by Alan Lee
The Prince got a sucker punch into Mackenzie’s throat and he fell near the fence. His metal bracelet burst and he staggered, electrocuted and disoriented, but the Prince couldn’t take advantage. His shoulder was out of socket.
Rossi’s face was deep red with displeasure.
“Look at the American,” said Duane, hoarse. “That’s what you can do with freedom and democracy and steroids and grass-fed beef. Makes me wish I had a son. God, I can’t take this. This shit is rough on me.”
“Maybe don’t bet the farm, next time,” said Marcus, arms crossed, eyes on the fight. His right hand, tucked under his left arm, was pressed against the reassuring bulk of his pistol.
“Fucking Rossi goaded me. Man’s a pig.”
The round ended and the fighters went for more water. Again the fanatics attacked the fence and the security team responded. The cellos and electric guitar played louder.
The third round, thought Veronica. Finally, after an eternity, it’s time. She and Marcus exchanged a glance. He nodded and punched a message into his phone.
“You are rooting for the American,” said Emile.
“If I had to choose,” replied Veronica. “I would pick him, yes.”
“Don’t get your hopes too high, love. He’s a dead man. As assassin awaits. After I’m through with him, of course.”
“Who is the assassin?”
“We don’t know. It’s too bad,” said Emile as a small table rose from the cage floor for the fighters. Metal weapons, barbaric tools. Mackenzie’s mouth was bleeding. “Because I may wish to keep the American as my sexual toy.”
Duane had been listening. He cocked his head and stared at his wife. “The fuck you just say? Sexual toy? The American? What do you mean, sexual toy?”
Emile Chambers’s breath caught, the cruel smile frozen on her lips. She didn’t respond.
Rossi’s hand slid between the folds of Veronica’s blouse and he said in Italian, “Me and you, we’re leaving. Without your African bodyguard.”
“As soon as the fight ends?”
The buzzer rattled from the speakers like an alarm.
Round three began.
The crowd raged.
Veronica dropped her wine glass. No one noticed, so fixated they became on the two men in the cage. The fighters weren’t moving. Rossi shouted at the Prince. So did the Gurkha.
Veronica’s hand slipped into her clutch purse and wrapped around the pistol grip.
And that was when the power in the Teatro di Montagna went out.
Part III
49
Carlos and Manny watched the transformers blaze and spark, the launcher still on Manny’s shoulder but empty, their faces dancing with firelight.
“That worked,” said Carlos.
“So pretty, right? Something magical about Naples at night.”
“Señor August, we need to find him.”
“Let’s go, amigo."
50
The powerful lights and speakers inside the stadium snapped off. The sudden dark hit me like a physical thing. There was a hush, ten thousand throats closing in surprise and wonderment. Even I, an intrepid investigator with seemingly preternatural insight into the future, was caught off guard.
Meg cried, “Mackenzie!”
The Prince waggled his nasty hammer at me. I barely saw it.
He said, “I honor my promise. You survived and even worse you beat me.”
“Neat trick, with the lights.”
“You have committed allies,” he said.
“Do I.”
“We have only seconds. Your plan?”
“To escape,” I said. “And go down in a blaze of glory and derring-do with verve and élan.”
He grinned. Looked like it took a lot out of him, poor guy. “You know I cannot understand your American words.”
“Get one of those calendars, a new word every day, you know the kind? People will like you more.”
“The power is out, but even if the cage is still on? The gate never is,” he said. He turned suddenly and, using his good arm, he swung the hammer and smashed the locking mechanism. Once, twice, and it broke off.
“That’s precisely what I was going to do,” I said.
He dropped the hammer and picked up the heavy short sword. Cut himself deeply across the chest, wincing.
I winced too and sucked at my teeth.
Mackenzie August, vicious monster, weak stomach.
“Go,” he said as blood spilled down his abdomen. “And be worthy of her.”
“Her who?”
Members of the mob, driven to their mammalian instincts, were ascending the cages, trying to climb over top. And then? They hadn’t thought that far ahead, I bet.
