Chapter Twenty-One
We were up late into the night making preparations, including a bit of reconnaissance on our rendezvous point. But we managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep, rising before dawn to make our way to the scala. Well before the sun came up, we were en route. In the interest of discretion, Mary Alice had hired a private boat, a narrow little beauty with a fast engine and a low hull that she piloted herself. She handled it expertly, gliding up the Rio de Ca’ Foscari to pick me up. Helen and Nat had already made their way on foot and were in position near the scala.
On the boat, Mary Alice slowly powered up the engine, easing us into the Grand Canal and hanging a left. There was already traffic on Venice’s main waterway, small craft loaded with fish and ice and vegetables, a heavy barge with a crane—even an ambulance boat, making its way slowly past without lights or sirens, which seemed ominous. A light mist rose from the water, swirling around each boat as it moved through the low chop of the waves. The water in the canals is usually green, sometimes brown. But in the hour before dawn, in the last hour of the dying night, the water is black and fathomless. I didn’t like the look of it, and I was happy when Mary Alice navigated us to the Rio di San Luca, the canal that ran nearest the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo. We’d mapped out the route during our recon the previous night, planning half a dozen potential getaways if things went south. I leapt off the boat, leaving Mary Alice to secure it and assume her position. The area was quiet, full of tall, narrow houses packed closely together. The palazzo was a tourist attraction, but a modest one, with a tiny courtyard and a gate that had been unlocked and left ajar. Wolfgang must have bribed the security guard, I realized as I eased through the gate, leaving it like I found it. Just inside the front gate was a courtyard garden the size of a postage stamp with a few bits of statuary and a couple of rosebushes that weren’t even thinking of blooming. It was deserted, and by the time it opened at nine-thirty am , we planned on being long gone.
At first glance, the palazzo looked like an elaborate town house with five levels of arched galleries that ran across the front. What made it a standout was the staircase at the end, a spiral in a tower that rose to the full height of the palazzo. It was open to the elements, topped with a belvedere, a small circular pavilion that offered panoramic views over the city. The only thing separating the staircase from the courtyard was a velvet rope tacked across an arch, so I hopped over it and waited, listening to the silence. I was early, but the unlocked gate meant Wolfgang was probably already in place. I moved to the stairs, and as I started to climb, I noticed the first suggestion of morning, a softening of the black in the night sky to the east, beyond St. Mark’s. Morning comes slowly in Venice, the ceiling of the sky shifting through a watercolor palette of light—grey, then blue, then purple—long before the sun shows herself, the sort of light that inspires painters and poets. I moved like a shadow up the stairs, watching as that light moved with me.
At the top of the stairs was a small wooden door that had been left unbolted. I edged it open, a few cautious inches at a time before easing past and into the short, open gallery that led to the belvedere. As expected, Wolfgang was waiting for me, standing in the center of the belvedere and looking distinctly unhappy. He eyed the door about twenty feet behind me.
“Wolfgang, if you bolt down those stairs and make me chase you, I will not be happy,” I warned him.
He shook his head. “It is not that. It is”—he gestured vaguely to the arched openings of the belvedere—“heights. I do not like them.” Through the arches I could see the jumble of nearby rooftops, the tiles spiked with satellite dishes and chimneys, some strung with washing lines, the laundry fluttering limply in the morning breeze.
“Then don’t look down,” I told him. Around the circumference of the belvedere, a stone parapet sat about waist high, the only thing between us and the ground nine stories below. He looked at it and flinched. He was pale and shaky, and I felt almost sorry for him. “It’s fine,” I told him. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I wish I could say the same for you,” he said with an obvious attempt at bravado.
“Dammit, Wolfgang,” I said as I saw a red laser dot settle on my chest, just over my heart.
Several things happened at the same time. I dropped to a crouch, a shot rang out, and Wolfgang screamed, a hand clapped to his ear.
I crawled to the parapet and peeked over. Ninety feet below, a small group of men was assembled—private mercenary types with their identikit gear and stupid, matching haircuts. Weapons drawn, they were starting up the staircase of the scala which happened to be the only way up or down from the belvedere. Our exit was well and truly blocked.
Just behind them stood two women in dark glasses. The shorter of them had a severe black bob—Galina’s bodyguard, Tamara, I guessed. Her weapon was out and from the smirk on her face, it was obvious she was the one who’d just shot Wolfgang. The other woman had to be Galina Lazarov herself. I’d seen her only in profile, but I recognized her just the same. She lifted her glasses to make eye contact with me, then drew her index finger across her throat in the universal symbol for “You’re so fucked.” Then she headed inside behind Tamara, the men covering her rear. Galina wanted to be in at the kill.
Still in a crouch, I charged as fast as I could back to the door, slammed it shut, and jammed the hasp of the padlock closed. It wouldn’t buy us more than a few seconds, but that delay might be the difference between living and dying.
When I got back to him, Wolfgang was still screaming, blood pouring through his fingers and running down his shirt. A second shot hit the wall behind him, and he hadn’t moved from where I left him, apparently finding it hard to believe he was about to be murdered. I would have been exasperated if I’d had the time. Some people just have no sense of self-preservation.
From my peripheral vision, I could see ropes dropping on either side of the belvedere which meant more goons were getting ready to abseil down from the roof. We were trapped.
“Well, shit,” I muttered.
“We are going to die,” Wolfgang whimpered in German.
“There is no fucking way I am getting killed by somebody who looks like Edna Mode,” I told him. I made a quick assessment. It was impossible to take a stand in that situation, so I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I spun on my heel and bent, driving my shoulder into Wolfgang’s midsection, flipping him neatly over the parapet. Shots were ringing out as I followed him, diving out just as the first of Galina’s henchmen rappelled down from the roof.
