77. Lazarus
The sound is not a sound. It’s a physical force, a fist that slams into the side of the armoured car and lifts it onto two wheels. Glass shatters. Metal screams. For a moment I am weightless, suspended in the chaos, and then gravity reasserts itself and the vehicle crashes back down onto its side.
Leandra screams.
I hear it over the ringing in my ears, over the shouting of the men outside, over the crack-crack-crack of gunfire that erupts in the street. I am already moving, already reaching for the Glock holstered beneath my jacket, already calculating angles and threats and escape routes.
“Ezra!” Leandra’s voice is raw with terror.
She’s clutching him, pressing his face into her chest, shielding him with her body. Blood runs from a cut on her forehead, a thin red line that bisects her eyebrow. “Ezra, stay with me, stay with me…”
I grab her arm. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t…I don’t think so….” She turns her head to look at me, “No. No, I’m fine. Ezra, look at me, are you okay?”
Ezra’s face is pale, his eyes wide, but he nods. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t scream. He just looks at me with those dark eyes, and I see something in them that makes my blood run cold.
Resignation.
As if he knew this was coming.
As if he’s been waiting for it.
I push the thought aside. There’s no time.
The gunfire is getting closer. I can hear my men shouting, hear the return fire from the other vehicles in the convoy, hear the wet thud of bullets finding flesh.
The attackers knew where we’d be. They knew the route, knew about the roadblock, knew we’d take this alley. This wasn’t an ambush of opportunity.
This was a trap.
I pull the second Glock from the compartment beneath the seat and press it into Leandra’s hand. She takes it automatically, her fingers finding the grip with practiced ease. I’ve trained her for this. I’ve trained her for everything.
“Stay in the car,” I tell her. “Keep your head down. Don’t come out until I come for you.”
“Lazarus…”
“Promise me.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m not promising you anything. You stay in this car. Let your men handle it.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re the Grand Master. You can’t just…”
“If they kill my men, they’ll come for this car. They’ll come for you and Ezra. I won’t let that happen.”
She grabs my wrist, her grip fierce. “Then we all stay. We wait for backup. The police will come, the carabinieri, someone will…”
“There’s no time.”
“Lazarus, please…”
I hate the way she says it, the way she begs me because I know this time, I will not give in. I cannot. I kiss her. It’s not gentle, it’s not tender. It’s a brand, a claim, a promise that I am coming back.
Then I pull away, and I look at Ezra, “Protect her.”
He nods. Eight years old, and he nods like a fucking soldier.
I kick open the door and step into hell.