nicholas stepped out onto the winding walkway as two men dressed in black materialized on the front porch. Even from a distance away, he could tell they were both armed.
"Tony!" one of them exclaimed. "Is that you?"
As the cab pulled away and he drew closer, Nicholas recognized the men as two of Antonio's cousins. The one who had spoken was named Roberto, but within the family was known as Robbie. The slightly shorter man with him was Paul, also called Paulie.
"It is you!" exclaimed Paulie as Nicholas reached the top step, and he joyfully slung his arm around the dark-haired agent. "Where in the hell have you been?"
"Good to see you too, Paulie," Nicholas sneered, in his best Italian accent. "You got anything to drink around here?"
"For God's sake, Paulie, get the man a drink," ordered Robbie. "Then we can talk."
The three men went inside, where Nicholas was greeted with back-thumping hugs from his other two cousins, Rodrigo (Roddy) and Samuel (Sammy). Paulie rushed off to prepare Tony's favorite drink - a martini - and he sat down on the living room sofa as the others crowded around him
"So where you been, pal?" Robbie questioned. "We thought the cops mighta grabbed you."
Nicholas drank his martini slowly, drawing out his response. "It seems they underestimated who they were dealing with," he finally answered.
"You got away," deduced Sammy. "How?"
"They had nothing on me," Nicholas shrugged. "I waited till they wore themselves out asking questions, then I told them my attorney would enjoy hearing that I was being interrogated without being charged." Another long drink, then a smile. "They let me go."
"What about the Bugatti?" asked Roddy.
"Impounded," said Nicholas, "but I can go get it in a day or two."
"You weren't foolish enough to leave any evidence in there, were you?" asked Paulie.
Nicholas, adept at reading body language, did not miss the way that three pairs of eyes instantly riveted toward him. Nor did he miss the slight cower in their stance as they waited for his response. The dossier had not said anything about Antonio's personality, or his temper, but in that moment Nicholas felt he understood both.
Unhurriedly, he rose to his feet and crossed the room, stopping nose to nose with the slightly shorter man, a menacing look on his face. A pause, and then a stage whisper.
"You calling me foolish, Paulie?"
The younger cousin's tanned skin turned pale. "N-no, of course not, Tony," he stammered, taking a step backward and coming to rest against the wall. There was nowhere else to go.
Nicholas held his gaze for another moment, then a soft chuckle escaped his lips. "Good," he smiled, patting Paulie's chest emphatically as he turned back toward his seat. Looking back toward Paulie, he added calmly, "And no, I didn't leave any evidence in the car."
Robbie broke into a wide grin as he reached out to pat Nicholas' leg. "Welcome home, Tony," he said fondly. "It's good to have you back."
As Grant pulled up in front of the shell building serving as the team's headquarters for the mission, his ears tuned to the camera feed running through his laptop, and he couldn't help but smile.
"Way to go, partner," he said, aloud but to himself. Nicholas had convinced them he was really Antonio Tagliati, which meant that at least for the moment, he was safe.
Chapter 4
Shannon walked through the door at a brisk clip, her heels clicking as she approached the dispatcher behind the mirrored window. It was unnerving to be staring at a reflection of herself; she could barely discern that there was actually someone behind it.
She pushed the intercom button.
"May I help you?" came a female voice that sounded tired and bored from the practiced routine.
"I'm Shannon McIntosh from Safeway Insurance," the agent answered breezily. "I'm here to collect some information about Officer Mark Ray."
The dispatcher hesitated briefly. "Officer Ray died almost a month ago," she mused. "We've already sent in everything you've asked for."
Shannon felt a slight tickle of nerves in her stomach. "We are aware of that," she acknowledged, "but the family had just purchased a life insurance rider specifically for patrolmen. It's a new offering for our company, and we need to report how many hours Officer Ray was on patrol in the month prior to his death."
Shannon paused, then smiled charmingly. "I know I could have asked you to send the data by normal channels, but we really want to process this claim as quickly as possible, so I thought I'd save you the trouble."
From behind the mirrored glass, Shannon heard a telltale sigh. "All right," she agreed, with the hesitant reluctance of someone who just wanted to be left alone. "Send me your ID badge. I'll sign you in and then I'll give you access to our spreadsheet. You should be able to gather all the information you need."
Shannon sent her fabricated ID badge through the silver drawer. She unconsciously held her breath; Grant was very good at his job, but a part of her was always fearful that someone would see through her cover. Everything went off without a hitch, however, and Shannon was taken to a private area with a desktop computer. Soon she was looking at a comprehensive report of every patrol stop of every state police officer for the past six months.
She scrolled down to find Officer Ray's name. She didn't have to look far to find the information she needed. She lingered a few more moments, writing down some data for the benefit of the security cameras watching her, and then made her way back to the mirrored window.
"Thank you so much," she said as she made her exit.
"Did you find what you needed, Miss McIntosh?" asked the dispatcher dryly.
"Yes," Shannon replied. She couldn't see the woman's face, but could tell by her tone that she was expecting more details. "Officer Ray spent one hundred thirty-four hours in the field during his final month," she advised, grateful she had noted that data. "Well over half his total hours worked and more than enough to qualify him for the additional insurance claim."
"I'm sure his family will be happy to hear that," responded the dispatcher. "Have a nice day."
Shannon waited until she was no longer on state police property, then she took out her communicator.
"Grant," she summoned, "Mark Ray issued a citation to one Paul Tagliati on June seventh of this year."
"He's one of the cousins, all right," Grant affirmed, his voice tense. "Charges?"
"Speeding, improper equipment, no sticker," Shannon answered. "All minor stuff, really, but because of the multiple violations he couldn't just prepay the fine."
"There would have been a court appearance scheduled," Grant mused. "The Tagliatis wouldn't have liked that."
"But with Officer Ray unable to testify, there would have been no court date," Shannon reasoned.
"And there's no way it's a coincidence that he was killed just ten days after that citation," Grant finished. "Nice work, Shannon. Come on back to headquarters. Nicholas is in position and I'm still waiting to hear from the others."
********
"Welcome to Company F, Sergeant Lizodo," greeted the three-star general in Italian as Max raised his hand in salute. "Please remind me as to the purpose of your visit with us."
"My commander has sent me to perform some precautionary medical tests on each of your enlisted men," Max replied smoothly. "We do not wish for undisclosed heart problems to cause any more casualties."
The general nodded stiffly. "See to it, then," he ordered.
Shortly after Max set up his equipment, the men came two at a time to be checked out. Max watched and listened carefully for anything that would have raised concerns, but for two hours there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, the last two soldiers in the company stopped by to receive their checkups. As Max calmly examined one, the other sneered at the blond agent.
