The Santini Vendetta Read online

  Alberto pushed Peppe back into another chair.

  “Make no mistake, I will carry out any threats I make. If your father wishes to trade the lives of his men for those of you, his daughter-in-law and grandchildren, then so be it. Your lives mean nothing to me, any more than my family’s lives meant to the men who killed my father.”

  “So, how do we do this?” said Peppe resignedly.

  “Glad you asked,” said Alberto. “This is where our good friend Kyle here will be the go-between.”

  “What?” said a befuddled Kyle. “Why me?”

  “Because you know and have met Lorenzo, Peppe’s father.”

  “I don’t know him. I only met him once casually when he came to visit Peppe here at the hotel.”

  “But you have met him and he will recognize you as being part of the hotel. That way, there can be no doubt of his son’s situation.”

  “But I am not a negotiator,” pleaded Kyle.

  “Come now Kyle, you do not do yourself justice. You completed bomb disposal training while in the Canadian Forces and you successfully completed a hostage negotiation with a suicide bomber. Got him to give himself up and allow you to diffuse the bomb.”

  “But that was years ago. I only did that because it would have taken too much time for a trained negotiator to get there.”

  “You were commended for your actions. Didn’t your commanding officer recommend you to join their negotiating team?”

  “How do you know all this shit? That’s all confidential information on my service record.”

  “I have my ways,” said Alberto.

  “Take the woman and children back to their room,” Alberto ordered the men standing next to her.

  “Peppe?” his wife called out.

  “Go with them Sweetie, they’re not going to hurt you.”

  Mrs. Santini gathered the young boy and girl and ushered them out of the room with the infant in her arms.

  “Mr. Santini,” said Alberto. “Call the helicopter back here. Tell the pilot you have someone going back to the San José Tobías Belaños Airport. Call your pilot and tell him to take señor MacDonald to Chicago. You will call your father and tell him my demands and tell him to expect Mr. MacDonald. Make it quite clear to him also that any harm to Mr. MacDonald will be met with the same actions on you.”

  That made Kyle feel a little more comfortable.

  “Pack your bags Kyle, and pack warm. It’s freezing in Chicago this time of year.”

  Two

  Kyle returned to his room and threw a few things into a suitcase, annoyed about being forced into this situation as a go-between for Alberto. Especially as it meant associating with a ruthless organisation such as the Mafia. He closed the case, stuffed his passport into a pocket of his satchel and slipped his arm through the shoulder strap, then proceeded downstairs to the lobby.

  The Santinis were one of the most notorious Mafia families with ties back to the Cosa Nostra in Sicily, Italy. Born in Chicago, Lorenzo Santini is a first-generation American whose parents emigrated to the US in the early 1900s from Palermo, Sicily, when Mussolini cracked down on the Italian Mafia. It was during prohibition in the 1920s that the American Mafia flourished by providing illegal liquor to the public. One of the more famous characters in Chicago's organized crime scene was Al Capone. It was from Al where Joe, Lorenzo’s father, learned the nefarious ways of the business as a member of his ‘family’ (family in the sense used for Mafia organisations did not necessarily refer to blood relatives). Lorenzo, born in 1945, is the youngest of three children. He never knew his father who died in a shoot-out with rival gangs when Lorenzo was two years old. His uncle helped his mother raise him, his brother and sister; all three being recruited into the ‘family’ after completing their education. Lorenzo was not one much for studying and, against the wishes of his mother and uncle, worked in the organisation instead. He had no qualms about using ruthless methods to further the goals of the organisation and had to maintain a large entourage of bodyguards to protect him from his numerous enemies. After less than twenty years, at 39, Lorenzo became the ‘Don’ of the family.

