by Thomas Locke
Vicenzo was a bull of a man with a violent rep. “We’re going. Now.”
“Sorry. I had specific orders from the Prince.”
Vicenzo slipped a silenced pistol from the pocket of his raincoat. “I’m giving the orders now.”
Montefiori yelled, “Carlo!”
There was a satisfactory click, one loud enough to be heard over the rain hammering the car roof.
Vicenzo froze in the act of taking aim.
“I respectfully ask that you drop your weapon,” Montefiori said. “Carlo, if he raises the gun, kill them all.”
The night’s silence was a most effective response.
When the pistol dropped into the puddle, Montefiori said, “Get back in your car. Please give the Prince my sincere apologies. But it is not professional to change tactics without informing your allies.”
“Wait.” Vicenzo started to reach into his coat but halted when Montefiori’s own fist suddenly sprouted a gun. “I am reaching for my phone!”
“Slowly.” Montefiori raised his voice. “You in the car, keep your hands where we can see them. You might get me. But my friend has a nightscope and flash suppressor and will take you all.”
Vicenzo answered his phone, spoke softly, then said, “The capo wants a word.”
“Put the phone on the car’s hood and back away.” He did so, and Montefiori moved forward, picked up the phone, and said, “It did not have to be this way.”
The Prince demanded, “What is happening?”
“I am deeply sorry, capo. But Vicenzo came with five men. He claims to be boss here. All due respect, capo, but we cannot proceed in this fashion.”
“No, no, wait. First, please accept my sincerest apologies. I will deal with Vicenzo.”
“All due respect, capo, but you are in Milan and I am here in the rain with your five men.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You will speak with my uncle. He will call me and confirm. You will promise him that we will handle all dealings with the Americans. We will receive payment. You will take one-third. We will part as allies.”
“I agree to all of this.”
“And Vicenzo will tell me in front of his men that he operates only on my orders.”
The Prince said, “Give Vicenzo the phone.”
29
Charlie checked his watch and rose from his bed. He still had almost two hours to go, but he wasn’t sleeping anyway. He decided to put the time to better use than lying there and staring at the ceiling.
He kept the lights off. His room was in the servants’ quarters on the lowest floor. The walls were raw granite. The windows were set in frames three feet thick, the shutters operated by a system of rope pulleys. Gabriella had offered him a room upstairs with the scientists, but he had no interest in adding fuel to Brett’s fire. He liked how Irma and Julio had already gravitated to the lower level, shared only with the taciturn woman from some Soviet satellite state who cleaned and skulked in equal measure. Charlie yearned to be closer to Gabriella. But taking a bedroom along the upstairs hall would not change that.
With the shutters closed, the room was far darker than the night outside. Charlie touched each item of furniture, placing it in his brain. He began with stretches and calisthenics, then moved to a series of katas. His motions were restricted to fit the space he had, which was not much. He did not shut his eyes because he could not see anyway. By the time the hour was done, he was breathing hard. He was also far more easy about doing battle in the dead of night.
Charlie slipped on his clothes and knocked on Irma’s door. She answered instantly, already dressed. “I hate going in unarmed.”
She had said the exact same thing before going to bed. Charlie replied, “There’s still time for a coffee.”
“Do I look like I need caffeine?” She fell into step beside him. “Thirty years on the force and I never went into action without a piece.”
“No guns.”
“How many are coming at us?”
Charlie unlocked the front door, checked the night, saw nothing but rain. He stepped aside for her to exit, shut and locked the door behind them, and replied, “More than us.”
Irma gave a tight hiss but said nothing more. Charlie liked that. A lot. There was nothing wrong with warriors mouthing off before combat. Long as they knew when to shut up and follow orders.
Over the course of the day, Charlie had identified eight hideaways inside the grounds. They ranged from a fissure in the granite cliff to a walnut tree whose two middle branches joined and formed a platform broad enough for six men. But the last he had found was by far the best.
The kitchen had two ancient fireplaces. The main one could burn man-sized logs. The second one stood in the corner between the stone sink and the front window and had once been used for baking bread. At least, that was what Gabriella had told him. Charlie’s interest had not been in the fireplace but rather the chimney, which bulged out from the villa’s front wall, forming a narrow crevice to the right of the main entrance. Charlie was certain it had been intended to hold an unseen guard. The inhabitant could observe both the gates and the front door, but the stone chimney and the upper-floor balcony shielded the guard from view. And the flue would keep the guard warm all night long.
Charlie tipped his hat to the long-dead architect and said to Irma, “I want you to take up station in there.”
“How can you be sure they’ll come tonight?”
“They’re coming.”
“You and the lady did that dream sequence thingy again?”
“They call it ascending.”
“Whatever. You’re sure it works?”
“I’m sure.”
“You shouldn’t spread us out like this.”
“Put your feet on those stones—see how they protrude from the wall like steps?”
She remained where she was. “I should be down in the gatehouse with Julio.”
“Irma.”
“What.”
“Your training was all about cleaning up messes. My job is making sure the messes don’t happen.”
