Chapter 18 #3
The tension is palpable, thick. I can see Dante's hands shaking as he grips his pistol in a way that reveals he is not at all familiar with firearms.
Killian, as ever, looks steady as a rock, pistol held at arm's length, pointed at the door.
"Hold up, hold up." The second voice, the chief. "Are you fucking kidding me, mate?”
Dante, Killian, and I trade confused glances.
"What is it?"
"Big Boss is dead."
Silence.
"What? Are you sure?" The American sounds shocked.
"No, I'm not sure. All I've got is an encrypted message from Sal saying Pugli has been killed."
"And you get this now? Seconds from finishing the op?”
"I don't bloody fucking know a single bloody goddamn thing you don't, you stupid bloody fucking yank, so shut the bloody fuck up and let me find fucking out before you ask me any more stupid goddamned bloody fucking questions, you fuckin’ got it, mate?”
"Fine, Jesus. Keep your fuckin’ shirt on.”
Killian looks at me with overly wide eyes, mouthing PUGLI IS DEAD?
I just make an I-don't-know face because even shrugging hurts.
"Confirmed,” Chief says, a few seconds later. “Sal found his body ten minutes ago. Pugli’s gone."
Silence again.
"So…who pays us?" This is a new voice—Spanish, possibly.
"Fuck if I know, mate." A pause. "Sal's gone. Offline or dead himself, I don't know and I care even less. Pugli paid us himself. Sal hasn't got the scratch to match the pay Pugli promised us for this op, and I know that for facts.”
"We only got the first half," says a fourth voice, another American. "I ain't doin' shit unless I know I'm getting mothafuckin' paid, ya feel me?”
"Me either," says a fifth, followed by a veritable chorus—they sent a freaking army after us, it sounds like…probably why it took two days to get to us.
“SHUT IT!” The chief bellows. "We're agreed.
We don't work for free, do we, lads?" The chorus shouts no in unison.
"Much as it chaps my arse to let these little Yankee shits go, we ain't doin' shite without proper pay on the hook. And with Pugli dead, we're on the hunt for a new score. Let’s get scarce, lads.”
There's a squeak of sole rubber and then the indefinable quality of silence that comes with the sudden absence of people.
Killian stands cautiously on his feet, reaches for the door—he flinches backward when a fist pounds on it once.
"You fucks got lucky," the original American voice says, hitting the door again. "Punk ass bitches."
"Torino! Fuckin' come on, man. Helo's waiting."
"Yeah, yeah," he says, his voice fading into the distance. "I'm comin'."
Silence.
None of us dares move or breathe, not quite willing to believe it's not a trick.
But then the choppy thumping of a helicopter grows louder and louder until it’s passing mere feet overhead—Killian rushes to the window.
From my vantage point, I catch a quick glimpse of a blacked-out older model Huey banking away, a door gunner visible for an instant before it carves away out of sight; a second, third, and fourth follow suit in quick succession—Jesus, they sent a lot of dudes after us.
Pretty badass, to be honest.
More silence.
Dante is the first to speak, albeit in a whisper. "Is that it? It is over?"
"I sure as fuck hope so," Killian responds. "Have a hard time believing it, though."
The door opens, and Killian’s pistol whips up, only dropping again when Dr. Lia’s white-coated figure fills the doorway.
"It is okay," she says. "They have gone." She looks pale, shaken.
"They hurt you?" Killian asks.
She shakes her head. "No. I knew Roberto in a life past. Before he became the…the thing he is now. He would burn this place to the ground around me, but he would not order anyone to shoot me."
"Well, he's dead," Killian says.
She blinks at this news. "Truly?"
"That's what they said. They got the notice right as they were about to come in here.” He shrugs, palms flipping up and then slapping to his sides. "They left. Wouldn't finish the op because they wouldn't get paid with Pugli dead."
"That is a stroke of luck for all of us." She indicates Killian. "You must let me fix that shoulder, now."
"Killian?" I say, my tone rising in warning.
"He would not let me do anything. Either he was going to die, in which case it is wasted effort, or he is needing more doctoring after the fighting."
"Killian, you idiot. You need a sling."
"He needs more than that. He needs stitches. He needs antibiotics. He has fever. I am worried he has an infection."
"KILLIAN!"
Now that I look at him more closely, he's sheened with sweat, looking peaked and pale.
"You're functioning through sheer force of will, aren't you?"
"Gotta protect you."
"It's over now," I whisper. "We're okay."
He blinks at me, suddenly looking peaked and about to pass out; the adrenaline has left him, and now the cost of pain has come due. "Over. It's over?"