  Lorenzo married in 1975 and fathered two legitimate children and one illegitimate, Peppe being the illegitimate child whose mother was, supposedly, a showgirl at one of his clubs. Peppe became a favourite of Lorenzo’s and received the best of everything; education, exotic travel destinations and, when he turned 21, a brand new Ferrari. While Peppe appreciated the lavishing of such exotic gifts, it distanced him from his friends who drove beat-up Hondas or one of the more affordable ‘pocket rockets’ popular at the time. His older brothers were ‘chips off the old block’ and both followed in their father’s footsteps, but Peppe shied away from the violence and mobster way of life, preferring to use his talents pursuing legal opportunities, which he did well. He was the only one in the family to attend University and over the years, built a substantial real estate portfolio that gave him a net worth far greater than that of the illegal enterprises his brothers ran, although it didn’t generate as much cash.

  Kyle heard the whupp, whupp of the approaching helicopter and made his way to the large expanse of grass where it would be landing. Alberto accompanied him and they waited as they watched it circle around the hotel and gently land on its skids.

  “I know you are apprehensive Kyle, but it is something I must do. I need closure for the murder of my father, and this operation is the only way to get it. Those bastards are immune to any lawful way to make them pay for their crimes.”

  Kyle thought about what he said and realized that he, himself, would likely feel the same way after witnessing the murder of one of his parents. But he wasn't about to condone the vigilante way Alberto was going about it. He recalled his wife's killing by her ex-husband and, if police had not shot him at the scene, Kyle would have harboured thoughts of retribution.

  “Of course, it won’t bring your father back,” Kyle said. “It will only give a sense of retribution, but doesn’t make it right.”

  “You don’t have to lecture me on morals—I’ve lived with the injustice of this for over 20 years. It was only recently that I could build the forces I needed to plan this operation. I have had many people help me—put up their own money to finance the things I needed. I will repay them from the money I get from the Santinis.”

  The pilot feathered the blades and opened the door of the helicopter, emerging and walking over to the two men.

  “Mr. MacDonald?” he asked.

  “Here,” said Kyle and handed him his bag. The pilot took the bag and walked back to the helicopter with Kyle in tow.

  “Buena suerte,” said Alberto. “I expect frequent updates from you.”

  Kyle did not respond verbally or turn back to face him. He merely waved his hand in the air in a ‘whatever’ fashion and boarded the craft.

  Kyle elected to sit next to the pilot, donned the headsets and fastened his seatbelt.

  “Gonna be a little rough as we approach San José,” the pilot said as he lifted the collective, allowing the blades to bite into the air and provide lift. “Bit of weather moving in as I left, but should be OK.”

  Kyle was a licenced fixed-wing pilot but did not like ‘Whirly Birds’ and ‘should be OK’ was not an expression that sat well with him. The ground receded as the helicopter gained altitude and Kyle noted the lone Alberto appear smaller and smaller as the craft banked until it obtained a northerly heading, then tilted its nose and sped toward San José. Kyle could see the dark clouds ahead and saw flashes of lightning within them. He did not reveal his nervousness to the pilot as they plowed ahead toward the storm clouds.

  “First time in a helo?” asked the pilot.

  “No. Made lots of trips in the armed forces in Canada. Not my favourite way of travelling though.”

  “Lots of people don’t like helicopters, more because of the noise and vibration. They seem to be happier when the wings are still and not rotating,” he laughed.
r />   They flew at about 700 m until they were in the hills surrounding the capital. San José sat at an elevation of about 1,200 m and they would need to climb soon, but that would mean entering the clouds below which they were flying. Kyle watched the radar as they climbed into the clouds. He was familiar with instruments to rely on in cases of poor visibility from his boating experiences. But most of his flying was with VFR (Visual Flight Rules), where you operated only in conditions where you can see. The pilot did not seem phased by having to fly by instruments (IFR) as he likely has done it many times.

  “Ten minutes to the airport,” the pilot announced. Not too soon for me, Kyle thought.

  Suddenly, a loud crack sounded and the helicopter pitched violently to the left.

  “¡Mis Dios!” The pilot exclaimed as he fought with the collective to right the craft as it continued to pitch.

  “What Happened?” asked Kyle.