"You're here because of what happened to Private Piccolo, aren't you?" he asked in English.
Max sighed, feigning disinterest, though his heart began to race with curiosity. "I'm just following orders," he answered.
"Well, somebody got it all wrong," the private retorted. "Piccolo didn't die of a heart problem. He was murdered!"
The man being examined rolled his eyes. "Again with the conspiracy theory, Saldo?"
"I'm telling you, it's true," Saldo insisted. Then his eyes focused on Max, as if he felt the need to defend himself. "Look, Piccolo and I were in basic together," he explained. "His dad is a five-star general in Company D."
"Who doesn't even have the same last name," his friend reminded him.
"Because his mom had an affair," Saldo argued back. "Anyway," he continued, emphasizing the word and refocusing on Max, "there were rumors that Piccolo's father was being courted by the Italian mob, to turn over sensitive information. And he wouldn't, and he was being threatened. Last week, Pic told me that he and his dad were going out to dinner at this fancy restaurant called Valentino's, with a 'business acquaintance.' And the next day Piccolo was dead. He was fine one minute, then he said he felt all hot inside, and then he was gone before anybody could do anything to help him."
Saldo leaned back in satisfaction, his arms crossed. "Now you can call that coincidence, or a heart attack, if you want to. I don't buy it."
Max turned his attention to Saldo, and the two privates continued to argue about the officer's plight while Max completed his examination.
"Well, you two are in perfect health," Max pronounced.
Saldo grinned triumphantly at his buddy. "See?"
The other man shook his head. "You're nuts, man," he scoffed, as both men exited the makeshift clinic.
As soon as they were gone, and Max was alone, he hastily whipped out his communicator. "Grant."
"Go ahead, Max."
Max hastily relayed what he'd heard from Piccolo's friend. While he was speaking, Grant was busy pushing buttons on his keyboard.
"Rudolph Canoli. He's the commander of Company D," Grant mused aloud. "Would have been twenty-two when Joey Piccolo was born. Lived in the same town." A pause. "Did you say Valentino's?"
"Right."
"Sounds like an upscale place. Wonder if they have online reservations?"
Grant punched a few more buttons, and easily hacked into the restaurant's mainframe.
"Max, there's a reservation for last Tuesday evening for Canoli. Table for three."
"The story checks out," Max mumbled. "Do you think Piccolo could have been poisoned?"
"It's possible," Grant confirmed, his mind churning. "Max, do you think you could find the autopsy report? I want to know if they ran a toxicology screen."
"I'll do my best," Max promised. Then suddenly he heard the sound of a doorknob being turned. "Gotta go," he grunted, and shoved his communicator into his pocket just as the door burst open.
Chapter 5
"Well, Sergeant Lizodo," greeted the general, "I trust you found everything satisfactory."
"No major problems," responded Max. "A few minor issues I wish to make note of, if you could show me to your medical files."
"Of course. Right this way."
The general indicated a faded yellow filing cabinet on the other side of the office. Then, to Max's chagrin, he sat down in a nearby chair. "I trust you won't be long. I'll just wait here."
"It's not necessary."
"I'd feel much better if I could wait to show you out," he insisted, rather impatiently.
Max gritted his teeth in frustration. The man was watching his every move. He'd have to be discreet.
He opened one drawer and took out a file, then turned to a page and pretended to write a note. The general watched him intently for a few moments, then became engrossed in a newspaper lying on a nearby desk. As he picked it up to read further, Max hurriedly pulled out a different file drawer and extracted the file marked Piccolo.
Max leafed quickly through the pages until his eyes settled on the toxicology screen that Grant was searching for. Max turned his back toward the general and smoothly removed the page as he slid the files back into place. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and turned around to find that the general was still distracted.
"All finished," Max announced, unable to stifle the satisfied grin that crossed his lips.
The general walked Max to the door, then dismissed him with a quick salute as Max got in his car and headed back toward the team's headquarters.
*******
Jim walked up three steps and knocked sharply at the white farmhouse door. The woman who answered it was a brunette in her late thirties, diminutive in comparison to the tall gentleman who stood before her.
"May I help you?" she asked timidly, struggling to meet Jim's eyes.
"Are you Mrs. Rizzudo?" Jim asked gently.
"Yes."
"My name is Peter Feinstein," Jim told her. "I'm here-"
"Is this about my husband?" she interrupted.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Jim offered sadly. "May I come in?"
"Of course," she answered, stepping aside to let Jim enter.
The farmhouse was modestly furnished, and Jim sank into a comfortable armchair.
"What can I do for you, Mister Feinstein?"
"I'm trying to find out who would have a reason to kill your husband."
Mrs. Rizzudo stared at her hands, clasped in her lap. "The police have already asked those questions."
"I know," affirmed Jim.
"My husband was a good man," she went on. "Yes, he was a politician, but he really cared about his people. I can't believe that he would have had any enemies."
"Did your husband ever mention any of the people he worked with?" Jim questioned.
"Not really," Mrs. Rizzudo said. "He was very conscientious about keeping work at work. The only person he ever talked about was Leo."
"Leo?"
"His bowling buddy," Mrs. Rizzudo recalled, smiling slightly. "Every Tuesday night until two weeks ago."
"Does Leo have a last name?"
The young widow shrugged. "Manny never mentioned it."
Jim's pulse quickened slightly, for the Senator who'd been blown up by the car bomb was named Leonardo Divani. "Mrs. Rizzudo, do you mind if I look through your husband's personal effects?"
The brunette stared at the white-haired agent quizzically. "For what purpose?" she asked.
"I'm just looking for connections."
Mrs. Rizzudo sighed. "Very well. I suppose it couldn't hurt," she agreed.
She showed Jim to a spare room containing several boxes of her husband's belongings. "Help yourself," she told Jim.
Jim thanked her and began to look through the boxes. At first, there was nothing remarkable to be found. Then, curiously, his eyes fell upon a manila folder marked "Bowling," and his heart skipped a beat. The moment he opened it, he knew he'd found the connection they'd been looking for.
As Jim emerged from the spare bedroom, the young widow smiled slightly at him. "Find anything useful?" she asked.
"Maybe," Jim answered. "Do you mind if I take this with me?"
She waved her hand dismissively. "It's of no use to me," she replied.
"We'll let you know what we find out," Jim assured her.
For the first time since Jim's arrival, Mrs. Rizzudo looked deeply into his ice blue eyes. "Mister Feinstein," she said, her voice shaking slightly, "Manny is gone. Knowing why is of little importance to me. It isn't going to bring him back."
Jim nodded slightly in sympathy and thanked her once again for her time. Then he hastily bid her farewell.
