CHAPTER 32 #2
He takes a step toward me. "You want the papers? Maybe we work out a trade. Flesh for paper."
I sigh. It’s always the same. Men always think they are the hunters. "Matteo," I say softly. "Don't do this."
"Or what?" He reaches out a massive hand to grab my shoulder. "You gonna scream?"
I don't scream. I move. I step inside his guard. I grab his wrist with my left hand, pivoting my hips. I use his own weight against him. I drive my knee into his groin. Hard.
He grunts, doubling over, the air rushing out of him. I draw the SIG from my back. I whip it around. I smash the heavy pistol grip into his temple. CRACK.
Matteo stumbles back, crashing into a shelf of books. Dust flies everywhere. He tries to regain his balance, reaching for a knife on his belt. I level the gun at his face. "Sit down!"
He freezes. He sees the gun. He sees the black hole of the muzzle. He sits. Heavily. On the floor. Blood trickles down his temple.
"You crazy bitch," he wheezes. "You hit me?"
"I'll shoot you next," I promise. "Right in the knee. Then the other knee. Then the stomach. It takes a long time to die from a stomach wound, Matteo. Plenty of time to think about your poor customer service."
I kick the diamond necklace back toward him. "The diamonds pay for the passports," I say. "The gun ensures the delivery time. I want them now."
Matteo looks at the gun. Then at the diamonds. He starts to laugh. A low, appreciative chuckle. "Okay," he says, wiping the blood from his eye. "Okay. The Director... he always had good taste in women. Violent women."
He struggles to his feet, keeping his hands where I can see them. "Come to the back," he says. "I have the blanks. I just need the photos."
The back room is a high-tech lab disguised as a storage closet. Matteo works fast. He takes my photo against a white wall. "And the man?" he asks. "I need his face."
I pull out the photo strip I took from the photo booth in the train station yesterday. It was grainy, but Matteo scans it, enhances it, cleans it up. "Name?" he asks.
"Make them French," I decide. "Jean-Luc and... Marie. Last name... Dubois. Boring."
"Boring is safe," Matteo agrees. He programs the chips. He prints the pages. He laminates the covers. Twenty minutes later, he hands me two European Union passports. French. They look perfect.
"You have a way out of the city?" he asks, handing them over.
"We'll find one."
"There is a train," he says, rubbing his bruised temple. "To Zurich. Leaves in an hour. But the station is watched. The Carabinieri are looking for two Americans."
He reaches under the counter. I tense, raising the gun. He pulls out a key. "My scooter," he says, tossing it to me. "Parked in the alley. A Vespa. Old, but fast. Take the coast road. Don't go to the main station. Pick up the train in Savona."
I catch the key. "Why help me?"
Matteo picks up the diamond necklace. He holds it to the light. "Because you paid," he says. "And because you didn't kill me. In my line of work, mercy is rare."
He looks at me. "Go. Before I change my mind."
I back out of the room. "The ink is dry," I say.
"The book is closed," he replies.
I leave the shop. I find the Vespa in the alley. It’s battered, red paint peeling, but the engine starts with a roar. I tuck the gun away. I put the passports in my pocket next to the USB drive. I have the keys to the kingdom.
Now I just have to get the King.
I ride the Vespa back up the hill, weaving through the pedestrians.
I park a block away from the pensione. I walk the rest of the way.
Something feels wrong. The street is too quiet.
The old woman who runs the place is sitting outside on a chair.
She isn't knitting. She is staring at the ground. Her hands are shaking.
I stop. I scan the windows. Second floor. Our room. The curtains are moving. We left them closed.
They found us.
I don't panic. Panic is a luxury. I slide into the alleyway next to the building. There is a fire escape. Rusted iron. I climb. My boots make no sound on the metal. I reach the second-floor window. I peek inside.
The room is tossed. The mattress is overturned. The pillows are ripped open. Two men are in the room. One is standing by the bathroom door, gun drawn. The other is kneeling on the floor, holding something. Alaric’s coat.
But Alaric isn't there.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Did he escape? Did they take him? I look closer. There is blood on the floor. Fresh blood. A trail. Leading to the bathroom.
The man by the bathroom door kicks it. "Come out, Graves! We know you're in there! We just want the drive!"
Silence from the bathroom.
"We have the girl!" the kneeling man lies loud. "We caught her downstairs! Give up the codes or we cut her throat!"
A bluff. They don't have me. But Alaric doesn't know that. If he thinks they have me... he will surrender. He will trade his life for mine.
I need to let him know. I need to signal him.
I look at the window latch. It’s old. Loose. I take the ceramic knife from my boot. I slide the blade between the sash and the frame. I lift the latch. Silent.
The window slides up. I climb over the sill. I am in the room behind the kneeling man. He is focused on the bathroom door. "I'm counting to three, Graves!"
I step forward. I don't have a silencer. The gunshot will alert the whole street. I have to use the knife.
I lunge. I cover the kneeling man's mouth with my hand. I drive the knife into the base of his skull. Sever the brain stem. He goes limp instantly. Dead weight. I lower him to the floor. No sound.
The second man—the one by the bathroom door—hears the soft thud. He starts to turn. "Marco?"
I raise the SIG. "Marco is indisposed," I say.
The man spins, raising his weapon. He sees me. He sees the dead man at my feet. His eyes go wide.
"Drop it," I command.
He doesn't drop it. He swings the gun toward me. I fire. Bang. One shot. Center mass. The man flies back, hitting the bathroom door. He slides down, leaving a red smear on the wood.
The door flies open. Alaric stumbles out. He is holding a piece of a broken mirror as a weapon. He is shirtless, covered in sweat, his eyes wild. He sees the dead man at his feet. He looks up. He sees me. Smoke curling from the gun barrel. The knife in my other hand dripping blood.
"Elodie?" he whispers.
"I got the passports," I say, my voice steady. "And a scooter."
He looks at the carnage. Two dead Syndicate hitmen in a cheap hotel room in Genoa. He starts to laugh. A jagged, broken sound. He drops the mirror shard. He walks to me. He steps over the body. He grabs my face. He kisses me hard, tasting of blood and fever.
"You are terrifying," he breathes.
"I learned from the best." I pull away. "We have to go. The shot was loud. The Carabinieri will be here in three minutes."
I grab the backpack. "Can you run?"
Alaric looks at his shoulder. It’s bleeding again. "I can run," he says. "If you lead."
"I'm leading," I say.
We run out the door. Down the fire escape. To the Vespa. Alaric gets on the back. He wraps his arms around my waist. He rests his feverish head on my shoulder. "Savona," I say, revving the engine.
"Drive," he whispers.
We shoot out of the alley. We merge into the traffic. We are just two lovers on a scooter, speeding along the Italian coast. Behind us, sirens wail. Ahead of us, the open road.
I feel the weight of the USB drive in my pocket. I feel the weight of the gun. I feel the weight of his arms around me.
We are not safe. We are not whole. But we are free.