The Prince laid down on the mat and released a fake groan, like an Italian soccer player would do. The stain of red spread beneath him.
The power snapped back on, backup generators kicking in, the lights dim.
All was chaos.
But I was already gone.
51
The power snapped back on, backup generators kicking in, the lights dim.
All was chaos.
The Prince lay on the mat, bleeding heavily and barely moving.
Of Mackenzie there was no sign.
“Hah!” cried Duane. “The Prince is dead. Or close to it. I win your got’damn bet, Rossi.”
Rossi’s face looked nearly purple. “Il tuo combattente è fuggito!”
Moving smoothly, Veronica withdrew her little .380 pistol and pressed the barrel into the soft underbelly of Emile’s jaw.
“My husband’s not a horse. I need therapy, I know, bitch, but I don’t handle competition well,” said Veronica. She closed her eyes and flexed her entire hand, squeezing every finger muscle. She fired twice, wet muffled blasts. Emile went over backwards into Duane’s arms.
Marcus removed the HK from his shoulder holster, forced to admit the easy reach was handy. Duane was close enough that he couldn’t straighten his arm. He set the barrel at the base of Duane’s skull and fired once. For good measure, twice more into the spine.
He and Veronica both turned their guns on the Gurkha but the hotel’s security guard gunned him down first. He shot the Gurkha at the base of his spine, beneath the ballistic vest, and then three more blasts in the head.
“What the hell,” said Marcus. His ears rang.
The security guard said something in Italian, which Veronica translated, “Says he’s wanted to do that a long time.”
The man nodded and kept his gun trained on Rossi.
Tattoo Neck opened the private suite’s door, pistol drawn, come to investigate the gunfire. Saw Duane and Emile already dead. Looked at Marcus.
“You work for me now. Keep watch outside,” said Marcus, wearing authority naturally.
Tattoo Neck paused, thought for a second, nodded, took another look at Duane’s corpse, and closed the door.
“Tell you what,” said Marcus. “Just us lowlife scumbags here. What do we do ‘bout Rossi?”
Veronica stepped away from the Italian crime lord, fixing her wraparound blouse and keeping her gun trained on the remarkably calm bartender and servers. They wouldn’t do anything stupid, which was good because Veronica would never shoot at them. She was already on the verge of being sick.
The remaining Italian guard said, “What? My English…”
“Rossi,” said Marcus and shrugged.
Veronica translated, “Cosa dovremmo fare con lui?”
What should we do with Rossi?
Rossi’s face had gone from purple to gray. He was pressed against the railing, trying to keep his moccasins from soaking up blood. “Spara a loro, fottuto idiota!”
Shoot them, you fucking idiot!”
The guard grinned and said, “Rossi? Le persone dovrebbero decidere. Gettalo tra la folla.”
The people should decide about Rossi. Throw him to the crowd.
Rossi turned from the guard to Veronica and spat at her. “You wore! Bitch! Kill y
ou! Kill family!”
Marcus stepped around Duane and Emile and threw a hard left, breaking Rossi’s nose.
“I hate violence,” said Marcus, shaking his fingers.
Rossi staggered backwards, holding his face. The guard came across the room and hit Rossi again. Pushed him backwards against the golden balcony railing. Grabbed the fat man by his knees and lifted. The parapet acted like a fulcrum and Rossi tipped back and upside down. He tumbled onto the stadium seating twenty feet below, a collision unhealthy for all parties.
Marcus leaned over enough to watch. “Ain’t gonna go well for the guy, folks realize who he is and that his bones broke.”
“Good,” said the guard. “Killed my brother.”
Indicating the chair with his gun, Marcus said, “Take the euros. Should be three million. We in a hurry and can’t carry that much anyway.”
“I don’t…my English."
Veronica translated, “Prendi l'euro. È tuo ora.”
“Veramente?”
“Sì, prendi i soldi.
Take the money.