Chapter 6
Shannon arrived back at headquarters first. Max arrived soon afterward, toxicology screen in hand. While Grant looked over the report, Max relayed the young soldier's description of the way Private Joey Piccolo had died.
"Is there anything on that report that would have caused symptoms like that?" Max questioned.
Grant sighed, reaching up his left hand to rub his eyes. "Yes and no," he answered vaguely.
Max stared at him for a moment. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that there was no actual poison or foreign substance in his system at the time of his death," Grant answered, "but he did have an extremely high level of potassium, which most of the time indicates heart problems in people that young."
"So he did have heart problems?" Shannon asked, confused.
Grant shook his head. "I don't think so. None of the other lab results support that conclusion.". Grant's voice grew quiet. "But there are a handful of substances that could have been used to kill him - one I know in particular takes eighteen to twenty-four hours to show symptoms. And the only trace it leaves in the body is elevated potassium."
As the trio pondered this development, Jim arrived, with manila folder in hand. After catching up on Max's news, he opened it, spreading out the contents on the spacious desk as the others looked on.
"It looks like Manny Rizzudo's Tuesday evening bowling league was a cover for an anti-terrorism strategy session," Jim reported.
"Do you have names?" Grant asked, leaning in for a closer look.
"Yes," Jim answered grimly. "Leo Divani, Admiral Luccini..."
"Rudolph Canoli?" Max queried.
"He's here, too, Max," Jim affirmed, "along with a name I don't recognize: Alfredo Romano."
Grant hastily punched a few buttons on his keyboard. "Alfredo Romano," he repeated when the screen beeped with the results. His eyes met his leader's, and his face was grim. "Commander of the Italian Coast Guard."
"The third of the Big Three military powers," Shannon mused.
"It could be we just found our next victim," Max added.
Jim nodded in agreement. "That would make sense. We need to let Nicholas know."
"As soon as he checks in, I'll give him the message," Grant promised. "Any details as to what they talked about, Jim?"
"There are some notes here, but not incredibly detailed," Jim answered. He took a moment to skim over the handwritten documents as the team watched in silence. "From what I can gather, Divani and Rizzudo were the first two attendees."
"Both members of Parliament," reasoned Shannon.
"And both concerned by the Tagliatis' increasing political influence," stated Jim. "Then Canoli joined in - apparently he and Divani knew each other previously."
"Based on what I heard, I'm willing to bet that the Tagliatis were putting pressure on Canoli, and he brought in his counterparts from the other armed service branches."
Jim nodded his approval. "I'd say that's accurate, Max. According to these records, the five of them met weekly for close to three months. They were gathering evidence which they eventually planned to take to the President."
"But then Divani was killed," said Grant solemnly.
"Right, Grant, and his friend Rizzudo took over the meetings,". Jim affirmed. "Right after Divani's funeral, Admiral Luccini expressed concern that the Tagliatis were on to him, and was planning to bring some documents to their next gathering."
"Except he drowned before he could do so," Shannon guessed, "and I'll bet whatever evidence he might have had was nowhere to be found."
Jim nodded again. "The remaining members of the group suspected that the Tagliatis were behind Mark Ray's death, and they knew that something had to happen quickly. At the last recorded meeting, Rizzudo notes that Canoli was planning to have dinner with Sammy Tagliati, in order to gather one last bit of evidence to take to the President. Both Rizzudo and Romano tried to talk him out of it." Jim looked up, and his blue eyes held a measure of sadness. "That was the week before the dinner at Valentino's."
"And two days before Rizzudo himself was killed," concluded Grant.
Shannon shook her head sadly. "So much death and destruction," she said, her voice practically a whisper. "So where are Canoli and Romano now?"
"It says here that Canoli took a leave of absence following Piccolo's death," Grant answered. "It's very likely he's gone into hiding. Romano is still on the job as far as I can tell."
"He has to know he's a target," Max observed. "He's either really brave or really stupid."
"Either way, I'm sure he holds the key to shutting down the Tagliati organization," Jim said confidently. "We just have to make sure we get to him first."
Chapter 7
It had been a long afternoon. The Tagliati cousins had kept Nicholas busy, engaged in small talk that at first seemed of little consequence. Then, after a hearty Italian feast, the telephone rang. Robbie, the leader-apparent of the group, pushed the button that put the caller on speakerphone.
"Hello, boys."
"Uncle Mike! How are you?"
Nicholas' pulse quickened. Grant hadn't mentioned an Uncle Mike. Could this be the higher-ranking family member that was giving orders behind the scenes?
********
A few miles away, the team was monitoring Nicholas' camera feed when the call came in. Instantly, Grant snapped to attention and started punching buttons on his keyboard.
"Anything?" Jim asked after a few moments, as he leaned over Grant's shoulder, his voice tense.
Grant shook his head, his lips drawn into a tight line. "I have searched everywhere I know, and I can't find anything about an 'Uncle Mike.'"
*******
"I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you all," Uncle Mike was saying. "You have served the family well. We have but one small task remaining before we can make our final move, and guarantee our family the power we deserve."
The Tagliati cousins exchanged excited glances as Uncle Mike continued.
"I will arrive tomorrow around noon, and we will finalize our plans. I need all of you to bring the evidence you have gathered over the past month. Robbie?"
"It's all in the safe, Uncle Mike. Just like we discussed."
"Good. I'll see you kids tomorrow." And the connection was broken.
Nicholas waited a few moments, then downed his third martini, stood up, and started toward the door.
"Where are you going, Tony?" Robbie asked, also standing.
"Out," Nicholas said vaguely. "I need some air." He lifted a set of keys off the peg near the door, recognizing which make of car they belonged to by the imprinted emblem. "I'll take the Alfa."
"Let me get the driver," Robbie offered, but as he turned to leave the room Nicholas caught his arm.
"I am perfectly capable of driving," Nicholas assured him, sounding like a man trying to maintain self-control.
Robbie lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Suit yourself," he said quietly, and Nicholas took his leave. He started the black Alfa Romeo and pulled out of the long, winding driveway.
As soon as he was safely out of sight, he began to speak.
"I'm here, Grant."
Grant and the others found themselves breathing sighs of relief as Nicholas addressed them. "How's it going, Nicholas?" the black agent asked.
"It's tough," answered Nicholas honestly. "Probably the hardest I've ever worked to stay in character."
"Hang in there, buddy. You're doing great," Grant urged.
"What did you guys find out?"
Jim succinctly filled Nicholas in on the results of their investigation. "We're fairly sure that Romano is the next target," he finished.
"And the last one before the family makes its 'final move,' whatever that means," mused Nicholas. "Any clue as to who Uncle Mike is?"
