by Kim Foster
I squeezed out of sight and crept back to our compartment. I yanked the door open as the train gave a small lurch. We were picking up speed quickly.
“We have to get off this train,” I said to Ethan.
He was in motion immediately. “They don’t usually bother with passport checks once you’re inside the EU, right?” he said, packing his bag.
“They still retain the right to make random spot checks.”
“Random, my ass.”
My thoughts exactly. This was Hendrickx’s doing.
We packed our stuff up in less than a minute. Now we just had the small problem of getting off a moving train.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ethan swung the backpack onto his back and followed Cat out of the train compartment. They needed a way off this train and they needed it now. It wasn’t going to be easy. They didn’t have parachute packs so a BASE jump was impossible. Pulling the emergency stop cord would be incredibly suspicious, shining a spotlight on their escape.
There was only one decent option: they would have to jump off the back of the train.
He agreed with Cat that this must have been Hendrickx’s doing. But how Interpol had figured out they were on board he had no idea. Ethan pushed the questions away—he’d have to think about it later. For now, they had a job to do.
Cat knew what they had to do, too, clearly, because without discussing it, she began heading to the back of the train. Once the train slowed to go around a curve in the tracks, they could make a well-timed jump. The key was in the landing.
Ethan tightened his jaw as they made their way through a car of lounge seats. People were relaxing after dinner, reading or talking and sipping cognac. Mellow jazz music played softly. In spite of his pounding heart, Ethan moved casually, like he was in no hurry, pretending to look for an open seat. Drawing attention would be a bad move at this point.
They reached the back of the lounge car and glided the doors open to the rearmost section of the train, a storage car, filled with boxes and refrigerated supplies and unfortunately, two men, waiting for them.
Caliga.
It was as obvious to Ethan as if they’d been wearing name tags. In the next second he recognized them specifically—these two had been working with Sandor last year, when Cat had been in a race for the Fabergé egg. And now, they were blocking the way out.
The door slid shut behind Ethan and Cat, sealing all four of them in.
One of the men, with a shaved head like a cue ball, glared at Ethan with an unpleasant curl to his lip. The other, with eerie pale eyes, sported a faint smile. What did they want? To warn them? Block their exodus so Interpol would snatch them? Or were they there to kill them?
Ethan knew he could take down one of the men. He flicked a glance at Cat, standing on high alert beside him. She was a good fighter. But these guys were huge, and mean-looking. Ethan tried to quickly assess their weaknesses. He couldn’t see too many.
“Cat Montgomery. Ethan Jones,” said the one with the pale eyes. “It looks like you two think you’re going somewhere. Too bad, this is a very nice train.”
Ordinarily, Ethan would have opted to stall for time, giving himself a few moments to size them up further. In this scenario, that wouldn’t work. Passport control was behind them, making their way through the train, and they’d be there any minute.
“If you’re thinking of going to Venice,” the other man said, “you should reconsider.”
“Oh, is that where this train is going?” asked Ethan. The smart-ass comment triggered an angry flare in both mens’ eyes.
“You can’t win, and you can’t get the ring back. And if you try anything stupid, Felix Tucker will pay the price.”
Ethan cringed, and he felt Cat stumble slightly beside him. So Caliga knew who Felix was; they hadn’t been fooled by his disguise. Which meant they must have taken him hostage for a reason, like Ethan had suspected. But what was the reason? Ethan still needed to know. The Caliga men had revealed one useful fact, however: Felix was still alive.
“Ring?” Ethan said innocently. “No idea what you’re talking about.” Ethan could sense Cat’s tension as she stood very close on his left. She’d recovered, and he knew she was ready. Her muscles coiled.
The bald man, the bigger of the two, narrowed his eyes. “Oh right. You’re going to Venice for—what—the romance?”
The men laughed, a nasty sound. Then all eyes slid to Cat. “Can’t blame you, though,” the pale-eyed man said, looking meaningfully at Cat. “Still, there’s a message our boss wanted us to pass on to you.”