The guard fell to his knees. Took a golden cross out of his shirt and kissed it. Thanked them in Italian. Tried not to cry.
Duane picked up the twelve aurum and deposited the diamonds into his pocket. Snapped the briefcase closed, assuming ownership of the American currency.
“Time to go, babe.”
“Mackenzie,” said Veronica, watching the heaving throng below. “Where’s Mackenzie?”
52
First things first.
Beat the hell out of Ernst, the stupid German bounty hunter. Vital? Possibly not. Important? Deeply.
For the moment I was hidden by the raging riot but the locals were recognizing me in a hurry. My loud shorts were a dead giveaway.
A lot of things didn’t make sense.
How had the Prince known the power would go out? Yesterday he’d told me to survive until the third round. He’d known then. But why not the first round?
Could he be working with Meg, the physician? The tailor had told me the blonde girl was on my side. Yet she didn’t strike me as possessing enough moxie to arrange a coup such as this. There must be a third party involved, but who?
The fuming security chief (guy with flashing Bluetooth earpieces) and I saw one another at the same time, a few feet apart in the mayhem. He had a two-handed grip on his black Benelli pistol, and he brought it around in a sweeping motion. I got my left hand around the barrel, ducked under and pointed it skyward. I brought my right fist up between his arms, an uppercut into his chin. His jaw and teeth clunked, a sound unlike any other, and his head snapped back.
“Shouldn’t you be congratulating me?” I said. “I won.”
There’d be no congratulations. I was a prisoner to him, a frequent pain in his ass, and he the warden.
I hit him again—he dodged his head to the side but I still caught his cheekbone. He was stuck; if he let go of the gun, he was dead; if he didn’t let go of the gun, I’d keep pounding him.
He tried head-butting me but I popped him in the nose first.
“Not so fun when your prisoner isn’t shackled, is it.”
We rotated around one another, him jerking at the pistol, firing at the ceiling. Overhead, pieces of the stained glass broke. Bam bam bam, I hit him three more teeth-rattling uppercuts.
He released the pistol with his left hand. Awkwardly kicked at me, and went for a second pistol on his thigh. It was a good move. I jerked the black Benelli pistol out of his right hand. He stepped back and drew the gun off the thigh holster. A small Glock.
One of his goons materialized. Young guy, but big. Shaved head. Wearing the crimson jacket. His pistol was out so I spun away, moving to his left. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger twice. Missed me, but didn’t miss the crowd behind.
Guns are dangerous, awful things. More screaming.
Bluetooth had his Glock up, fighting through the crowd towards me.
The goon with a shaved head was going to shoot again, hurt more people. I lunged, pushed the newfound Benelli in my hand firmly against his shoulder and shot him.
He was no pro. He dropped the gun, screwed up his eyes and screamed at the ceiling. Face turned purple. It wasn’t so much the pain, but the disorientation and stomach drop that comes with being shot. He’d live.
Some inner alarm rang. Too much time with my back to Bluetooth. I dropped and twisted. Landed on the floor, gun held with both hands, straight out between my knees.
Bluetooth fired and missed over my head.
I shot back. His ear puckered, the lower half bursting into a red pulp. The flashing earpiece broke and popped free.
Sweet poetry.
He still held his gun.
I shot him in the thigh and he dropped, like both legs quit working. Gun clattered away.
I stood. His goon had fled into the maelstrom of people. I crouched next to Bluetooth and put the barrel at his temple.
“Shoulda let me go. Truce? Or death. You get a choice,” I said.
He spit blood at me. I whipped him in the mouth with his own Benelli.
I smiled happily.
“Truce?”
“Truce,” he said.
“Oh boy!” I jerked two full pistol magazines off his belt. No pockets in which to put the magazines, how embarrassing, so I slid them under my super tight shorts.
The locals were fighting against the hotel security forces and the Camorra soldiers loyal to Rossi. It’d started as shoving and shouting, but more gunfire was breaking out. I was one drop in the sea of heaving humanity.