She reluctantly accepted his hand and climbed the stone steps. She fit in the alcove like it was made for her. “I feel naked without my piece.”
“You heard the lady. No guns. Reach behind you. I left you a crowbar.”
She whined, “Julio is completely isolated.”
“Exactly. Think of him as our tethered goat.”
Charlie entered the trees between the house and the front gates and climbed the one he had selected that afternoon. The rain slowed him, but not much. He perched on a branch and watched the street. Time passed with the same ease as the rain. The night was utterly still. He could see his breath but could not feel the chill. His inner fires were burning hot now. He was exactly where he should be. Doing the only job he had ever been good at. As alive as any man could possibly become.
Twenty minutes later, Charlie drifted back to stand beneath the chimney alcove. He was so juiced he drifted above the puddles and the gravel, touching nothing. When he was within range, Irma hissed, “I really should be down there with Julio.”
“Irma, listen to me. You are our last line of defense. Whatever happens, nobody gets through that front door. You read me?”
She released her defiance with a lingering sigh. “Whatever you say, chief.”
“Good.” He called softly, “Two cars. Nine men. I say again, nine.”
She stiffened. “They’re here?”
“Shh. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Who else is . . .” In the light off the front porch, Charlie saw her stiffen and track a silent wraith who plucked himself from the night and drifted down toward the gate. “What was that?”
“Our secret weapon. Stay alert. They’re coming.”
30
Julio didn’t mind the duty. When Irma had first asked him about playing night watchman, he had made out like it was pure garbage detail. As in, I came six thousand miles for this? But the truth was, he wa
s kind of pleased. Not a lot. But some.
The night was raw for May. The wind blew straight off the huge mountains Julio had only seen once since their arrival. But he could smell them, which was a real kick. He stuck his head out the gatehouse door, the rain falling in a solid sheet off the eaves, and took a big breath. The fragrance of glacier ice as old as history was unmistakable.
The manor gates were rusted open. Which really didn’t matter since the wall was no great shakes, maybe fifteen feet high and so crumbly Julio could have scaled it in about three heartbeats. He had pointed that out to Irma on day one. But she had shrugged and said if he didn’t want the job she’d go find somebody else. Just Irma giving him cop-speak, on account of how there wasn’t anybody else, and they both knew it.
It was his third night on duty, each one colder than the last. The villa’s little stone gatehouse was down by the road. There was no heater and the door wouldn’t shut properly. The wind howled through a crack in the side window. As usual, Irma had sent him off with a thermos of hot coffee and some serious cookies in a box advertising a Como pastry shop.
Truth was, Julio was totally cool with the whole gig. Midnight to seven, he was on duty. After Irma relieved him, he went up the hill and entered a kitchen that smelled like the Italian corner of heaven—fresh-ground coffee and newly baked bread and those little chickadees from all over the globe sitting there in their sleepy-time outfits and singing his name. Good morning, Julio. Are you tired, Julio? Here, take the first cup of coffee, you need it more than me, Julio. He just loved being the center of attention.
But the biggest surprise of all was how much Julio actually enjoyed taking orders from Charlie and Irma both. Before this gig, the one refrain he’d heard from every coach or teacher he’d ever had was, Julio has trouble with authority. But here he was, third man on the totem pole, just digging the scene.
Until this week, he had never been farther from Satellite Beach than the regional surf-offs at North Carolina’s Outer Banks. The other kids called him an animal in the water, fighting for blood and every point and every scrap of wave. He’d always figured surfing was his one and only ticket out of town.
Back when he was little, his dad had started him out on a little thruster, small as a boogie board, the two of them laughing and screaming and sharing waves. Sharing life. Then his dad got sent up and his mom got sick, and by the time Julio turned thirteen, surfing was the only thing that cleared his head of the pain and rage and bone-deep loneliness. The only thing that kept him clean. The only thing he was good at. From starting horn to final buzzer, every heat, Julio was exactly what they all said.
An animal.
Only now, standing here at the edge of night, Julio could see just how much he’d lost in the process. Watching the rain fall in a sheet solid as a midnight wave, he confessed what his heart had known for a long time already. He’d lost hold of the fun.
Talk about ready to leave that world behind, man, he would have paid for this gig. In blood.
That was as far as Julio got on that internal ride. Because right then a human bear stepped out of the rain and shoved him back through the open gatehouse door.
Julio flew through the air, his outstretched arms tearing everything off the side counter. His heart rate zinged from a midnight shuffle to Ferrari redline as he flew. He bounced off the rear wall and fell in a heap on the floor.
The guy wore a black overcoat that turned his massive frame into a square. He growled something that might have been Italian.
Julio had years of experience dealing with hard men. He smiled politely. Kept his hands visible. Stayed planted on the stone floor. Very still. “Sorry, dog. No hablas Eye-taliano.”
The man stepped into the gatehouse, compressing the air. The wind moaned about the open doorway. The man said in English, “You scream. Make noise. I help.” The bear reached into his pocket and came out with a Taser. “Dog.”
“Hey, you want me to sing, no problem.”
The man took aim. “Too late, dog.”
