cousin last year. He still plays basketball with Rick Rizzo.”
Detective Mike Rizzo acknowledged his cousin Rick’s love of the game and his outgoing style. After the detective left, Sean and Lucy said their goodbyes and started towards the door. Then they remembered the Prius was full of holes, shot out windows and had flat tires.
Juan said let’s go back to my office and regroup. Anticipating their needs, Nancy stepped into view holding the office first aid kit. "I called the rental car company. They're dropping off a car. It should be here soon. Let’s get back to our office while we’re waiting. We need to clean up those scratches on your arms and legs."
Lucy sighed, "Thanks." And they all headed up stairs. She and Sean sat on Juan’s couch. Nancy played nurse and cleansed their scrapes and scratches.
Juan asked them how the shooter knew where they were. They explained that maybe besides following them, the shooter's bosses were also tracking their messages or emails. “This isn’t the first time we’ve seen that blue van,” Sean confessed.
Juan pulled out his phone and tapped the moodmeNOW application’s icon. He showed it then advised them to download the moodmeNow (mmN) app. Juan explains that the mmN app was encased with an unbreakable, unhackable polymorphic encryption. “The Foundation uses mmN exclusively for their communications.” He advised them to have the F&F group use it too. “Maybe it will cut down or eliminate any future ambush surprises!”
Lucy and Sean’s rental car arrived and they said good-byes for the second time that morning. Juan's thoughts flew to his phone. He checked for messages. He began worrying and wondering why Dominica hadn't returned his mmN message.
Chapter 5
Dom, the nick-name friends and family used, resisted the skinny man’s orders. She kept on wiggling, trying to free herself. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. My father will skin you people alive and eat your eyeballs for dessert! Then my fiancée will make sure, whatever is left of you will rot in jail.”
“Listen sister, why do you think we kidnapped you? Of course we know who you are.” The skinny man sassed, “Princess Dominica, you want I should gag you? Or maybe I should tape a light bulb in your mouth?”
Dom recognized that her abductor's accents were Russian. She knew from her father’s dealings of the Russian mob’s ruthlessness. They had no respect for the law and little for life. She settled down and kept plotting how she’d get out of this mess.
The pale, slightly built, skinny man with a teardrop tattoo below the lower outside corner of his right eye began a rough litany about Dom’s father. “Your father is Nicholas “Nick” Bianca. He’s a major player with the five major families out of New England. He controls the trucking unions in the Northeast and along the Atlantic coast. Your mom’s name is Francine. She divorced Nicholas and remarried to another gangster, Tony ‘lips’ Tito. Tony’s step-brother is Willie (Double-T - Too Tall) Tito. At five foot, one inch, Double-T ran New York and Boston mob money through Atlantic City’s Rivera, MGM and Golden Nugget hotels. Should I continue?” A dejected Dom tucked her chin downward and shook her head no. They knew who they had kidnapped.
Dom was raised as a single child by Nickolas since she was three years old. He dragged her around wherever his business took him. He kept his rap-sheet clean and climbed the union labor ranks. He became a prominent rising star in the trucker’s union. Today, he controls union contracts, trucking routes and the shipping docks throughout the east coast.
Dom’s mother, Francine, tried many times to wrestle Dom’s custody from Nickolas, but failed. Her life-style with ‘Lips’ Tito was subject to the usual mob controversy. Francine wasn’t without mob influence, but was hesitant to cross paths with Nick outside the courtroom. Dominica stayed in Nick’s custody and influential circles throughout her upbringing.
Skinny man, scratching his already balding head, held what looked like a bulky phone with a hinged, thick antenna. He dialed Brighton Beach, Brooklyn in New York. Tariel (Hoza) Mogilevich, a captain in the Brighton Beach Russian mob, listened and then spoke in Russian. The skinny man answered the person on the other end with what sounded like a series of ‘das’. Mogilevich reminded the kidnappers of their instructions and to settle in for what could be a week or so. He ordered, “Keep her safe and out of sight.” Hoza knew that Moscow would hold him responsible if anything went wrong.
Dom felt this situation spinning out of control. She understood two words besides her name from their conversation - ‘Project Florida’. Her mood alternated between furious and hopelessness. She forced a calming breath. She tried to feel secure in knowing Juan and her father would be looking for her soon. She knew her father could find her in a heartbeat. But, she wanted to try to contact them, but how?
The minivan motored north at the speed limit. They crossed the Florida state line towards their destination, St. Simons Island, Georgia. They had a four hour ride northward. They were listening to the radio when a bulletin interrupted the music ‘This just in - Silicon Valley is under attack!’
Chapter 6
From Moscow's seedy Lyubertsy district, Vladimir (Tarzan) Solonik flexed his verbal muscle at Brighton Beach’s Russian mob captain Mogilevich. “Make sure you keep the girl locked up and out of site until I give you the okay to let her go. We think some of her friends may try a rescue. Take care of them. You understand?” Mogilevich didn’t need clarification. He enjoyed messing with these rich Americans. They ended their satellite call with assured confidence.
Tarzan, as he’s known in brotherhood circles, immediately called his Club contact. He addressed Mr. West’s personal assistant, Miss Ball. He proclaimed to her that the ‘Project Florida’ mission was proceeding as planned. Miss Ball, an uncharacteristically tall, multi-lingual oriental woman in her early 30s, acknowledged that everything must be kept on schedule in order for them to receive their $100M payment. She concluded with emphasizing, “Remember no loose ends!”
After ending the call, Miss Ball made her way through the compound’s gardens of Mr. South’s Caribbean Island retreat. Mr. South hosted this month’s regular meeting. The tropical atmosphere welcomed each of the members off their private jets.
The Caribbean Islands humid breezy climate, lent itself to casual wear. Miss Ball wore a beige tennis skirt, a white midriff top that showed much of a toned tanned runner’s body. After ending Tarzan’s call, she set her sights across the courtyard to the gaming room. She pranced across the uneven courtyard flagstones with nimble ease in her Adidas walking shoes.
Pictures of Germany’s World Cup Champions dotted the gaming room’s walls in between the large airy screened sections. The Club’s four members sat playing bridge in one corner. The butler announced Miss Ball’s presence. Mr. West motioned at her through his brown eyes with their saggy eyelids. “Project Florida is on schedule," Miss Ball announced. She briefly hovered in the doorway for admiring glances and then pranced again across the courtyard to her temporary office.
These four eccentric, ultra wealthy men formed what they affectionately called The Club. All of them were beyond their mid 70’s.
The Club’s leader traces his heritage to the German Arnultchil family of the 1800’s. Since then, the Club’s hold on economics and world affairs grew like a spider's web in a lonely barn corner. Their global financial fingers touched most every existing country, territory and village. They candidly considered themselves as masters of the universe.
As