A second later, Ethan dropped down low as the larger man launched himself at him, and Cat leapt to the opposite side, evading the attack of the other man. Luckily Ethan was ready for the impact, which was like a freight train. He pivoted to the side, preventing a full frontal takedown, and instead kicked the man’s legs out from under him as he churned past.
Ethan had to assume they would kill if they got the chance.
He reached down, disabling the man with an arm twist, pulling up, pummeling him with a kick and a sharp blow. Ethan was stronger than he’d ever been before, and it felt good. But the man was up again, not to be subdued that easily; he kicked into Ethan’s stomach, taking his breath for a second, then punched him in the face. The pain sheared into Ethan’s brain. The man drove Ethan backward into a pile of boxes. Ethan fought to stay in control. He brought a fist up, catching the man on the side of the jaw. He felt the man go momentarily limp. He took that opportunity to flip the man away, then deliver one sharp jab to the throat. The man dropped, unconscious.
Ethan looked sharply toward Cat. At that moment, she was rolling out of the way as the other man launched himself at her. She was using her size as an advantage by letting her attacker do the work. She kicked up as he flew through the air, carrying him right over top of her, and sending him headfirst into a refrigerator.
The man dropped down in a crumpled heap.
Ethan allowed a small, grim smile. He knew neither man would be unconscious for long, but they would be dazed enough to not be able to stop their escape from the train. He reached out to Cat and helped her up.
Through the window between the cars Ethan glimpsed the passport control officers entering the last lounge car. They would reach the storage car in a minute. “Let’s go!” Ethan shouted to Cat.
They dashed to the very back of the car and Ethan ripped open the back door. The sound of the train on the tracks was deafening. Wind rushed in Ethan’s ears. The late evening sky was a deep indigo, pricked by a few stars and a silver crescent moon.
Ideally, Ethan would have chosen to wait until the train took a bend to leap off, but they didn’t have that luxury anymore.
Ethan squinted outside for a soft spot to land. They were in Italy, not yet Venice, but growing closer. They were through the Alps, on the other side, in Northern Italy, the Lombardy region of foothills and rolling grassy farmland and small villages. They would have to take a leap of faith. Literally.
“I’ll go first,” Ethan said. “If I don’t make it, don’t try it. Just find somewhere to hide. Okay?”
Cat nodded.
Ethan got as low to the floor of the train as possible, and bent his knees so he could leap away from the train car. His stomach flip-flopped like mad. He jumped perpendicular to the train, as far away from the train car as possible. His first goal was to not get sucked under the train.
His second goal was to land without breaking every bone in his body—most importantly his neck.
He covered his head protectively with his arms, and felt the ground come up fast. He stretched out to get all his body parts hitting the ground at the same time, knowing if any one bone hit first, it would likely break. He smashed into the ground with a grunt, and all the air left his lungs. He rolled like a log, bumping and crashing. He squeezed his eyes tight and prayed.
After several seconds of rolling along, Ethan came to a rest.
He forced his eyes open in time to see
Cat flying off the train—same formation, same technique. He remained motionless, scanning his body for the sharp pain of a severe injury. His tissues screamed and throbbed in many areas, but no one particular place more than the others. No vital areas seemed to be hurt.
He would have been happy to lie there for a while, but urgency to go help Cat forced him up to a crouch, and then an agonizing stand. The train was clacking away in the distance now, growing farther and farther away.
He found Cat after several minutes of hunting. Lying in a field, not moving. His heart spasmed. “Montgomery!” he shouted, rushing to her side, eyes raking her body for signs of blood, injuries, broken bones. “Oh God. Cat! Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
My eyes opened and I stared up at Ethan’s face, gazing down at mine with extreme concern. I groaned and shifted a little. “I’m okay. I think.” Where were we? I couldn’t seem to remember anything. The ground felt cool and hard, and covered with something grassy. Were we in a field? The black sky told me it was nighttime. “What happened?”