  “Hit by lightning,” he said.

  Kyle looked at the instrument panel and to his horror, none of the instruments showed any readings.

  “There are no readings on the instruments,” Kyle said superfluously, looking at the pilot for words of encouragement.

  The pilot continued fighting with the collective.

  “Mayday! Mayday!” He said. “Flight 2550 from Playa Hermosa to San José. Hit by lightning and all instruments failed. What is my position?”

  “Flight 2550, this is air traffic control at Tobías Bolaños International Airport in San José,” the voice sounded through the headsets. Kyle was glad that at least the radio was still working. “You are approaching the airport on a heading of 15° at an altitude of 1,490 m. Your AGL (above ground level) is 330 m and you are 2 km from the periphery. Maintain your heading and altitude; we have cleared all traffic from the area.”

  “Thank you control,” said the pilot. Kyle noticed the nervousness now in the pilot’s demeanour, which didn’t make Kyle feel any better.

  The helicopter was still pitching, and the pilot was having trouble maintaining a straight flight.

  “Flight 2550, you are over airport property and can land any time,” the voice from the control tower said.”

  “Roger control.”

  Peering out of the window Kyle could not clearly see the ground. Rain was now pouring and streaked in rivulets across the bubble-shaped front glass. More lightning flashed in the distance and both Kyle and the pilot were hoping it would not hit them again. Aircraft, not being grounded, are seldom struck by lightning. However, a charge can build up on the airframe that can conduct the built-up energy formed in the clouds. As the craft lowered, the ground became clearer.

  “AGL at 250 m,” Kyle heard in his headset.

  Suddenly, the engine noise died and Kyle saw the rotor blades slow and stop. The helicopter began to plummet toward the ground.

  “Jesus Christ!” Kyle shouted as he braced himself in his seat. The pilot fought with the controls again and the rotor blades started turning, but the engine wasn’t running. Kyle looked quizzically at the pilot.

  “Autorotation,” he said.

  Kyle had heard about autorotation in rotary-winged aircraft and it was the equivalent to a ‘Dead Stick’ landing in fixed-wing craft after engine failure. When the engine loses power, the rotor blades automatically disconnect so they can freely rotate. Forward momentum and the drop speed combine to spin the rotors and build up inertia in them. Just before landing, the pilot reverses the blades to give lift.

  “Is this all theoretical?” asked Kyle, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. “Or are you saying you can land this without engine power?”

  “Should be able to, but it may be a hard landing.”

  “How hard a landing are you expecting?”

  “Depends on several factors; wind sheer, up draughts, air pockets. Should get it down in one piece though.”

  You’re not making me feel any better, Kyle thought.

  It was eerily silent as the helicopter plummeted, its rotors spinning much faster now. The more Kyle thought about it, the more it made sense. It worked much like a windmill; a concept used for centuries. But being able to build up enough inertia in the rotor blades to arrest the helo before it hits the ground? Kyle wasn’t sure he wanted to ask any more questions and just place his trust in the pilot who didn’t seem too phased at the situation.

  “Does this happen often?”

  “Not really. Only when you get an engine or tail rotor failure.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  The pilot looked at him.

  “Autorotation landings? Sure, several times.” He paused, then said. “In a simulator."

  “Damn!” Kyle muttered under his breath. “Great, just frigging great.”

  “Just kidding,” he said. “It’s part of flight training to do EOLs.”

  Kyle knew the acronym, EOL, was short for Engine Off Landings, as he had to do them in his flight training.

  As the helo approached the ground, the pilot ‘flared’ the craft, which added more speed to the rotors. This involved angling the nose up to slow the forward speed and, right before it touched the ground, he levelled the helicopter and pulled up on the collective. The descent slowed as the rotors bit into the air providing lift. The pilot landed with a slight jolt and the rotors slowed to a stop. Kyle breathed a sigh of relief, reached over with his hand, grabbed the pilot’s hand and shook it.

