The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 78

Chapter 78

E RIC HAD NEVER FELT ANYTHING LIKE THAT BEFORE. F IRST A SHARP pain at his spine, and his body jerked forward as though from the force of an explosion. Then another pain and his chest exploded. Blood and guts spewed out onto the pavement.

Trails of light arced before him.

His legs caved under him and he knew it had not been an explosion, but a blow to his spine.

His head spun.

The world around him winked in and out.

He fought to stay conscious. He heard a scream.

Then something else cut through him. At his shoulder. He lost all sense of equilibrium and collapsed to the pavement, smacking his chest and face hard.

The last thing he saw, before a deep blackness engulfed him, was the clear blue sky overhead.

J ASON HEARD A SCREAM AND TURNED.

Casaburi was staggering. Red stained the man’s chest and the people around him were reacting by giving him a wide berth, many starting to flee. Casaburi jerked again, then spun backward and hit the ground with a dull thud, not moving.

Ascolani was walking in the opposite direction.

Which left him in the middle of the piazza.

Alone.

Exposed.

T HOMAS WAS PLEASED.

Two shots. Two hits. Casaburi was down. Surely dead.

He looked up from the rifle and focused out the window. People were fleeing in all directions. Ascolani headed away from where Casaburi lay. Then he spotted someone else. Really? He focused through the scope. He was right. Cardinal Richter. Here. Alive.

Another failure with the burning car?

His finger went to the trigger.

S TEFANO SPOTTED C ARDINAL R ICHTER . I N THE PIAZZA . E XPOSED . H E began to run, his legs stretching effortlessly as they had on the calcio ball field.

Casaburi was down.

Shot. Twice.

Ascolani was fleeing the piazza about thirty meters to his right. He called out to Richter but there was too much commotion, too many people darting in every direction. If Dewberry was inside the Hotel Duomo he’d have to wait until the field was clear to fire.

Unless he didn’t care who he shot.

C OTTON HEARD SOUNDS FROM INSIDE R OOM 408 AND KNEW WHAT they were. High-pressure exhaust.

He banged on the door. Hard.

No answer.

He tried the knob. Locked.

No sense being subtle.

He raised his right leg and kicked the door.

T HOMAS WAS STARTLED BY BANGING ON THE DOOR.

Then the knob rattled.

He needed to finish. Now.

People began to clear. He centered Richter in the scope.

And fired.

S TEFANO RACED ACROSS THE CHAOS ON THE PIAZZA, SHOVING PEOPLE aside. Richter was beginning to leave, but he was still an easy target.

So he kept running.

Then leaped from his feet and tackled Richter hard.

Taking them both to the ground.

T HOMAS GRIPPED THE RIFLE AND LIFTED IT FROM THE SOFA, SWINGING around just as the room door burst open. He leveled the weapon and fired two rounds through the open doorway. There was no leaving this room by the windows, no balcony, no ledge. His only means of escape was to deal with whoever was forcing their way inside.

Yet nobody was there.

C OTTON HAD ANTICIPATED THAT D EWBERRY WOULD NOT BE HAPPY with the intrusion. What would he do? Simple. Use the rifle. So he stayed to the side of the doorway, conscious of the fact that Dewberry’s high-powered weapon could inflict a lot of damage at close range. Even worse, the hotels olden walls would offer little to no protection.

Which Dewberry seemed to instantly realize, readjusting his aim and sending rounds through the walls, which thudded into the other side of the corridor. Cotton kept retreating down the hall until he was beyond the corner of the room. He’d only have a moment. So he had to make it work. He fell to the floor with his legs limp, allowing them to stiffen slightly as he landed, forcing his body into a forward roll that ended him on his belly. He reached up and banged the wall with the Beretta. Dewberry reacted as expected and fired at the noise. Cotton used the moment to wiggle forward to the door’s edge.

He gritted his teeth and lay on his back.

One. Two. Three.

He rolled away from the door into the corridor and came to his knees. In one fluid motion he pivoted into the doorway and aimed the gun. Dewberry stood across the room—thick shoulders, strong neck, flat stomach, tapered waist—with the rifle at chest level. It would take a moment for him to realize the situation and readjust his aim.

Cotton fired once.

The sharp crack of the Beretta splintered the stillness.

He fired again.

Both shots neat holes to the chest.

Dewberry was thrown back, groaning in pain, still holding the heavy weapon. Cotton stood and sent the third round into the head.

Dewberry’s lifeless body crumbled to the carpet.

Cotton entered the room and kicked the rifle clear of Dewberry’s loosened grasp. He kept the gun aimed. Ready. But no more shots were needed. Dewberry was dead. He stepped to the open window and stared out at the piazza. Most of the people had fled. Casaburi’s violated body lay lifeless, face down. Richter and Stefano were about fifty feet away, slowly coming to their feet.

Stefano tossed him a thumbs-up.

All good.

Apparently, any shots at the cardinal had missed.

Ascolani? Nowhere to be seen.

No matter.

They knew where to find him.