Chapter 6
Orvieto, Italy
Sweeping around the chair, Dillon toed the corner of the desk. Leapt toward the door. Slid into it, slamming it shut, then flipped the lock. “Took you long enough.”
“Scusi?” she balked at him.
He moved past her with a look. “Not you.” He returned to the desk and eyed the laptop. “I already said it’s in.”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How dare you—”
“Quiet, Gelato. I can’t hear.” He touched the earbud. “Repeat, Helios.”
“Make sure the stick is in all the way.”
“I did!” Dillon again nudged the small stick that would give Helios control of the Galtieri laptop.
“Ah, that did it.”
He felt more than saw the object flying at him. With a flick of his wrist, he deflected it. Glanced at the thing that struck the lamp and sent it toppling. “A tennis racket?” He glowered at the woman who’d just tried to decapitate him. “Are you crazy?”
“Me?” she railed, her voice low and controlled as she stomped toward him. “I catch you breaking into my father’s office and you—”
“You didn’t catch me,” he countered calmly as he lifted a stack of bills, thumbed through them, then tossed them back down. “I baited you in here.”
Mouth open, she stared incredulously.
Palming the laptop on either side, he pushed his gaze to her over the screen. “You didn’t think I was a complete backbirther who accidentally turns on a light in a darkened house, making it apparent to any of the fifty or so people on the lower terrace that there’s an intruder, did you?”
Her gaze swung to the window, and a noise escaped her still-gaping mouth.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” Helios said. “Rootkit planted. Pull the stick and get out of there.”
Dillon snagged the piece and tucked it in his pocket.
“Why?” Gelato asked, her expression knotted in confusion.
He smirked and slid around the desk. Moving into her personal space just as he had at that hotel, plotting another distraction. “Still hoping for that kiss I didn’t give you?”
Before he could anticipate it, she punched his gut. “I do not want anything from you except your absence.”
Dillon lifted an eyebrow. “You sure about that?” He cocked his head to the window. “Notice anything about the guests out there?”
Uncertainty scampered through her pretty features. Yeah, she’d noticed—it was written all over her face. “Tell me,” she said quietly.
Huh. Hadn’t expected that. Easing back against the desk, he took a load off his feet and crossed his ankles. “Those guests”—he stabbed a finger toward the east lawn—“are not your friends.”
Gold eyes held him fast. “How do you know that?”
“Because of you.”
She drew up, her lips parting. “What do you mean?”
“For the last hour, you never once spoke to a single person. Unlike Paris, where you worked that event like a pro. With ease, aplomb. Smiling, making people feel welcome and comfortable.”
Those mesmerizing eyes widened slightly.
“Here? Nothing. You…” He shook his head, knew he probably shouldn’t say she wasn’t the same girl he’d wanted to kiss at the Ritz.
“You’re easy to read. And you did not like what was happening out there.
That’s why I called you in here. Because those men, every one of them…
I can point you to some very shady dealings. ”
Understanding—no, it was more than that—swept through her expression. “Who are you?”
He wanted to tease her. Make some joke about that kiss—why are you so obsessed with a kiss?—but time was short. “I wish I had time to lay it out, but—”
A worming vibration drilled into his awareness.
“Your name,” she said. “I want your name.”
Dillon straightened to his full height as he realized what that noise was. What it meant. He snapped his gaze to hers. “You know someone who’d use a bird?”
“Bird?”
“Helo.” Still no recognition. “Chopper, helicopter.” Frustration spiked because that chopper, if not expected, meant trouble.
“Sure—most of my dad’s partners have one.” But clearly his meaning was still lost on her as her gaze lifted to the ceiling.
Dillon whipped around her and cut the light, then hurried to the window. Peeked through a slit in the curtain as the enormous black chopper descended. “Were any of them arriving late by one?”
“No,” she said, coming to his side.
Half expecting her to tug the curtain aside, he was relieved when she merely shifted around him to peer through the same opening. “Then that’s trouble.”