He sat back and exhaled. “Thank God you’re awake. You had me worried there, Montgomery.”
I attempted to sit up, and everything swam. The world tilted and I felt a wave of nausea. I lay back down. “How long was I unconscious?”
“After the train jump, I think you were out for about a minute.”
Train jump?
Ethan checked me for injuries. When he reached the back of my head, he winced. “You’ve got a big bump here. Do you remember hitting your head?”
Fragments of the fall were starting to come back to me. I remembered flying through the night air, then hitting the ground, then rolling out of control . . .
“I must have hit my head as I rolled. Maybe a rock or something.”
Ethan shone the light of his cell phone in my eyes. “Your pupils are okay. Can you feel everything? Your hands and feet?”
I wiggled my fingers and toes. He nodded and kept checking me, feeling the back of my neck. I tried for a smile. “Do you know what you’re doing, Ethan, or are you making this up as you go?”
“I learned a little first aid when I was in Kenya, working in the field.” His normally lighthearted tone was gone. A deep frown creased his forehead.
My head was pounding now, throbbing like a toothache.
“I think you have a concussion,” Ethan said. I closed my eyes as another pulse of nausea surged over me. When I opened them, Ethan sat back on his heels and looked around, jaw flexing. I knew we couldn’t stay there. We had to get moving.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
“I can try.”
He helped me up and I gritted my teeth through the dizziness. “We need to get you to a doctor,” he said.
I tightened my mouth. I knew we didn’t have time for that.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had a concussion before—it’ll wear off.” When I was a kid, in gymnastics, I’d smacked my head on the balance beam. The concussion from that had laid me low for three days. But we didn’t have three days for me to be out of commission now.
All we could do, for now, was keep moving.
Ethan helped me with each step, and slowly, I was able to walk a little more easily. The throbbing and the dizziness remained unchanged, but I pushed through it. The midnight sky arched overhead, its velvety curtain concealing our movements. We spent the night pressing on, journeying through Northern Italy to get to Venice, in the easternmost part of the country.
Ethan wanted to stop but I insisted we keep going. He checked me periodically to make sure I wasn’t worsening, and the look of concern in his eyes remained fixed.
We hitchhiked a little, with an old Italian farmer in a falling-apart truck, then took a bus from a tiny town we stumbled upon. By the time we reached the Veneto region we were cold and exhausted and I felt terrible. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Ethan because we were almost there. We just had the task of getting ourselves into the city of Venice itself. Being built upon a lagoon, there were only a couple of ways on and off the island, and that list didn’t include cars. I was not keen to get on another train, and it wouldn’t have been smart, anyway. They would be monitoring all trains now.
So we opted for the water route, chartering a powerboat.
It was sunrise as we approached Venice from the sea, the air smelling of fish and salt. As we crossed the choppy water, Venice rose up like a mirage. Hazy sunlight bathed the glittering city in a lemony glow. I blinked, gazing at the miraculous sight: the spire of Saint Mark’s Campanile, the Doge’s Palace like a frothy wedding cake.
Ethan steered the boat right into the city, mooring it in a small canal off Piazza San Marco. Palazzos and houses in shades of ocher and clay and cream lined every canal, rising up in a stately manner, their ornately carved front doors opening directly onto the water.
I shivered. Somewhere in this tangled maze of canals and piazzas lay Caliga’s headquarters, where they were keeping the Lionheart Ring and where Felix was a prisoner. At the thought, the tall Gothic windows took on a more sinister feeling. Were we being watched, even now?
We had no idea where Caliga was hiding. Truthfully, there was a great deal we didn’t know about Caliga. The identity of their leader, for example. Who had taken the helm after Sandor had fallen from Big Ben to his death? Although I had to admit I had never felt fully convinced that Sandor had been the top man anyway. He was too young; there must have been someone above him.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the photograph Templeton had forwarded me, the only clue we had to the leader’s identity. It was a grainy, nondescript photo of a man with his head turned and partially obscured by a telephone box. It was not helpful.
