Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

Shultz and Colton for post-action medicals in a private hospital in Geneva, where Stahmer and Lachiman were recuperating from Sebastian’s attack. Tuck wanted to get back to Cheryl, as she was pregnant, he had informed a surprised Cutler.

Shultz and Cutler travelled to the private Ospedale Evangelico Villa Betania hospital in Naples. They visited Stahmer, who had been brought round from an induced coma the night before. They were mightily relieved that his prognosis was good, and he would be back on his feet within two weeks. The bad news was he would either wear a patch on his eye for the rest of his life or would need a glass eye. Stahmer had shrugged it off, saying he was still better looking than Colton and Cortez, even with a patch.

Next, they visited Lachiman.

“We’ve heard all about you from Mr Stahmer and would like to thank you for saving his life. We would like to offer you a position in our company.”

“And I have heard about you, Mr Cutler, and would be honoured to work for you and your organization.”

“You may not be aware of it, Lachiman, but the guy who attacked Stahmer killed my sister and Shultz’s wife.”

“I wasn’t conscious of that. You both have my sympathy,” Lachiman said in a quiet voice.

“Between the fall and your knife, we thank you for helping kill that bastard.”

“He’s not dead, Mr Cutler, I’m sorry to say.”

“What do you mean he didn't die? You got him with the knife. He fell God knows how far into the sea, and they found no one when they launched the search from the ship,” interjected Shultz.

“And you haven’t left this hospital since that day, so how do you know he’s not dead?” Cutler said.

“When I woke this morning, this was placed underneath my pillow,” Lachiman replied, as he retrieved the khukuri carved out from buffalo horn. “There is a fresh carving on it. It is a ship. Last time I saw this it was in McKenzie’s back.”

In unison, Cutler and Shultz said, “Motherfucker!”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Mount Etna, or Mongibello—‘the beautiful mountain’—as the locals call it, was once again rising from a short sleep. And before the gas slugs and lava flow ceased, she would add another soul to the many she had taken dating back to 1500 BC.

There was an ever-present, pungent smell of sulphur; the aroma was overwhelming. Sitting on an active fault line, the heavier African plate was breaking up the much lighter Ionian microplate. This phenomenon created a vacuum, sucking magma from the Earth’s mantle, forcing lava through the crust of Mount Etna.

The eruption happened at a fissure on the flank of the mountain, near to Crateri Silvestri, six thousand feet or two thousand metres above sea level. This was a popular area for tourists to witness recent eruptions and see the local shop buried within an older lava flow.

Mount Etna is reached by driving up the Etna Sud Road, with continuously changing and contrasting landscapes. Vineyards morph into the blackened landscape of previous lava flows. A few yards further on and you can witness the locals picking the green olives from groves which are edged by endemic flora and fauna.

Sebastian had fled to the town of Catania, Sicily. Here he hoped to be reborn with a new identity, one that would allow him free access in and out of mainland Europe. He knew without a doubt there would have been a European arrest warrant issued for him. Indeed, it would not take long for this to circulate to all European ports, airports and what borders remained in a united Europe.

He was aware that pharmacists or doctors would be a port of call for any competent police investigator looking for him. He had to make do with what he had stolen from the hospital when he delivered the khukuri and message back to two investigators from MIDAS.

In hindsight, he realized this was vain and a little stupid, he would have been presumed dead, and people do not look for the dead. Sebastian’s psyche was far from normal. No one had beaten him at anything. He had roamed the world killing, unhindered and unknown until the past few days. He would not allow the investigators to believe they had bettered him.

Not killing the Gurkha security guard in his hospital bed was not an act of mercy, it was because he was incapable of killing him with the injury he had sustained.

Once he had delivered the khukuri, Sebastian had rummaged through several unmanned clinical areas. He managed to get more bandages to pack the wound, as the strips of linen he had packed into the wound had started to seep crimson fluid. Sebastian found a storage cupboard with lighting.

With the needle and suture he had discovered, he stitched the damaged ends of the wound together. He applied the little iodine he had taken, and finally after bandaging he found a jacket in one of the side rooms, no doubt left there by a patient or doctor.

Events took a turn for the better as he departed the hospital. In the parking lot, Sebastian noticed a 1975 battered Fiat van idling, the driver standing some way off having a cigarette in a designated smoking area. Either believing no one would steal such a heap of trash or not caring he had left the engine on. Sebastian relieved the negligent driver of the Fiat and headed south. Sebastian stopped at the nearest cashpoint and took the maximum amount of cash the ATM would allow: five hundred Euros.

Sebastian had guessed rightly that too little time had elapsed for the Italian Police to notify Interpol, which would ensure all his known accounts were monitored and funds frozen.

Sebastian had no clothes, little money, and access to his funds would be stopped within days. What the security services would not know was the Swiss account he