  “Thank you,” said a relieved Kyle. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  Emergency vehicles, lights flashing, now surrounded them and they both got out of the helicopter and stood in the rain. Sporadic lightning still flashed and thunder crashed around them. A large SUV pulled up beside them and a uniformed man got out and spoke to the pilot. They were speaking Spanish and Kyle had a hard time understanding what they were saying, more due to the noise of the pelting rain. The man beckoned to Kyle to get into the SUV and Kyle grabbed his bag from the helicopter.

  “They’re taking us back to the terminal,” the pilot said, getting in the front of the vehicle. Kyle nodded and got into the rear. They sped over the grass to the tarmac and followed the various coloured ground lights to the terminal building.

  The pilot turned to Kyle and said, “He’s dropping me off at the main terminal, then taking you to the private terminal where your plane to Chicago is waiting.”

  “OK,” said Kyle.

  * * * *

  Kyle exited the SUV, thanked the driver and stepped into the small terminal building reserved for private planes. Rain-soaked clothes dripped on the floor as he approached the counter and announced himself to the attractive Latino woman behind it.

  “I’m Kyle MacDonald,” he said. “I am to meet a pilot for a flight to Chicago.”

  “Yes, señor MacDonald,” she replied. “Your pilot is waiting over there.” She pointed to a small room where he could see a man sitting in a lounge chair reading a book.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Can you show me to a washroom? I need to change into dry clothes.”

  “Washroom?” she queried.

  “Baños.”

  “Si. Baños. Right over there.” She pointed to a door opposite the room where the pilot sat.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  Kyle sauntered over to the washroom and entered. He laid his case on the floor and opened it, taking out a dry shirt and pants, exchanging them for the wet ones he was wearing. He bundled up the wet clothes and threw them into the trash container, then left the washroom and headed for the small lounge.

  “I’m Kyle MacDonald,” he said to the man seated there. The man closed his book and stood. He was in his mid-thirties and about the same height and build as Kyle. He sported a close-cropped red beard and wore a navy blue jacket and pants. The jacket had four gold rings around each sleeve and epaulettes on the shoulders carried the same four bars—a captain’s insignia. Red hair protruded beneath the
peeked hat.

  “I am Captain Luigi Palermo,” he said with an obvious Italian accent as he proffered his hand. “You can call me Louie, or Red.”

  “Pleased to meet you Louie, please call me Kyle.”

  “So, you were in the helicopter that performed an EOL. That must have been exciting.”

  “The kind of excitement I can do without, thanks.”

  “Weather’s a little rough now,” he said. “I set a flight plan for wheels up at 8:00 p.m. and it’s about five hours flying time, so should be there by 1:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. You can stretch out and sleep on the plane.”

  Kyle looked at his watch. It was 4:45 and he was feeling hungry.

  “Where can I grab something to eat?”

  “In the main terminal, but there are vending machines here.”

  “I’ll just grab a sandwich from the vending machine.”

  “Around the corner,” he pointed.

  Kyle proceeded to the small alcove where several vending machines sat. One dispensed soft drinks and water, while another offered various chocolate bars, chips and pretzels. A third seemed more interesting as it displayed several sandwiches and other snacks. He chose a salami sandwich on a Kaiser roll, popped it into the microwave oven and nuked it for 30 seconds. The fourth machine provided hot beverages, so he selected an American coffee, black, and sat down at a table. He had almost three hours to wait until they took off, which, considering the current weather, was fine with him. As he glanced out the window, he could see that rain was still falling, although much lighter now, and the incidences of thunder and lightning were reducing. He withdrew his iPhone from its holster and checked the local weather forecast. It showed that rain would taper off as the evening progressed and they expected clear skies around 8:00 p.m. Perfect.

  Kyle finished his meal and returned to the lounge. The captain was still there reading his book. He acknowledged Kyle as he entered the room. Kyle sat opposite him and extracted his laptop from his satchel. He would busy himself searching and reading about negotiating tactics until it was time to leave.