Chapter 66
Cortina d'Ampezzo, Italy
Naomi rode in the back of the ambulance. It raced with sirens blaring down the winding mountain road. She clutched Tag’s hand as he lay on the gurney beside her. His face remained tinged blue, but the hue had faded slightly.
Keep hanging in there.
The closest hospital lay eight miles away from San Vito, in the larger town of Cortina d’Ampezzo. They had just arrived at the city’s outskirts after a jarring twenty-minute drive along roads with steep drops along one side.
An EMT crouched by Tag’s head and adjusted a nasal canula inserted into his patient’s nostrils, delivering a heavy flow of oxygen.
The same man and another medic had stabilized Tag back at the hotel, bagging him fiercely until the last of the sedatives had worn off, enough for him to begin breathing on his own.
Prior to their arrival, Antonio had given Tag mouth-to-mouth while Chiara monitored his pulse. Once the authorities closed on the hotel, Naomi had sent the pair off. They didn’t deserve to be dragged further into all of this. She was ready to assume all responsibility herself.
Which she had done.
A member of the Italian national police and an armed Carabinieri officer shared the cramped back of the ambulance.
Naomi’s right wrist had been handcuffed to a steel bar secured to one wall.
She had pleaded to be allowed to come along with Tag.
The EMT supported her, insisting Tag would have died if not for her efforts to keep him breathing.
Still, this leniency was more likely born from the simple reason that the closest jail cell was also in Cortina.
Fingers tightened on her hand.
She stared down as Tag tilted his head, his eyes focusing more fully on her. He had faded in and out since stirring out of the sedation.
“Hi . . .” he said hoarsely, his gaze swinging around, looking confused. “Th . . . Think you may need to fill in some blanks.”
A short laugh—full of relief—burst from her.
Thank god . . .
She squeezed his hand in turn. “It looked like you were dead back there for a minute.”
He coughed softly. “On . . . on my bad days, people often think that. Even when I’m standing up. And this has been a bloody bad day.”
“You weren’t breathing. Your eyes were all glassy and unblinking.”
“They drugged me. And not with the good stuff,” he reminded her. “The palsy . . . it compromises my rib muscles, constricts my chest. I was probably breathing, but so weakly it looked like I wasn’t. Those bastards probably thought I was dead, too.”
“Maybe because you were so blue.”
“Cyanosis.” He waved his other hand dismissively. “I turn that color at the drop of a hat. You’ve seen it. Just climbing up to our flat. Plus, living like this, my body’s acclimatized to low O2 by now.”
“Tag.” She lowered her voice with concern. “You had a seizure. At least, that’s what the bitch told me.”
She pictured Burman’s body being hauled into another ambulance. Shockingly, the woman lived, too. Her neck had been secured in a red cushioned brace as she was whisked away. If she lived, she would surely be paralyzed, a quadriplegic for the rest of her days.
For Naomi, that wasn’t punishment enough.
“I get seizures sometimes,” Tag admitted. “It’s just my body being irritable. Probably trying to shake off the drugs, in this case.”
Despite attempting to downplay everything, Tag’s face shone with fear—and not for himself. He swallowed, then spoke even more softly. “Naomi . . . I think I told them where the others went. Not sure.”
She stayed silent, not wishing to burden him any further.
“Everything was foggy.” He lifted his arm and rested his hand on his chest, wincing at the burn marks. “I did feel this. The pain . . . I think they stopped my heart with the first zap, then started it again with the second.”
“But you’re alive now. We’re on the way to the hospital.”
His gaze turned to the two armed escorts. “But is that the only place we’re headed?”
“We’ll worry about that later.” She let go of his hand, reached to her neck, and pulled off Chiara’s amulet. She placed it into Tag’s hand and squeezed his fingers tightly. “You’d better keep this. For extra protection.”
Tag lifted the salt-filled vial. “Where did you—”
“From a friend.”
The ambulance made a sharp turn, throwing her to the side. The EMT leaned over Tag to hold him steady. The vehicle braked with a squeal that silenced the sirens.
They had reached the hospital. The two armed escorts stirred and spoke to each other in Italian, readying for the transfer of patient and prisoner. The rear doors popped open—only to reveal a chaos of flashing lights and clusters of figures, some in uniforms, others in suits.
Naomi retreated from the chaos.
A balding older gentleman dressed in business attire charged toward the ambulance, waving others aside.
The policeman lifted an arm to block him from getting too close. The Carabinieri officer rested a hand on his holstered weapon. The stranger ignored them both, his gaze fixed inside, taking in everything with a sweep of his eyes, before settling on her.
He pointed. “You’re Naomi Wren.”
She remained silent, not sure who this was, fearing it was a member of the Confrérie.
“I got your email. After my daughter alerted me to a post on TikTok.” He stared hard at her. Only now did Naomi see the resemblance. “I’m Avery Bailey.”
Archie’s father.
The man’s frantic gaze swept the interior of the ambulance again. “Where is my son? Is he safe?”
Past the man’s shoulders, the snowy rise of Monte Antelao loomed beyond the city’s edge. Naomi searched for any sign of the helicopters she had spotted earlier—some three hours ago.
She shook her head, knowing this for certain.
“He’s far from safe.”