"No," Grant answered quietly, his voice apologetic. "I've looked everywhere. Whoever this guy is, he's flying under the radar."
"And probably the very reason they've been successful," Nicholas reasoned. "Jim, they mentioned a safe. If it's in the house, I haven't yet seen it. Do you want me to try to find it?"
"No." Jim's reply was instant. "It's too risky. Just wait until tomorrow's meeting, and we'll see what happens."
"All right, then." Nicholas sounded tired. "I'd better get back."
The anxiety in Nicholas' voice was subtle, but it did not escape Grant's skilled hearing. "Max and I will be close by tomorrow, just in case," he said reassuringly. He shot a lightning-quick glance at the blond agent for confirmation, and breathed a sigh of relief when Max nodded.
Nicholas' own sigh was quick but clear. "Good. But be careful. They are all heavily armed, and their weapons never leave their sides."
"Thanks, pal."
"You be careful, too, Nicholas.'
Nicholas smiled as he recognized the voice. "I will, Shannon," he promised. "Talk tomorrow."
*******
"So what now, Jim?" Max ventured, after they'd spoken with Nicholas. "Do we stake out Romano? Do we try to find Rudy Canoli?"
"Both are important," Jim conceded, "but I think we should wait to see what develops at the meeting tomorrow before we plan our next move."
Grant remained focused on his laptop, with an eye and ear on their teammate's camera feed while his fingers flew across the keyboard. After a few moments, he let out an audible curse and slapped the desk loudly.
Both Shannon and Max jumped slightly at the noise. Max's body tensed as he started to rise and walk toward his friend, but he sat back down again as Jim waved him off.
Jim pulled up a chair beside his teammate and looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. It was obvious that the black agent was still trying to uncover the identity of Uncle Mike. Jim waited wordlessly, and after another moment or two Grant spoke.
"I don't understand why I can't find this guy," he said quietly, his voice oozing frustration.
Jim laid a fatherly hand on Grant's shoulder. "The system's not infallible, Grant. You've done the best you could. There's got to be something blocking you."
"Yeah."
Hearing the resignation in Grant's voice, Jim kept his hand in place and squeezed the younger man's shoulder slightly. "You're worried about Nicholas, aren't you?"
Grant looked at his team leader, and his eyes were slightly moist. "I feel like I can't protect him," he answered softly. "I know he's worried, too."
Jim nodded slightly; he too had heard the uncharacteristic tension in the dark-haired agent's voice. "He may be worried," Jim said gently, "but he's also capable. And you and Max will be right there to make sure he's safe."
Grant allowed a wry grin to touch his lips. "Thanks, Jim," he said, his voice barely audible, grateful for his leader's support of Grant's impromptu surveillance plan.
Grant continued to monitor the camera feed until Nicholas retreated to his bedroom for the evening. Then he and the other agents slept fitfully, knowing what was in store the next day.
Chapter 8
Nicholas spent the next morning seeking an opportunity to talk to his team, but none presented itself. It seemed as though every moment, one cousin or the other was practically in his face. As the grandfather clock in the parlor inched closer to noon, Nicholas' nerves grew more frayed. He had a horrible sense of foreboding about the day, and he could only hope that Grant and Max were in position as they'd promised.
A few minutes before noon, Robbie excused himself and left the room, returning with what Nicholas assumed to be the evidence from the Tagliati safe. He spread the documents out on the spacious kitchen table.
Nicholas stood up and walked to the kitchen, on the pretense of fixing himself another martini, and lingered to inspect the materials. There was a folder marked "Navy," a policeman's badge, a list of politicians and their personal information, and what looked like a blueprint of an office building along with a diagram of its security detail. Grant, looking on, captured photos, all the while hopeful that they'd soon get an even better look.
Finally, just as the clock struck twelve, the cousins heard a car pull into the driveway. Robbie and Paulie both rushed to answer the door.
A few moments later, a tall, distinguished-looking older gentleman walked into the parlor. Uncle Mike, Nicholas reasoned. The other cousins rushed to greet him, and he had an affectionate embrace for each of them. Nicholas held back slightly, not only to focus on the man's features so that Grant could obtain a good photograph, but also to monitor how Uncle Mike greeted the other men so that he could follow suit.
But Nicholas' smile was a little too forced, and it showed.
"Whatsa matter, Tony?" asked Uncle Mike. "Don'tcha recognize your favorite uncle?"
"Of course," Nicholas answered, with a nervous chuckle, as he stretched out his arms for the customary embrace.
But the gray-haired man wasn't interested in a hug. Instead, he approached Nicholas, reached out his right hand, and squeezed the dark- haired agent's cheek affectionately before Nicholas had a chance to react. At once, he realized that the skin he was touching wasn't skin at all, and his wide grin abruptly faded.
"What is this?" he demanded, ripping off a piece of the mask to expose the real skin beneath it. Instantly, he grabbed the exposed edge and pulled it forcefully. Nicholas winced in pain as his face was revealed.
"You're not Tony!" the man exclaimed, as the four other men stood to their feet. "Who the hell are you?"
Nicholas' mind raced with lightning speed, frantically trying to come up with a plausible explanation - or at least a stalling maneuver. But he wasn't given the chance.
"He's a spy, that's who!" shouted Paulie, and with one fluid motion he retrieved the wine bottle from the coffee table and smashed it over Nicholas' head. The gray-haired man caught him before he crumpled to the floor.
"Tie him up!" ordered Robbie. "Then when he wakes up, he can tell us who he's workin' for."
"I don't care who he's workin' for," huffed Uncle Mike. "Give him some concrete shoes and feed him to the fishes."
*******
Grant and Max were keeping watch from their surveillance post on a hill about a quarter mile from the statuesque Italian beach house. Grant was focused on his laptop, where he could see and hear what was happening thanks to the tiny camera on Nicholas' lapel pin. Meanwhile, Max had located an undraped window and was monitoring the action through his field glasses.
As soon as Nicholas focused in on Uncle Mike's features, Grant quickly captured the photograph. "Now we'll see who Uncle Mike really is," he vowed.
But before he could run the still shot through the IMF database, he and Max watched in horror as the gray-haired man ripped the mask off their teammate's face. Grant grabbed his communicator.
"Jim!" he hissed. "Nicholas' cover's been blown!"
"Hold on, Grant," Jim answered calmly. If anyone could talk their way out of a jam, he knew Nicholas could, especially with the mission at stake.
The two men continued to watch nervously. The moment Paulie knocked Nicholas out with the wine bottle, Grant keyed the communicator again.
"He's been knocked out!" he cried.