“This reeks of Enzo…”
Dillon glanced down at her, liking that she wasn’t afraid to be near him. That her hair brushed his arm. “Your father’s right-hand man, the one who shot me in Paris?”
She started, looking up at him with surprise. “I thought you got away.”
“I did—with a souvenir.” The thunder of the helo again drew his attention to where the wheels of a sleek black helicopter touched down. “It’s a Sikorsky.”
“What does that mean?” she asked over the droning rotors and engines.
“A Sikorsky can carry—” Dillon swallowed his words as the bird’s door opened and armed men emerged. AK-47s. They were moving with lethal intent and determination, rifles coming to bear “That.”
Cove pressed forward, her shoulder bumping his arm. When she saw what was happening, she jerked to him, face awash in panic. “What do—”
The hollow, mechanical repetitive thumping of shooting silenced her. In a heartbeat, she whirled toward the door, stricken.
Guessing she intended to rush out and help her father, Dillon lunged. “No!” He caught her hand, stopping her from exposing their location and putting them in danger.
“Hey!” Cove jerked away. “Let go!” she shouted, expression wrought as she strained for the door. “Mio papà—”
“You can’t help him,” Dillon warned, tightening his hold on her wrist. “Going out there is suicide. They didn’t bring AK-47s to talk.”
“I can’t just stay here and let them—”
“That’s exactly what you have to do,” Dillon countered.
She let out a strangled cry. “I can’t—”
“Quiet!” The sound of rotors seemed to deepen, and he scowled, looking toward the window. “Wait. Something’s not…” He wasn’t into manhandling, so he released her, and when she didn’t bolt away, he hurried back to check the situation outside. Another bird was lowering. Why two?
“What’s happening?” she asked, her words nearly lost to the roar of the helos as curiosity forced her back to his side, then she shifted in front of him.
Watching over her head, he monitored the chaos where two thugs were hauling someone up the lawn to the new bird. A handful of additional firepower trailed the trio. The man being dragged writhed and fought, making the thugs lose their grip. He dropped to the ground, but they jerked him back up.
“Who do they have?”
The captive’s head lifted.
Cove gasped and jerked back—straight into Dillon’s chest. “Papà!”
Bracing her, he prayed she didn’t do something stupid.
“Papà!” she screamed.
Like that.
From behind, he clamped a hand over her mouth as the assault team forced her dad into a chopper. But then two men swarmed in front of the window, six feet distant.
Cursing his position, Dillon hauled her back against his chest. “Shh,” he breathed against her ear.
She railed for a second—till she registered the incoming threat—and froze.
There were two logical reasons for those thugs to come to the upper terrace and enter the house: They were looking for something. Or someone, like Cove.
“We have to get out of here,” Dillon rasped.
“The woman,” came the dull shout of the thug beyond the window. “Pink dress, where is she?”
Cove went rigid.
Dillon released her and kept his voice low. “Who was wearing a pink dress?”
Her wide gold eyes met his. “Me.”
He frowned. She was definitely not wearing pink.
“I-I mean, he wanted me to. But I refused.”
Well, that was a confirmation on what the men were searching for. “If they find us, they’ll kill me and take you. Maybe kill you too. Understand?”
Gaze rife with fear, she swallowed and gave a clipped nod.
“I need you to trust me, because we have to find a way to get out of here without being seen or shot.”
“The kitchen.” Angling in his direction, she said, “If we can get down there, I know a way out.”
He indicated to the door and met her there. When she reached for the latch, he touched her shoulder. “Cove.”
She swung back to him.
“No matter what happens once we leave this office, you get to the kitchens.”
Uncertainty wavered in those gold depths, then understanding. Fear took over. She wet her lips, composure fracturing. Crumbling. “I can’t—”
“You can. Will. Just keep moving. I’ll be right behind you.” As quiet as possible, he unlocked the door. Gently, slowly, he eased down the handle until he felt it disengage. “Which way?”
“Right,” she said, her focus rock-solid and intense. “Down the hall, a left, then a right.”
Dillon gave a nod. He lifted a finger for her to wait as he opened the door a crack and checked both directions of the hall. Slipping aside, he cocked his head to the rear, telling her to move.