Wolfgang shrieked again and I couldn’t blame him. One minute he was standing upright and clearly convinced he was bleeding to death, the next he was flying through the air, ass over teakettle. He landed hard on the roof next door, a drop of maybe twelve feet. I went over the parapet right after him. Wolfgang was right where he’d landed, clutching a vent stack and babbling in fear. I dropped next to him and was up before he’d even registered he wasn’t dead. Honestly, I was a little surprised he made it, but I’d figured they were going to kill him anyway, so I might as well at least try to save him. I hauled him up by his collar and shoved him forward as bullets rained around us. We hit the edge and he stopped dead, blubbering a little.
“We don’t have time for this,” I told him as a series of shots rattled the tiles, heading towards our feet. I shoved between his shoulder blades. He flailed, windmilling his arms as he took his second dive, but this one was a shorter distance, maybe six feet. We landed on a neighbor’s terrace—I rolled and ended up on my feet, Wolfgang flattened a collapsible lounge chair. He was still disentangling himself when Helen stepped out from behind a potted palm and opened fire, covering us until I got Wolfgang up and across the terrace, making it through the door. She was in good form, dropping two of Galina’s men with a pair of quick shots. One of them was still attached to his abseiling harness and he swung there, gently, like a ham in a butcher shop window. Helen followed us through the door and the three of us charged down the stairs towards the street level.
It was going to be a footrace to the boat, but at least Wolfgang had finally figured out his best chance was with us. He was still screaming a little, and if I’d had time, I would have stopped to slap him.
Natalie had been posted around the corner, and she emerged from the alley, covering us as we ran. Mary Alice had stayed with the boat in case things went south. You might think that because I was in position to take the brunt of the action, I’d drawn the short straw, but you’d be wrong—I drew the longest. Whatever happened, we all wanted to be at the sharp end, and Mary Alice had been forty kinds of pissed she was going to miss it, but as the four of us charged up, bullets flying, she was in charge of the rescue.
I looked up at the scala as we ran and saw Galina, halfway up and staring at the carnage of her ambush in obvious rage. She raised her gun and aimed directly at me. I don’t know what would have happened if she’d gotten the shot off, but Helen fired first, hitting the barrel of Galina’s gun and sending it spinning out of her hand. Galina yelled and grabbed what was left of her hand. She’d probably broken a bone or two, but the most important thing is it bought us a few seconds to get to the boat. Heavy footsteps pounded behind us, and I realized Natalie had missed someone on her mop-up. We had arranged that she would make her own way back, and she must have miscounted when she peeled off to leave our flank exposed. We made tracks for the boat, tumbling into it together as Mary Alice stared.
“What the hell happened?” Mary Alice demanded as we untangled ourselves.
“Shut up and go ,” Helen yelled. She and Wolfgang headed for the cabin, taking cover while I brought up the rear. Mary Alice revved the engine, opening the throttle to get us out of there. Just as we pulled away from the mooring, one of Galina’s goons leapt, crossing a good five feet of water in a running jump.
Before I could turn, he was on me, grabbing my shoulders as he brought all of his weight to bear me down onto the deck. The instinct in situations like that is to fight back immediately, but it’s almost always better to go limp, using the fall to position yourself. In this case, I twisted as we fell, and we landed like lovers, with his body covering mine, hands still at my shoulders. The weight of him was nearly crushing me as his chest pressed down on me. His fingers went to my throat, tightening. Mary Alice, at the front of the boat, was too busy driving to notice what was happening, and I assumed Helen was busy taking care of Wolfgang and making sure he hadn’t acquired any more bullet holes. I was on my own with this one, and I didn’t have much time. Black spots were starting to dance across my field of vision. I figured I had less than half a minute before I lost consciousness altogether.
Something flickered at the edge of my vision—the Ponte de la Cortesia—and I realized where we were. I closed my eyes, tracing a path on my mental map of Venice. Mary Alice was breaking all the speed limits, keeping the throttle open as we blew through the water. The goon was still on top of me, squeezing, and I knew I had one chance.
Just past the Ponte de la Cortesia is the Ponte de San Paterniàn. It’s not a remarkable bridge; it’s not particularly pretty, and it’s not very high. It was the last fact I was counting on. I reached down and grabbed his genitals hard and gave them a twist. His reaction was to stop killing me for just an instant as he drew his pelvis back, giving me the opening I needed.
I pulled my knees up to his chest and just as we passed under the Ponte de San Paterniàn, I kicked my legs out as hard as I could, thrusting upwards and pushing his head directly into the stone bridge. I expected a hit, but the dull crunch was a bit of a surprise—kind of like the sound of tearing a head of iceberg lettuce in two. It was loud enough that Mary Alice heard it over the engine. She whirled around, taking in the situation at a glance.
“Shit!”
“I’m on it,” I told her. I heaved his body over the side. What was left of his head followed.
“He’s just going to bob back up to the surface,” Mary Alice called.
“Good,” I yelled back. “Maybe it will be a warning to the others.”
Mary Alice grinned as she turned back to the wheel. She piloted us out of the small canal just as the sun rose fully over the city, turning the water of the Grand Canal to molten gold. Helen emerged from the cabin.
“Wolfgang’s fine. The bullet nicked his ear is all,” she told me. She looked at the deck where blood had puddled along with a few less savory bits. “Problem?”
“I handled it,” I told her.
I pulled out my phone and opened the Menopaws app which Minka had updated with a tracker. I watched the little dot that represented Natalie making its way back to the house, moving fast. In spite of Galina’s best efforts, the four of us had survived. I turned my face to the rising sun and smiled. We’d come out of a gunfight alive, we had kept Wolfie from getting killed, and for now the adrenaline was keeping all the aches and pains at bay. It was a good morning to be alive.