CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tierney
I landed at Venice Marco Polo Airport in the early hours of the morning and cabbed it into the city, paying in cash. I needed to disappear in a large body of people and use Louise’s ID as little as possible, if at all.
Flying under the radar was crucial to my operation.
I only had one fake identity, and once Louise Fisher was compromised, I’d be screwed.
She would be compromised. It was only a question of when.
Which was why I wasn’t staying in Italy long.
The more countries I skipped, the less of a trail I’d leave behind.
I’d spent my flight researching the smallest, dodgiest hotels in the city.
I didn’t want Louise to check in to anywhere that required an ID.
Where I landed was a small motel on the mainland near Mestre.
It wasn’t a motel, per se. In truth, it was more of a whorehouse.
One that didn’t require more than sixty euros per night to host me.
Tension ate at me as I treaded the stained brown-carpeted floor of the corridor, down to the last door.
It looked so flimsy; I could probably kick it down myself.
Swallowing a ball of nerves, I jiggled the key inside the keyhole, struggling to turn the ancient lock.
Finally, the door whined open. I walked inside and locked it behind me.
The air stood still; the stench of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and sweat coated the back of my throat.
A dark duvet covered the queen-size bed.
The rest consisted of a small bathroom to my right, two stained recliners, and a small, round table under a shoebox-size window.
The noise of old bedsprings groaning and excited moans seeped through the walls.
Shaking my head, I paced to the window—covered by a stunningly ugly yellow curtain—and withdrew the fabric an inch, peering outside.
A narrow, greenish canal stared back at me, as well as the orange building next to us. A balcony faced my room directly. If push came to shove, I could probably jump onto the balcony and pick the lock. I’d just about squeeze through the small window, but a man the size of Achilles wouldn’t.
For the first time since we’d started our cat-and-mouse game, my heart rate slowed to a reasonable speed.
I parked myself on the edge of the bed, flipping my burner open and turning it on. A text message popped up on the screen.
Call me.
It was Tiernan. My heart dropped again. Shit.
I called his number, pressing the phone to my ear. He answered immediately.
“You in Italy?”
I closed my eyes, willing myself not to fall apart. He wasn’t supposed to know that.
Well, that didn’t take long.
“I am,” I croaked. “Did he find me?”
“That’s the rumor,” Tiernan tsked. “He’s taken the private plane to Venice.”
“How’d you find out?” It couldn’t be Achilles who told him, because he knew Tiernan would warn me. Still, bastard had the nose of a bloodhound.
“Jeremie told Lyosha.” And Lyosha told Tiernan. The pakhan had always been loyal to his Irish friend.
I rubbed my face, feeling like I hadn’t slept in years. “Okay. So he found out the name I traveled under. But I’ve been paying for everything in cash since I got here and just checked into a hotel without ID.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Tiernan ordered. “Get armed and get out. Continue east. Keep skipping borders. Jeremie won’t defy Achilles when he asks him to find you, but he can’t go around breaking into every government database in Europe.”
I clutched my head in one hand, wondering if I should’ve gone back to Tom Rothwell and accepted the FBI’s protection.
It wasn’t like me to surrender control, but Achilles was a merciless enemy and not one I could throw off easily.
For all I knew, he knew exactly where I’d checked in and was halfway across the city on his way to me.
“Okay, I have to hang up.” I swallowed.
“Do you need me to wire you money?” Tiernan asked. He sounded cool and collected, like his sister’s life wasn’t on the line. I’d only ever seen him fall apart once, and that was because of Lila.
“No, I’m good for now. Give my love to Lila and Nero.”
“Stay safe.”
I killed the call and went into the bathroom, tossing cold water onto my face. I wasn’t sleepy—I was wide-awake, alerted by the sheer terror of knowing I could get offed any minute now—but I needed to think clearly.
Achilles was nearby. But knowing just how near he was would determine my next steps.
I grabbed my backpack and went downstairs, pouring myself into a sun-drenched Venice.
Reconnaissance. I needed to feel out my surroundings and strategize accordingly.
I took the bus to Santa Lucia, two stops from my motel, and crossed the Ponte della Liberta.
Once I arrived at my destination, I blended with the schools of tourists, heading toward a street littered with shops until I found an internet café.
Keeping my head low, I proceeded to the last stall.
The PC was ancient and cruelly slow, and the entire setup was in Italian.
Still, I managed to check the schedules for the Ferrantes’ private plane through a flight tracking website.
According to the site, he had three more hours in the air.
My body sagged with relief. I still had time. Not a lot but enough to throw a few wrinkles in his path to me.
Tiernan was wrong. I couldn’t outrun Achilles Ferrante. He was too smart, too patient, and too methodical. What I could do was kill him. I’d still spend the rest of my life hiding from the Camorra, but no man knew me as thoroughly as him. No other man could find me.
I logged on to my new email, knowing full well he could track me through my IP, just as well as I knew there was nothing he could do about it until he landed.
From: catchmeifyoucan1999@
To: aferrante@
Subject: Hi, asshole.
I didn’t have to wait long.
From: aferrante@
To: catchmeifyoucan1999@
Hello, Louise.
I mustered all of my bravado not to pass out on the keyboard, even though the desire to throw in the towel was strong. The adrenaline crash was bound to hit me sooner or later. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept and didn’t know when the next time would be. How long could I keep this up?
How about a duel? I offered.
I didn’t have a gun, but I could ambush him with another weapon. If I played it smart.
Sure. I’ll duel with you. When and where?
Licking my lips, I craned my neck to make sure no one was coming in or out of the café.
Piazza San Marco. 3:30 p.m.
It was a crowded place, leading to both main streets and private alleyways. Endless opportunities.
It’s a date.
I logged out of my email, deleted the history on the browser, and walked out of the internet café.
Next, I went back to the taxi and bus station, returned to the mainland, and got into a Leroy Merlin—the closest thing in Italy to Home Depot—where I stocked up on three Swiss knives, small sharp scissors, and a zip tie.
From there, I went to Piazzale Roma, where I checked out the area and possible escape routes on foot.
I stopped at a café and downed two espressos one after the other.
After emptying my bladder in the restroom, I headed to a souvenir shop across the street, leafing through Venetian masks.
I chose a piuma volto intero—a full face cover—made of papier-maché.
It was white, with a golden eye mask and feathers framing it.
Flicking my wrist to check the time, I saw it was almost three o’clock. I slinked out of the store and headed to the center of the square. I wanted him to see me.
I was bait, and he needed to bite.
Too bad he was about to find out I was pure poison.
Tourist season was at its peak and Piazza San Marco was full to the brim with street performers in Venetian masks. Enough that my sporting one didn’t raise any eyebrows and allowed me further anonymity.
Achilles was going to show up here. And when he did, I was going to lure him somewhere and finish him off.
Then I was going to run far away from this place.
And never set foot in Italy again.