Cove slid out, then darted away.
Dillon trailed her, walking backward to protect their six. They made the first turn without complication and continued. She raced ahead to the next juncture, but he caught the telltale sound of thudding.
Perceiving a threat, he surged in front of her and backed up, forcing her back a step even as a radio squawked in the next passage. The crackle acted as a homing beacon. He waited…three…two…
As the steel muzzle of an AK-47 slid into view, Dillon grabbed the wood stock with his left hand and yanked hard to the side, effectively pulling the thug straight into his fist. The guy stumbled back, the weapon ripping from his grip.
Dillon shoved in and drove the butt at the man’s face.
Following a resounding crack, the guy dropped like a boulder, head bouncing off the stone floor.
Cove gaped at him.
“Go!” Dillon said, drawing her from the shadows as he slid the rifle to the low-ready and trailed her into the darkened passages.
They worked in tandem, her running to every corner and waiting.
Giving him time to clear it before they moved on.
Banked left. At the end of the hall, he spotted the kitchen.
Inside, he was not surprised to find trays of food abandoned.
The place empty. He wouldn’t have stuck around either with gunmen shooting up the place.
“Where?” he asked, searching for a door in the industrial-style kitchen that belied the much older architecture found in most of the villa.
“Back here,” she said, rushing to a stone wall.
The thump-thump-thump of an AK-47 narrowly preceded searing heat in his shoulder. “Augh!” He pivoted and fired at the gunman advancing on them. The guy went down, but so had their chance at stealth. “Go!”
Cove palmed the wall.
Dillon hesitated, trusting her but not seeing any sort of an exit. “You sure—”
Click!
A panel popped, eliciting a grin from her. She quickly dug her fingers in the crevice and tugged it open, revealing a set of very old stone steps leading down into darkness.
She coiled around it and vanished into the shadowy depths.
Had to be a tunnel. Heart in his throat, he faltered. For a half second, considered going back and trying to shoot his way out. Anything was better than claustrophobic suffocation. Not happening…
“C’mon,” she hissed. “It’s the only way.”
He wasn’t one to chicken out but—
Bok-bok.
Shouts from the hall made him bite back a curse and get moving. Catching the iron ring on the back side of the door, he pushed himself down the steps, shutting himself into the void. No sooner had he heard it click than the blackness was complete.
Terror seized him. Forbade him from moving. Frozen on the steps, he again considered going back—there had to be another way, right?—when voices carried through the thick barrier from the kitchen. Bullets from an AK-47 or the smothering darkness?
Equal odds…
He closed his eyes. Opened them. Zero difference.
Cold, tentative fingers touched his arm, making him flinch. “This way,” she whispered—much closer than expected—and slid her hand down his arm, threading their fingers. “Come.”
He felt her tug him onward… Could not make his feet move. “Where does this lead?” At least his voice hadn’t cracked.
“Shh,” she hissed, and the warmth of her body pushed the chill from his. “The walls are thin here.”
Gut seizing at the way her words skated along his neck, he fought that reaction and the fear immobilizing him. Move, idiot. She’s going to think you’re weak.
He’d done a lot of things, stolen into several countries. Escaped more. Avoided thugs and bullets—caught a couple. Nearly frozen to death. Swam till his lungs seared… But this—too much like the dryer… “If they find us down here—”
“They won’t. Besides Papà, I’m the only one who knows of this passage.” She squeezed his hand. “I know it by heart,” she said. “Trust me.”
Did he have a choice? He was being stupid. Foolish. Letting fear control him.
“Look, you broke into my papà’s office, and this is the punishment.”
Valid.
When she tugged again, somehow, his feet came unrooted.
“Thirty paces straight, then a left. Watch the—”
His head cracked against something, making his teeth clack. He groaned, hand lifting. Found cold, hard stone at his temple.
“Oh. Um, the ceiling is low.” He heard the smile in her words. “Be careful.”
“Little late with that warning.”
Coffin. This is a freakin’ coffin.