"They're gone. Pugli is dead. It's over."
He deflates, the realization finally sinking in, and in so doing saps the last of his resolve.
He slumps back against the wall and slides to the floor. "Oh."
I look at Dante, who fortunately does know enough about guns to eject the magazine, rack the slide to eject the chambered round, and then sets the gun on the bed near me.
"Come now, mio amico americano. You need to sleep for a week, okay? Okay. I will help you." Dante helps Killian to his feet and half-carries him out of the room.
Dr. Lia lingers. "He loves you very much," she says to me.
"He sat just there," She points to a spot a foot from where my head is.
"For the time you are asleep. No moving, no leaving.
We bring him food and drink. He would not sleep.
He would not let me tend to him. Not until he knew you would live. "
"Jesus. Stubborn asshole."
"Even in love, the men are difficult."
"Especially in love."
This gets a laugh. "True, true. Only when I am assuring him you are going to recover will he let me show him where to sleep."
"So this whole time, he's had a broken shoulder and two open gunshot wounds?"
"What am I to do? Make him let me help?"
I sigh. "No, no, it's not you. He's just so damned stubborn." I glance at her. "I have a question. Why did those men think this was a supply closet?"
She smiles, and there's mischief in it. "Do you think you are the first to need un medico without the asking of questions?
Giuseppe, always is he living on the wrong side of the law.
He is good at his heart, but sometimes?" A shrug, and she moves on.
"This room is hidden. From the outside of the building, you do not see this room.
Only a window, could be anything. From the hall, you think it is a supply closet.
I have a sign and all. Once, this was a…
a living place for the church men. In the robes?
With the singing." She does an effective approximation of Gregorian chanting, albeit she sings gibberish and not real Latin. "Like so."
"Ah. This was a monastery. For monks."
“Yes, yes, this. A monastery for monks. Through many wars it is an ospedale, where the soldiers go to recover. Then it is only a ruin. And then I purchase it. Make it my own ospedale. And sometimes, I need a hidden place. So here you are."
"Clever."
"Necessaria."
"I need a phone," I say. "Now that it's safe, I really, really need to get ahold of our people."
Dr. Lia takes her own cell from her lab coat pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me. “You know how to dial the States?"
"Um?”
She takes it back. "Say to me the number." I tell her, and she dials a long string of numbers, and then hands it to me without actually putting the call through, yet. “I will tend to your man. He will be okay."
"Thank you, Dr. Lia."
She just smiles. “If you need a job, I always need more good nurses.”
"Tempting," I say. "I sort of went missing without a word, so I'm not sure if I'll have a job when I get back."
"You will not make very much money, working here for me, but many are the people who need help."
"You don't go into emergency medicine for the money," I answer. "Thanks for the offer. I will very seriously consider it."
She nods and then leaves, tapping at her tablet, scanning a chart or set of orders as she sweeps out in the focused, bustling, imperious way of doctors the world over.
I set the phone on my sternum because I can't hold it to my ear, and tap the call button. It rings twice.
"Story!" Mom's voice.
"Mom," I whisper, my voice tight and strangled. “Oh god, Mom."
"Where are you?"
"A monastery turned hospital outside Golfo Aranci on Sardinia."
"A hospital?"
"Ahh…well…yeah?”
"You or Killian?"
"Both?"
"Story. Talk to me."
"We're alive, Mom. We'll both be fine."
"But you're hurt."
"Pugli is dead."
"I know. We just heard." A pause. "How do you know?"
I let out a breath. "Let's just say the news could not possibly have come at a better moment."
"Story…" a pause. "Are you okay?"
"N-no." My throat is hot and tight. "I need you."
"Dad is already on the phone with Uncle Harry."
"How did you know it was me calling?"
"Who else is going to call me from an unlisted number at one in the morning?"
My eyes burn, but I don't dare let go yet. "Mom."
"I know, my love. I know. But you will be okay."
"It was awful."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"N-no. Not…not yet. Not like this—not over the phone." I let out a shuddery sigh. "How do you cope?"
"With what in particular?"
"Knowing you've killed someone."
"Oh. Um…that…it takes time. Therapy. Self-forgiveness.
Even if you had to do it, it leaves a mark.
You won't soon forget, Story. I can't and won't lie to you about this.
" Even all these years later, after decades of life in the States, she still has a faint Hebrew accent.
"But you will be okay. You just have to give yourself permission to not be okay for a time. "
"Well, I'm not. I'm trying to be brave. To be strong."