Max threw his binoculars aside. "We've got to get in there!"
Grant gripped his partner's arm firmly. "We can't take on five of 'em, Max. Not when they're packing that much heat," he reminded the blond agent, as he continued to watch the laptop.
Though worried about his friend, Max knew Grant was right, and he anxiously turned his attention to Grant's computer - just in time to hear the gray-haired man order his cronies to dump Nicholas into the water.
Max looked at Grant, and his eyes were wide with terror. "We've got to stop them!"
Grant twisted the key in its switch. "Hang on, pal," he urged, teeth clenched, as he stomped the gas and sped toward the beach house.
Halfway to their destination, the car rounded a curve, and for a moment the beach house was out of view. When it came back into sight, Grant and Max were horrified. To their left, three of the men were poised at the door, guns drawn; to their right, the other two were half-carrying, half-dragging Nicholas toward the water. They were just a few short feet from the shore.
"We'll never make it in time!" Grant yelled.
"We have to try!" Max returned.
Grant nodded tensely. "Watch your back, partner," Grant ordered. "They'll shoot first and ask questions later."
"Right," Max growled.
The car was two hundred yards from the beach house when the two men reached the edge of the water and pitched Nicholas in. At the same time, the three other men spotted the agents and opened fire.
"Now!" Grant barked. He eased up on the gas just long enough for Max to jump out of the passenger seat.
The blond hit the sand sprawling. He quickly aimed his dart gun at the two men who'd just tossed his friend into the water, just as they reached for their weapons. His aim was true, and his trigger finger lightning fast. The men fell to the sand within seconds. Max immediately got to his feet, ran toward the shore, sucked in a deep breath, and launched his muscular body into the water.
Chapter 9
As soon as Max jumped out of the car, Grant gunned the engine and stomped the gas. He aimed the car straight for the beach house door.
Uncle Mike aimed his weapon at Grant's head and pulled the trigger. Grant ducked slightly as the bullets shattered the windshield. He felt a sting zip across his right temple, but he ignored it and did not let up on the gas.
The other two men stood paralyzed, staring at the quickly approaching sedan, unable to move. Finally, the gray-haired man yelled, "Hit the deck!"
His companions, shocked out of their stupor, leaped to the side as the nose of Grant's car made impact with the beach house. Caught off guard, they barely flinched as Grant subdued them with his dart gun.
The older man recovered faster, but he had dropped his weapon and was unable to find it. Instead, he stood to his feet and started throwing punches at the black agent, knocking the dart gun put of his hand. He landed a few successfully, but finally Grant delivered an uppercut which knocked out his assailant. Grant staggered a little, then regained his balance and took off sprinting toward the shoreline.
Max wasn't sure how deep the water was where he'd seen Nicholas go in. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to reach his friend. But he had to try. He opened his eyes underwater and peered around frantically in the greenish murk. There was no sign of Nicholas.
Max dove deeper. He was used to scuba diving in very deep waters, but this time he was without gear. He hadn't reached the bottom yet, but he was certain this is where the dark-haired agent had gone in. He had to keep going.
Max was starting to feel vaguely lightheaded, both from the depth of the water and the length of time he'd spent below the surface. Desperately, he realized he wouldn't be any good to Nicholas if he lost consciousness himself. Just as he started to swim back toward the surface to take in more air, he caught a glimpse of something black lying on a huge underwater rock formation.
Nicholas!
Max reached for his friend and attempted to launch the limp body toward the surface, but something was holding Nicholas down. Quickly, Max felt his way down his friend's leg to his ankle. A surge of panic shot through him as he felt a thick rope tied to it, along with what felt like concrete.
The mobster hadn't been kidding about the concrete shoes.
Max knew that if he left Nicholas now, even to take a breath, his friend would not survive. He fumbled for his pocketknife and started sawing away at the rope. After what seemed like forever, he felt it give way. Instantly, he felt for the other foot and repeated the action. Finally, his head spinning and his chest bursting, he felt Nicholas' body become buoyant and he clawed for the surface, one hand wrapped around his friend's wrist.
As Grant reached the shore, he saw no sign of Max or Nicholas. Fear gripped his heart; they had both been under too long. Without hesitation, he dove into the water at the place he'd seen those men toss his buddy in. A dozen or so feet down, Grant caught sight of two figures moving slowly toward the surface.
Too slowly.
Grant could tell by his lethargic movements that Max was barely conscious. He couldn't lose both of them! Instantly, Grant grabbed Max's free hand and propelled them all upward. He could only pray that Max still had a hold of Nicholas.
Grant's head popped to the surface with a splash. A few seconds later, Max's followed suit, and immediately he was coughing, sputtering, and gasping. But when Nicholas' body cleared the surface, all was quiet.
Terrified, Grant grabbed hold of Nicholas and started toward the shore, pausing only a moment to look back at Max.
"I've got him," he assured Max. "You all right?"
Max nodded weakly. "Go," he gasped.
With lightning speed, Grant pulled his friend to shore, positioned his body on the sand, and started CPR.
"Come on, Nicholas," he pleaded between breaths.
After a few moments, Max regained his stamina and joined Grant at the water's edge. Max took over chest compressions and they continued their rhythmic treatment, pausing occasionally to beg their friend for a response.
What seemed like an eternity passed, then abruptly Grant stopped. "Hold on, Max."
Grant quickly rolled Nicholas on his side as a large gush of water poured out of his mouth. When he was finished, Grant rolled him back, checked him over, and quickly resumed CPR.
Grant's muscles were aching with exhaustion when suddenly Nicholas began to cough violently.
"Easy, pal. That's it," Grant soothed. When the coughing fit was over, Grant again checked his friend's vital signs. He grinned at Max.
"We've got him back," he sighed.
Max collapsed onto the sand as a combination of relief and exhaustion coursed through his body.
"We should let Jim know," he told Grant, "but my communicator was in my pocket so it's ruined."
"Mine, too," said Grant. Then they both turned their attention to Nicholas as he began to stir. He opened his brown eyes slowly and looked up into the worried face of his teammate.
"Grant," he whispered.
Grant breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Considering his blow to the head, and how long he'd been underwater, the fact that Nicholas was awake and recognized his friend was a good sign.
"Yeah, partner, it's me," he answered, laying a hand on Nicholas' shoulder as Max plopped down next to him.
"Max."
The blond agent smiled. "How are you feeling, buddy?"
Nicholas winced. "My head hurts," he replied, his voice raspy.
"No surprise," Grant said sympathetically. "You've got a nasty wound back there."
"My clothes are all wet," Nicholas observed, as he tried to sit up. "What happened?"