At that moment a phantom menace appeared in the doorway behind the man. Julio assumed it was a phantom because it moved too fast to be human.
The bear of a man had just enough time for his eyes to widen as the phantom took hold of his neck. Then he went over backward. Hard.
As in, this phantom tossed a guy weighing maybe three hundred pounds so high over his head that the guy crashed into the top of the gatehouse door frame.
The bear landed facedown, half in and half out of the gatehouse. His arms and legs twitched and he gave off a soft ack. The phantom shifted over to stand on top of him. He cocked his free arm up high, like a bird’s wing. The hand drifted down and back, striking the guy’s neck and then returning to the same bird-wing position, faster than Julio could blink. The man gave a final choking groan and went still.
Start to finish, it all took less than about one second.
Julio scrambled to his feet and realized he still needed to breathe.
The phantom was black on black—jeans, knit top, gloves, black stripes on his rain-slicked face. He watched Julio claw for breath. “You gonna croak on me?”
Julio shook his head and kept wheezing.
The phantom grinned. “That was pretty cool, you giving the guy lip. I liked that.”
That was enough to steady him. “Who are you?”
“Later.” He held up the bear’s Taser. “You know how to use this?”
“Point and shoot, right?”
“Pretty much. The wires don’t reach more than about ten feet and the aim is no better than a derringer. You need to use it, you get real close.”
“Wait. There’s more of them?”
“Nine minus this guy.” He set the Taser on the counter by the door. “You use it, pop the probes loose with a flick of your wrist. Give it ninety seconds to fully recharge.”
“What about you?”
The phantom grinned. “Do I look like I need that thing? Give me a hand, let’s move this guy indoors.”
Julio helped drag the man fully inside the gatehouse and flip him over so he lay on his back. The phantom slipped a metal tube from his pocket. “Use this to fasten his hands and his ankles. He starts moving around, seal his lips. Warn him you’ll do the same to the nostrils if he lets out a peep. He’ll behave. Believe me.”
Julio inspected the tube. He was expecting some high-tech military secret weapon. Instead he read, “Super Glue?”
“You use what you got, bro.”
Then the phantom stepped through the door, into the rain. And was gone.
No sound. No real movement like any human would make. The phantom just flowed out and joined the night.
Julio got to work. Or tried to. His hands were dancing to the same tune as his heart, quick little shudders that wracked him so hard he basically risked supergluing himself to the dude. He wound up putting so much of the stuff on the guy’s hands they looked like they were coated in Pancake House syrup. Julio slapped the palms together, held them a second, then dropped them and decided, this dude was never gonna get free.
“You’re not done yet?”
Julio’s feet actually left the earth. Just levitated up about six feet.
If the phantom noticed he gave no sign. He just dumped another inert body on the stone floor and said, “You better speed things up. Otherwise our assembly line’ll get all out of whack.”
“How am I supposed to glue his legs?”
“You look like a smart kid. You figure it out.”
The phantom vanished again. Julio was watching closely this time. The rain seemed to split like a curtain, then shut again.
The phantom was back while Julio worked on the second guy’s hands. He deposited yet another body down beside the last one. “There’s still more out there.”
Julio said, “In that case, we need more glue.”
“You serious?” He bent over for a closer look. Julio caught a whiff of the guy. If danger had a scent, it smelled like him. The phantom said, “The
se dudes won’t be scratching themselves for about a year.”
“Too much?”
He slapped two more tubes down on the counter. “Ain’t my way to criticize a recruit, not when he’s getting the job done.”
Then the night was punctured by the coughs of silenced weapons. Hard slaps of sound, quick flashes of close-quarters lightning. A shout. Another. The phantom was already moving before Julio sorted out the noise. “Somebody’s started singing my tune.”
31
Charlie let the first attackers filter through the front gate. They were quiet enough for thugs trained in raw violence. They held to the shadows on the side away from the gatehouse and moved up the main drive, aiming for the front door. Charlie doubted Julio saw them at all.
There was a space after the first four invaders. Charlie noted how the two teams did not move in tight cohesion. The point of infiltration was vital, particularly when entering unknown terrain. This group had just made a mistake. One was all Charlie needed.
The second team of five men entered. He watched the last man approach the gatehouse, only to confront their secret weapon.
Charlie knew his almost-invisible friend would handle the second team. He slipped in behind the last man in the first group and made a standard triple strike. First punch to the left kidney, the unexpected blow delivering enough pain to stun the assailant. Second to the spine at heart level, breaking off the air needed to call out. Third to the carotid artery. Three strikes in one fluid action, just under a second from start to finish. Charlie lifted the man’s legs free of the earth, pulled him into the shadows, and slammed him into a tree. Hard. Charlie followed this with a final chop to the nerve center where the jaw met the neck.
Charlie silently lowered the unconscious man to the ground and made a quick search. He tossed the thug’s silenced pistol into the darkness. Ditto for the knife. Then Charlie hit pay dirt, a collapsible baton. Primo quality, so light he figured it for titanium and carbon steel.
As he headed back toward the gravel path leading to the villa, a voice ahead and to the right hissed, “Paolo?”
