Tarantula by Mark Dawson Page A

been worth every cent.
    Ernesto was on deck, dressed in a pristine Egyptian cotton robe, staring at the shore with an abstracted expression on his face. He was troubled. Antonietta had just called to report what had happened in Naples that morning. The Englishman, Smith, had executed Tarantula just after he had eliminated Curtis and Leon Patterson and the men that they had brought with them from England. He had been waiting for him to arrive, had watched him go about his work, shot him and then disappeared on a motorbike.
    There was plenty that he did not understand about what had happened, and Ernesto had not risen to his position in the organisation by being ignorant about such things.
    How had Smith known that the hit was going to take place when it did?
    And why had he done what he had done?
    He could speculate about that second question. Revenge. Smith must have discovered that Tarantula had killed his colleague and he was evening out the scores. He hoped that he was right. Vengeance was a motive with which he was intimately familiar and one that he could live with, especially if the money was right.
    But how had he known about Tarantula?
    Only a handful of people knew who he was.
    And what if he was wrong?
    What if it wasn’t just revenge?
    What if it was something else?
    He felt uneasy.
    His cellphone was on the table next to him, next to a croissant and a glass of orange juice. He reached down and took a bite from the pastry, chewing it absent mindedly as he looked over to the shore, the sleeve of rock fringed by verdant trees and scrub. The road wound its way along the cliff face and Ernesto watched as a lorry loaded with lemons negotiated it, the bright yellow of its freight a vivid splash against the grey of the rock.
    He didn’t know what to do. He needed to see Smith. He needed answers.
    He picked up his cellphone. He scrolled through his contacts, wondering who best to call.
    It was so peaceful and calm on the ocean that morning that the explosion, when it came, was so unexpected that it took him a moment to realise what it was. There was a loud, rolling boom, the deck shook for a moment and then a plume of inky black smoke unfurled into the perfect blue sky. Ernesto reached for the rail to steady himself as the yacht lurched again, rolling from port to starboard as if buffeted by a sudden gale.
    There was a second explosion, bigger than the first, and the deck rolled again.
    He fell to his knees.
    He looked up to see flames rising from the stern, a conflagration that took hold with frightening speed as he watched. The yellows and oranges crept up to the wheelhouse, releasing a great cloud of smoke. The fire roared as it devoured the wooden deck, a hungry thunder from which he heard another sound: the chattering of an automatic weapon.
    He scrambled to his feet.
    Another explosion and then another.
    Smaller and more contained.
    Grenades?
    His pistol was in the stateroom, in its holster, slung over the back of a chair.
    He felt naked in his robe.
    He had to get off the boat.
    He crept forwards, the soles of his feet sweating in his slippers, one step and then another as he edged towards the motorboat that was tethered to the railings on the port side of the yacht.
    One of his men, a sturdy killer called Paolo, staggered into view, hauling himself towards him, both hands on the railing. Two big blooms of blood were on his white shirt, slowly expanding, meeting in the middle. He groaned with the effort, slowed and then tripped, falling face down onto the boards. He pushed onwards, slithering on his belly and leaving a smear of blood behind him.
    Whatever it was that was happening at the back of the boat, Paolo was desperate to get away from it.
    Ernesto reached the ladder that dropped down to the launch.
    Another booming detonation, the biggest so far, and the deck tipped crazily.
    He was thrown against the railing and then fell backwards onto his ample behind.
    The flames reached up twenty feet now, a furnace of