"Easy, pal," Max replied, as he and Grant flanked either side and offered gentle assistance. "It's a long story. You feel okay?"
Nicholas nodded and smiled wryly, noting for the first time that his companions' clothing was also soaked.
"Something tells me I owe you guys my life," he said quietly. "Thank you."
Max returned his smile and thumped his friend's shoulder affectionately.
"We'd better get you to a hospital," urged Grant.
"I don't need a hospital," Nicholas protested. "I'm okay."
"You almost drowned, Nicholas," retorted Grant with a shudder. "And that wound needs stitches."
"Is the car okay?" Max questioned, casting his eyes toward the beach house as they helped Nicholas to his feet.
"She's dented but driveable," Grant answered. "But there's glass all over the front seats."
Max raised an eyebrow and looked questioningly at Grant.
"They shot out the windshield," he said simply.
Max continued to stare at his friend, and for the first time he noticed the harsh red mark on the side of Grant's forehead. "Is that a bullet graze?" he asked worriedly.
"It's just a scratch," Grant said dismissively. "I'm fine."
"You took a hell of a chance, driving into gunfire like that," Max scolded gently, the concern in his tone softening his words.
Grant shrugged. "I had to make sure that they didn't interfere with you rescuing Nicholas." He stared at his friend. "Even though you damn near drowned yourself in the process."
Nicholas stood quiet for a moment, letting it sink in how closely both of his teammates had come to losing their lives while saving his. He was unable to stifle the shudder that ran through his body. Grant and Max, each still supporting an arm to steady their friend, both felt the tremor.
"Nicholas?" Grant said worriedly.
"I'm fine," he assured them hastily. "Just glad you're both all right. Did anyone call Jim and Shannon?"
"We can't," Max replied. "Both our communicators got washed."
"We may have to just leave these goons here and take our chances with the car," Grant reasoned.
"Or maybe not," Max countered, nodding toward a large black van that was approaching them at a rapid clip.
For a moment, a surge of panic gripped Grant and Nicholas. Was this more mobsters, coming to even the score? But then they saw what Max had seen: a telltale shock of white hair shining out from the driver's seat.
Jim stopped the van a few feet from the trio, and he and Shannon were out of it almost before it stopped.
"Are you all okay?" Jim asked quickly.
"None the worse for wear, Jim," smiled Nicholas.
"Thank God for that," Shannon said, as she and Jim breathed a collective sigh of relief. "We were worried sick when we couldn't contact you."
"Sorry about that," Grant answered sheepishly. "Both our communicators took a swim."
Suddenly, Max, ever vigilant, noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Uncle Mike had recovered from Grant's knockout punch and was advancing toward the agents, pistol in hand.
"Look out!" he yelled.
Jim reacted instantly, whipping out his dart gun and felling the man with a single shot. He looked at Grant. "How long will they sleep?"
"Till we wake them," Grant replied.
"Good," Jim smiled in satisfaction. "That should work out quite nicely."
"But, Jim, my cover was blown," Nicholas reminded him. "Our mission is over."
"Not quite," Jim disagreed, with a twinkle in his eye. "We just need a new plan. Grant, Max, you two load everybody up in the van."
"I can help," Nicholas offered.
"You go sit in the van," Jim ordered. "You need a doctor."
"Jim, I'm fine."
"I don't want to hear it, Nicholas," Jim said flatly, effectively ending the discussion.
The dark-haired agent sighed and took a seat in the back of the van next to Shannon, who squeezed his hand, relieved that he was safe. A few moments later, Grant and Max loaded the last of the mobsters into the back. Then Grant ducked inside the beach house to grab the contents of the safe and a folder Uncle Mike brought with him, and the five teammates sped away with Jim at the wheel.
Chapter 10
Jim parked the van in front of the hospital emergency entrance. He shut the engine off, turned around in the seat, and looked at Nicholas expectantly.
"Jim," Nicholas said, his voice gentle, "I told you, this isn't necessary. I feel fine."
"Just humor us, all right?" Grant responded from his seat on the other side of Shannon. His voice sounded strained, and his tone was more brusque than usual. Nicholas would have to remember to ask him about that, he thought absently, but then Jim's voice grabbed his attention once again.
"Shannon, stay here with Nicholas. Make sure he gets checked out and gets stitches for that head wound. We'll take care of our company and meet you back here later on."
"Right, Jim," answered Shannon.
Outvoted, Nicholas exited the van with a sigh, Shannon in tow, and the two agents went inside the hospital as the van headed toward headquarters.
Nicholas signed in and was assigned a bed, then Shannon held his hand as the doctor fished out several pieces of glass and then stitched up the wine-bottle gash on the back of his head.
Once he was finished, Nicholas smiled at him. "Can I go home now?" he asked, despite the fact that the rest of the team had not yet returned to the hospital.
The doctor smiled back, glancing at Shannon and then back at Nicholas. "Well, you should definitely be watched closely for a while, to make sure you don't have a concussion," he answered, "but otherwise I think you're ready for discharge."
"Did you tell him you almost drowned?" Shannon asked quickly, the warning glare from Nicholas coming a second too late.
The doctor's smile faded instantly and he reached for his stethoscope. "Did you lose consciousness?" he demanded.
"Yes, but-"
"Aspirate any water?"
"Our friends did CPR," Shannon replied with a stifled shudder.
The doctor was silent and serious as he applied the end of the stethoscope to Nicholas' back and listened.
"Look, none of this is necessary. I feel fine-"
"Shhh," the doctor interrupted, and Nicholas was sullenly tight-lipped as he finished his exam. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and locked eyes with his patient.
"We're going to start an IV, send you down for a chest x-ray, and then get you on some oxygen," he said sternly, "just as a precaution."
Nicholas' tone could not mask his anger. "Look, I could sign myself out."
"You could," the doctor conceded, "but it's not a good idea. Complications from drowning can be very serious."
When the doctor left the room, Shannon reached for Nicholas' hand, but he jerked it away. "Nicholas, please, don't be angry with me."
"I just want to get back to the mission," Nicholas growled, refusing to meet her eyes.
"I understand that," she said quietly. "Let's just make sure you're okay first."
"I keep telling you, I'm fine," he snapped, "but nobody's listening."
Nicholas grew silent, crossing his arms in front of him and turning away from his teammate. Shannon was left to ponder her friend's sudden change in attitude. She could not remember a time when he'd been so hateful with her.
A few moments passed, then there was a light knock on the door.
"Mister Black? I'm here to take you to x-ray."
When Nicholas and Shannon looked up, a young, blonde nurse was standing at the door smiling and pushing a wheelchair.
"Do I really have to ride that thing?" Nicholas grunted.