“This is the best we have?” I’d asked Templeton.
“Unfortunately,” he’d said.
Ethan and I left the chartered boat tied to the moorings and entered the streets of Venice, making our way to our lodgings—a small, inconspicuous hotel overlooking a tiny campo, very discreet and off the beaten track. We briefly stopped to pick up a few essentials, water and clean clothes topping the list.
I swayed as we entered the lobby, and Ethan helped me to a soft armchair, worry creasing his face. “Stay here. I’ll go check us in.”
I lost track of time, sitting in the lobby, and things grew somewhat fuzzy. Then Ethan approached, holding up a key card. “Our room is ready—number three-fourteen. Let’s get you to bed.”
Our room?
Ethan noted my reaction. “Montgomery, I’m not letting you out of my sight. The most critical phase after a head injury is the first twenty-four hours. I have to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t slip into a coma or anything.”
In the room, while Ethan ordered room service, I showered and then pulled a fluffy hotel robe around me. I took a deep breath. The therapeutic value of a hot shower is not to be underestimated. The cloudlike bed beckoned me irresistibly, heaped with feather pillows and white linens. I lay down; I would just close my eyes for a moment . . .
Several hours later I woke with a start. Ethan was standing over me, gazing at me worriedly. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty . . . how do you feel?”
I slowly sat up and rubbed my eyes, attempting to clear the cobwebs from my brain. It took me several minutes to remember where I was.
Venice. We had to find Felix. I sat up more fully and my head spun. The pain had lessened, but the dizziness and fog were still there.
“I asked Templeton for the name of a discreet doctor in Venice,” Ethan said. “Someone AB&T uses. Unfortunately, the only one he had on record is out of town right now. Templeton is working on finding a substitute.”
I knew we couldn’t go to a regular hospital. It would broadcast our presence to everyone who was hunting us.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “If it’s a concussion, it will have to get better on its own. There’s not much a doctor can do anyway.”
Ethan didn’t look convinced. But he also looked like he had som
ething else to say.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We have a meeting in Piazza San Marco,” Ethan said. “Are you up for it?” He explained that while I’d been sleeping, Templeton had also told Ethan about a rendezvous he’d set up. We were to meet a contact in the Piazza San Marco. Someone who could help us with our quest.
I dressed as quickly as I could. When we walked out of the hotel, I was surprised to see it was already dusk. I had slept most of the day? Well, it was probably a good thing.
We strolled the labyrinthine streets of Venice, matching our pace to everyone around us to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Fortunately for me in my current state, people sauntered slowly here. Usually with gelato in hand.
“Why the mystery about this meeting?” I asked Ethan as we walked. “Why can’t we know who it is?”
“No idea.”
We walked alongside the Grand Canal, past the Rialto Bridge that arched across the water. The waters of the canal shifted in the dusky purple sky of twilight, turning reflective, looking like mercury. Barbershop poles speared out of the water as mooring posts. Lanterns reflected their light into the canal. Somewhere near the bridge, someone was playing an accordion; the romantic notes floated their way to my ears.
As we walked, Ethan periodically glanced at me, attempting to conceal his concern but not doing a very good job. And though I struggled to appear fine, worry gnawed away at my belly. If this concussion didn’t pass quickly, how was I going to do the job? How could I possibly get the ring and rescue Felix?
Beautiful, carved palazzos rose up from the waters, and bridges arched across tiny canals. We passed cafés and restaurants, alongside the canal. Smells of garlic and grilled seafood curled up my nose. Shop windows glowed, filled with glittering displays of carnival masks and colored glass made into fanciful sculpted shapes.
It was a magical city, trapped in time. Without the presence of cars, you easily forgot you were part of the modern world. A warm summer breeze stirred my hair as we crossed a bridge.