Still came the chants, Yan-kee Yan-kee! The men around me pounded me on the back.
This was a mess. A farrago of which I wanted no part.
Where was Ernst?
Overhead, the speakers turned back on. Power being restored. Ferrari declared me the winner. The Prince was being attended to by his medical team. The orchestra, somehow, someway, still played and made everything worse with its frenetic driving beat. I shoved my way through the crowd far enough to fire twice with Bluetooth’s pistol—I shot the cello and I fired over the head of the musicians.
The music abated. Finally.
On to more important problems.
Where was the fabled assassin sent for me?
And how the hell did I get out of here?
53
Marcus Morgan, Tattoo Neck, and Veronica paused in the hallway at a stairwell leading to the roof. Howling down the corridor was the sound of a helicopter warming its engines. Maybe more than one helicopter.
An Italian chant none recognized was reverberating through the floors and walls. It was loud and haunting and portended only bad things for the structure and beautification of the Teatro di Montagna.
Men in crimson jackets ran everywhere. Other hotel staff hid in doorways.
Tattoo Neck, still a little spooked by the death of his boss, stepped into the stairwell and looked up.
“Yo Marcus, you sure we can take Rossi’s chopper?”
For the moment, he was ignored.
“Where is Mackenzie?” said Veronica.
Marcus had a phone to his ear. “Manny ain’t answering.”
“I’m going to look for him,” she said, still gripping the .380.
“No. We’ll go secure a ride first. Manny will…” Marcus quit talking because Veronica had already left.
54
The Yan-kee cries had stopped and I was no longer being patted on the back. At least for the moment. The swelling fight between Rossi’s men and the hotel security team and the other Camorrista occupied all of their scant attention now. Strife had blossomed into full civil war and the Teatro di Montagna into Gettysburg. Their hero, one Mackenzie August, couldn’t be worshiped while they fought.
Fame is a fickle friend.
I ran up one of the stadium’s wide exits like an Olympic sprinter. A sprinter who couldn’t run fast, one who’d made the Olympics through a technicality, one who had few functional joints.
I heard a crack and the painted concrete wall to my left issued a puff of fragments. Someone had shot at me from behind. I tucked my left shoulder under and dodged to my right. A sudden move, intended to throw off the shooter’s aim.
Obviously.
Ernst charged after me. The German bounty hunter was tall and thin and he ran like a giraffe. He was a sniper, not a fighter. Graceless and gangly, and he didn’t shoot well on the run.
However the electrical burns on my wrist hurt. My lips were bleeding and swelling. My groin still ached. My throat burned. I was exhausted from lack of sleep. Excuses, but real ones.
I returned fire at Ernst and I missed. He fired back and missed. A couple of pros, we were.
I kept moving to my left, sidestepping, pistol steadied with both hands, my left arm pinned against my ribs, my right arm nearly straight, slightly cocked at the elbow, keeping the pistol at eye level.
Another round from Ernst. I felt it score along the right side of my abdomen. The bullet hadn’t penetrated, or if it had not deeply.
Behind him, a blonde woman. Meg. “Mackenzie!” she screamed.
“Told you to run, Ernst,” I said.
I squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked, a bright roar. His ballistic vest buckled. He was moving at a run and the bullet’s impact with his chest caused him to miss a step. His gun arm trailed upwards and his next shot went five feet over my head.
I quit sidestepping. Steadied. Fired again and the vest crinkled at his stomach.
My shots hadn’t penetrated but the impacts hurt. He lost control. Moving too fast, like a man on stilts unable to stop. He fell to his knees near me, put his left hand out to halt his collapse, tried to aim with his right.
I stepped forward and hit him in the face. An awkward left hook/uppercut swing, because he was below my belt. Caught him in his right eye.
He fired wild, desperate, missing.
From twelve inches away I yanked the trigger—one blast and the slide locked back. Empty. I ejected the spent clip, pulled a full magazine from my tight shorts, slammed it home, chambered a round, and fired twice more.