The nurse shrugged, still smiling. "That's the rule."
Begrudgingly, Nicholas allowed the nurse to help him into the chair. He did not ask Shannon to go with him, and Shannon did not offer. Instead, she watched them disappear down the hallway, and then retrieved her communicator from her pocket.
*******
Jim, Grant, and Max rigged up five cots in an isolated area of the shell building, one for each of the men they'd taken from the Tagliati compound. Then the three of them sat down at Grant's computer to discuss the mission.
"Let's start by figuring out who Uncle Mike really is," Grant murmured, as he continued the image search that he'd abandoned when Nicholas had encountered trouble. Within seconds of resuming the search, the computer beeped indicating a match. All three men stared at the screen, mouths agape.
"Well, that explains a lot," Grant remarked, finally breaking the silence.
"Michael Mancini," Max read, peering over Grant's shoulder. "Head of security for the Prime Minister of Italy."
"And not a Tagliati at all," Jim observed. "No wonder you couldn't find him, Grant."
Grant punched a few more buttons on his keyboard. "He could still be," he mused. "He called himself Tony's 'favorite uncle.' But the IMF database lists nothing about his past. No family, previous jobs, nothing."
"Being that close to the Prime Minister can't be a coincidence," Max muttered.
"No, I don't think so, either," echoed Jim.
"Maybe this stuff will shed some light," offered Grant, as he picked up the folder marked "Navy" and opened it.
"Jim, look at this," he urged, and the elder agent gazed over Grant's shoulder.
"Looks like the Tagliatis were involved in international espionage, and a threat to national security. Some of this information is still highly classified," Jim advised.
"So they're guilty of treason," Max deduced.
"Yes, Max," Jim concurred, picking up the list of politicians, "but with this many members of Parliament in their back pockets, they'll never face charges."
"I'm curious about this one," Grant mused, unfolding the blueprint. He perused it thoughtfully, then his eyes narrowed as an idea began to surface. He opened the folder Mancini had brought with him, and his face turned pale.
"What is it, Grant?" Jim demanded, instantly noticing.
Grant looked up at his two teammates, his expression sober. "I know what their ultimate agenda is," he answered, his voice barely a whisper. "Their target is the Prime Minister."
Chapter 11
"There is a press conference scheduled for tomorrow afternoon," Grant explained. "The Prime Minister is scheduled to speak. This is an illustration of the security detail for that event."
As Jim and Max looked on, they could clearly see the three colors depicting the protection by the three Armed Forces: red for Army, blue for Navy, and green for Coast Guard.
"With Luccini dead and Canoli out of the picture, they've effectively infiltrated the first two," Grant reasoned. "Once Romano is gone, they'd have had the Coast Guard under control as well."
"And with one of them undercover as a state policeman," Max added, rubbing Mark Ray's badge between his fingers.
"Mancini would use his position to make sure the Prime Minister is completely unprotected," Jim finished.
"Do you think they planned to kill him?" Max questioned.
"If their ultimate agenda is to take control of the Italian government, then they could accomplish that by merely threatening him, or taking him prisoner," Jim replied. "But given their track record, I'd say that killing him is the best bet."
"These people are ruthless," Grant commented, shaking his head.
"Yes, they are, and we have to figure out a way to make sure they are brought to justice."
Just then, Jim's communicator beeped. Jim quickly grasped it and pushed the button.
"Shannon, how's Nicholas?"
"Angry," Shannon answered, and her three teammates exchanged surprised glances. Anger was something rarely associated with their normally calm and reserved teammate.
"He wasn't even going to tell the doctor he almost drowned. He just wanted to leave the hospital. He's down for a chest x-ray now, and they're going to monitor him for a while."
Jim sighed heavily. He could hear the tension in Shannon's voice and longed to be at the hospital to offer support. He knew that the mission needed to continue. He knew that Nicholas' help would be needed, but he wasn't sure how long his agent would be at the hospital or how quickly he would be able to continue his work.
"Okay, Shannon, hang tight. We'll be down there in just a little while."
Jim broke the connection and sighed again. "I think our mission can wait for a little while, but someone needs to go stay with Shannon, and someone needs to stay here with our company," he advised. Recalling their earlier conversation, Jim looked at Grant.
"I'll go, Jim," Grant said quietly, recalling the same conversation, and with deep concern for his friend.
Both Jim and Max nodded as Grant picked up the keys and headed toward the hospital.
*******
Nicholas was still unusually quiet when he returned from x-ray. Two nurses were waiting for him; one to start an IV, and the other to start him on oxygen therapy.
Not a word was exchanged between Shannon and Nicholas, but when the nurse brought out the IV needle Shannon decided to walk down to the cafeteria for some coffee. She stayed downstairs several minutes longer than necessary, dreading a potential confrontation with her angry teammate.
When she returned to Nicholas' room, she was taken aback by what she saw. Nicholas' tanned face was now slightly pale, and a thin sheen of perspiration dampened his hair. His eyes were closed; as Shannon looked closer, she could see tension in his features and slight wrinkles around his eyes.
"Nicholas?" she whispered, hesitantly reaching for his hand and bracing herself for an angry retort that did not come. "Nicholas, what's wrong?"
"Chest hurts," he gasped, as if uttering the words took incredible effort, his voice having no trace now of the wrath it had held before. "So...tired."
Nicholas' head lolled to one side and he grew very still.
"Nicholas!" Shannon screamed.
Then, suddenly, everything happened at once.
A harsh tone burst forth from Nicholas' monitor. Shannon's head jerked up to see his oxygen level steadily dropping.
90. 89. 88.
Before Shannon thought to push the call button, the nurse who'd hooked up his oxygen burst through the door. She was followed by another nurse and the doctor, who practically shoved Shannon out of the way.
Her heart ached with worry, but Shannon knew instinctively that she needed to get out of the room and let the medical team do their work.
Looking back as she exited the room, she almost ran headlong into Grant, who had just arrived.
"Shannon! What's wrong?" he demanded, reflexively pulling his worried teammate into his arms.
"Nicholas...he's...I don't know," she whimpered. Grant held her to his chest and stroked her hair. A moment later, the doctor emerged from the room.
"Doctor?" Grant's voice caught in his throat as the two teammates clung to one another in support.
The doctor raised both hands, palms out, in an effort to calm the worried pair. "He's fine. He's stable now," he said reassuringly.
They both breathed audible sighs of relief. "What happened?" asked Grant.
"Water in his lungs," he answered. "We see it occasionally with near-drownings. We had him on oxygen, but his lungs couldn't expand well enough on their own. That's why his levels dropped."
