"I'll bet they do a good bouillabaisse in there," Benito says. We Italians appreciate good food.
He's probably right. The place has been there for eighty years, run by the Viblanc family. It can't have lasted that long without the food being exceptional. It’s a pity to turn it into a crime scene but that’s the price of letting a man like Gashi eat there when everyone knows this is Lenkov territory.
At ten o'clock Gashi arrives in a black Mercedes sedan. Our information is correct. He has two bodyguards with him. Benito and I check our weapons and ensure Santino knows his part in this. We'll walk up, take out the guard at the door, then the one inside the restaurant. Santino will have the car waiting for us at the front door, engine running. It's child's play, really.
At ten twenty-nine we get out of the car. By the time the guard notices us, Benito has his gun out. A single shot to the chest takes him out. We go inside and Benito shoots the second guard.
"Leave me something to do," I complain.
"Grab the asshole who's running out the back," Benito suggests as Gashi tries to escape. He's a heavy man in his latefifties who's dressed like he's heading to the golf course in plaid trousers and a polo shirt. There's no way he can outrun me but we've already attracted attention from the kitchen and I don't want to draw any more.
We need him alive, but nobody said uninjured so I shoot the asshole in the back of the leg. He falls to the floor screaming in pain. Benito and I each grab an arm. On the way out the door, I shove an envelope with a few thousand euros in it at the startled waitress.
"Pour le dérangement, mademoiselle."
Santino is waiting outside as instructed. We shove Gashi into the trunk and get into the car just as an explosion makes the ground beneath our feet shake. In the distance a fireball shoots into the sky. It looks like Niamh's wish for them to hear the explosion in Albania's capital might come true. We head back to the warehouse and it's no surprise we're the first to arrive. Ours was the easy task. We unload Gashi from the trunk of the car. Benito checks his leg and administers basic first aid. When he's sure the man will live he finds a lockable room at the back of the warehouse and secures him inside.
Timofey left a stash of vodka so we pour ourselves another glass and wait.
"I could have done that myself," Benito says. "Two of us was overkill."
"Damiano wanted a Volante presence here. We both carry the name. It shows dedication to the cause."
"Yeah."
A half hour after we arrived, Rory Donovan limps into the warehouse.
"You hurt?" Benito asks. As much as he likes taking people apart, he enjoys putting them back together. In another life he might have been a doctor.
"Old injury." Rory grits his teeth. "Flares up now and then."
He slumps into a chair. I pour him a vodka and slide it over to him. Niamh is next to arrive, followed closely by Timofey and then Nikolai.
"Where's Gashi?" Niamh asks as she accepts a vodka from me.
"Locked in the back. Asshole got himself shot," Benito says.
I almost smile at that. I never noticed before but he always phrases it as if the person who was injured asked for it.
"Good work." Niamh checks her phone. "No Nico yet?"
"Da," Nikolai drawls. "I am here, Niamh."
"Not you. Nico with a c."
Nikolai puts his hand on his chest. "Truly, Niamh I'm wounded that you're worried about some other Nico and not me."
She shakes her head despairing at him. His wife is her closest friend so they're all one big happy family really.
Sev arrives next, a huge grin on his face. "Did you see it?"
"Hard to miss," I drawl. "Not much subtlety with you Russians, is there?"
"No point in being subtle when you're trying to send a message," Niamh says. "You did good, Sev."
He performs a comedic bow for her and grabs a bottle of vodka from the table. We sit and drink and discuss casualties. One man on Rory's team was killed while Nikolai lost three. Timofey and Niamh both had men who sustained minor injuries. Given the scale of the operation it could have been worse. Hell, it should have been. The Albanians were heavily armed, but we had good people on our side and great planning.
As it edges closer to midnight, the conversation lulls as we start to wonder what happened to Nico. The deadline to reconvene comes and goes and the atmosphere in the room grows more tense. Any failure risks allowing the Albanians toregroup. But it's not just that. None of us wants to lose one of our own.