The doctor forced a sigh. "We've got him on a ventilator, but just until his numbers normalize. We also increased his oxygen and gave him some IV meds to help his lungs heal faster. He's sleeping now, but you can see him, sit with him if you want."
"Is he going to be all right?" Shannon asked timidly, fearful of the answer.
The doctor nodded. "He just needs time and rest," he assured them, his eyes fixed on Shannon. "But it's a very good thing you told us what happened, and we had the medical equipment handy to provide intervention. You probably saved his life."
The doctor turned to go, then stopped and turned back around to face the agents. "Give it two, maybe three hours, and we should be able to take him off the vent."
He smiled briefly, then went walking down the hall as Grant and Shannon entered their friend's room.
Chapter 12
Shannon hesitated as she approached Nicholas' bed, her eyes stinging with tears. The presence of the ventilator and the rhythmic sound it made as it pushed air into his lungs was almost too much to take in.
Grant squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, and she smiled slightly at him before sitting down by Nicholas' side and taking his limp hand in hers. Then Grant took out his communicator and quietly updated Jim and Max as to what had just taken place. When he was finished, he walked back over to Shannon and laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
"I need to get back to base." His voice was apologetic, and he was whispering as if afraid of disturbing his sleeping teammate. "We've figured out the Tagliatis' agenda and we need to finalize our own plan by tomorrow afternoon." He nodded silently toward Nicholas. "We need him, but we have to be prepared in case he's not able to help us."
Shannon nodded sadly. "I'll do whatever you need me to," she said bravely, "but right now, I need to be here."
"I know," Grant smiled slightly. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I'll be fine, Grant."
"I'll be back later," he promised. Then he squeezed her shoulder once more and made his exit.
Shannon busied herself with a nearby magazine to pass the time. An hour or so passed, and then a nurse came in to check on the dark-haired agent.
"How's he doing?" Shannon asked.
The nurse smiled at her. "His oxygen level is back up to ninety-four percent," she answered. "Still not quite where we want it, but he'll probably be waking up soon."
She nodded toward the ventilator. "He'll be confused at first," she advised, "maybe a little panicky. If you could just talk to him, help him understand, maybe hold his hand, that will help a lot."
"I will," Shannon smiled gratefully. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." The nurse returned her smile. "He's doing well," she said encouragingly. "When he gets up to about ninety-seven percent, we'll take him off the vent." Then the nurse was gone.
Just a few moments later, Nicholas began to stir. Shannon put down her magazine and reached for his hand. Before she could say anything, his brown eyes popped open, and they were wide and full of fear.
"Easy, Nicholas," she soothed, squeezing his hand with one of her own and stroking his hair with the other. "Just relax. You're on a ventilator, but you're going to be fine. Let the machine do its work. Don't try to fight it."
Gradually, Nicholas' features relaxed, and he squeezed her hand firmly. Shannon could sense that it was his way of asking her what had happened to him.
"You had some water in your lungs," she explained, "and your oxygen level took a nosedive. But don't worry; they'll be taking you off this in a little while. Just rest."
Then Nicholas squeezed her hand again, this time with a more prolonged grip. Shannon smiled at him, but had no way of knowing he was thanking her for saving his life. He would just have to tell her once the vent was gone.
*******
Almost an hour later, the friendly blonde nurse from earlier returned, a wide smile on her face.
"Mister Black, you're awake," she said happily. "I have some good news. It's time to take this machine away."
Shannon let go of his hand and stepped away from his bedside, just as Grant re-entered the room.
"What's going on?" he demanded, his stomach lurching at the sight of the nurse in Nicholas' room.
"They're taking him off the vent," she grinned, as Grant placed an arm around her shoulders.
The nurse gently guided Nicholas through the process of removing the breathing tube, then he coughed for several seconds thereafter. Once he stopped coughing, she gave him a drink of water.
"Feel okay?" she asked him.
Nicholas smiled at her. "Much better, thank you," he answered gratefully, his voice still hoarse from the breathing tube.
"Good." The nurse glanced at Shannon and Grant, who were still looking on from the other side of the room. "You just rest here and visit. I'll come back here in a little bit and take you down to repeat that chest x-ray. Then the doctor will be back to see you. All right?"
Nicholas nodded, and the nurse left the room.
Shannon and Grant drew close to their teammate's bedside. Nicholas reached out to clasp first Shannon's hand, then Grant's.
"Hey, there," he greeted softly.
"Welcome back, partner." Grant's mouth drew into a tight grin.
"Good to be here," Nicholas replied. Then his face sobered as he reached again for Shannon's hand.
"Shannon, I'm sorry," he began, his voice rough and scratchy.
"You should rest your voice," she cautioned.
"I need to say this," he insisted. He took a deep breath. "I got angry with you because I was such a hurry to get out of here. Thank you for speaking up. I'd hate to think what might have happened if you'd let me leave." Nicholas stifled a shudder.
"I'm just glad you're okay," Shannon said warmly.
"Try not to be so stubborn next time, all right?" Grant jibed, only half in jest.
Nicholas flashed a wide grin. "Hopefully there won't be a next time."
A few moments passed, then Nicholas went down for his x-ray. A few more, and the doctor tapped lightly on the door.
"Well, Mister Black," he greeted with a smile, "Glad to see you're feeling better."
"Yes, much," Nicholas replied. "Thanks to all of you."
"You gave us all quite a scare," he said honestly, "but your oh-sat is now up to ninety-nine."
"So when can I get out of here?". Nicholas questioned half-jokingly, causing Shannon to roll her eyes at the deja-vu.
"Now, if you'd like," the doctor grinned.
All three agents, taken by surprise, looked sharply at the doctor.
"Now?" asked Shannon.
"Are you sure that's wise?" added Grant. "Shouldn't he at least stay overnight, after all he's been through?"
"He's out of danger now," the doctor assured them. "His chest x-ray was clear. There's no more water in his lungs." He looked at Nicholas. "Of course, you're welcome to stay here tonight if you wish."
Nicholas smiled at Shannon and Grant. "I'd really rather be with my friends." He reached out to grasp the doctor's hand in a firm shake. "Thank you, doctor, for everything."
"You're very welcome," he responded. "Soon as we get this IV out, you'll be free to go."
Twenty minutes later, the three agents were on their way back to headquarters, with Grant at the wheel.
Chapter 13
The car pulled up in front of the team's base. Shannon, sitting with Nicholas in the back seat, opened the door and got out. She looked back toward her teammate and held her hand out expectantly for him to follow.
"Why don't you go on inside, Shannon," Nicholas suggested instead. "I'll be there in a moment."
"Are you okay?" she asked quickly, as Grant also turned in his seat to look worriedly at his friend.
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