The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

From the entryway, Hannity spotted Cato, running hard and fast. He lifted his MP5 and rattled off a spray of bullets that peppered the rows of marble around the boy. As he did so, another person flew from hiding, moving quickly in the opposite direction. Swerving to aim at them, Hannity noticed that it was a girl, and eased off the trigger. Right now, he was only after Cato. Artemis hadn’t said anything about a girl.

  Tracking back to Cato, Hannity saw the boy dive behind a thick column. Cursing, he fired into the stone and advanced. There was a flash of light, then the raw bite of a 9MM slug ricocheted off his breastplate. Hannity recoiled in surprise and saw Cato taking aim again. Two more shots found him, socking him backwards into the front desk. Spinning, Hannity dove over the counter and hunkered down.

  “Damn,” he winced. “Kid’s a shooter—”

  Woods chips sprayed around him, making him cringe and roll to the side. For an instant, he didn’t understand what was happening, then it came to him. Cato was shooting through the desk, trying to force him back into the open. Clever kid.

  Hannity crawled on his elbows, making his way toward the end of the counter. Continuing to fire through the lacquered wood, Cato chased him with burning rounds that blew splinters in every direction. Hannity cursed louder and kept crawling. The Cato he had been shown in his dreams was just a boy, mortal and unimpressive. Clearly, Artemis had underestimated him. More holes appeared in the desk, and a round burned through the tip of Hannity’s boot. Out of space to hide, he issued a high whistle, and fired wildly over the counter in Cato’s direction.

  Driven back, the boy retreated, giving Hannity a chance to vault the end of the desk for new cover. He spotted an old baroque fountain nearby and slid behind it as Cato unleashed another well-placed shot. Above him, a doe-eyed coy exploded, its tail looping through the air in a stream of chalky dust. Hannity compressed himself beneath the basin and waited for a break in the fire. When it came, he whistled again to give Notus and Zephyrus fair warning, then took out a smoke grenade, and pulled the pin.

  …

  Louisa cut between the pillars, looking for Niccolò, looking for her zio. Behind her, Cato and Hannity traded shots, their weapons arguing like rabid dogs. She glanced back, wondering if it had been wise to leave Cato alone. Hannity was a professional Condottieri—a soldier of fortune. Even with Corallina’s training, Cato might not be good enough. Moreover, Hannity had the Spartoi.

  Long and eerily meaningful, a second whistle sounded. In response, Cato’s carbine cracked, causing the whistle to cut short. Louisa clenched her jaw, unsure what she should do. This had not been the plan, at least, not the one she and the Man had discussed last night. Did he know about the ambush, was he coming to help them, or were they on their own?

  A soft flash danced across the scene, making Louisa start. Thick smoke began to fill the air, seeping through the rows of marble. Another flash bloomed, throwing sparks that briefly illuminated the growing haze. Louisa dropped down and gripped the shotgun in both hands. Smoke was everywhere, blanketing the floor and climbing high with fingers of white. Thinking of the old myths—of the way the Gods would cloak themselves in sheets of mist; Louisa felt her blood go frigid. What if Hannity and the Spartoi were not alone? What if Artemis was here with them?

  A specter ran past in the haze, pale, and dressed in blue. Swinging her weapon after them, Louisa tried to find a shot, but the smoke was too dense. The specter, a Spartoi, tossed something ahead of him and disappeared into a fresh explosion of white. Feeling logic outweigh her fear, Louisa smiled bitterly. This was no divine mist, no act of the Gods. It was tactical. Hannity and his boys were using smoke grenades, trying to create confusion. It was working.

  “Zio?” She hissed. “Zio where are you? Cato needs us!”

  From the smoke, more submachine gun fire sounded, its distinct cadence ratcheting throughout the lobby. Cato’s rifle barked in return and the sub died. Yet, no sooner had it done so then Hannity’s MP5 came into play again. Fearing the worst for her friend, Louisa hesitated a moment longer, then made up her mind. Unless Corallina had taught Cato how to shoot in a blizzard, he was going to get flanked and fixed. He needed her help, needed someone to have his back. Niccolò would understand.

  Doing her best to follow the muted call of dueling weapons, Louisa kept low and shuffled from pillar to pillar. However, the closer she got, the thicker the smoke became, making it impossible to tell if she was chasing the sources of the gunshots or just their echoes.

  “Cato?” She ventured. “Cato I’m here.”

  There was movement in the haze, undefined and unknown. Hoping it might be Cato, Louisa opened her mouth to call out again, but a bloody hand clamped over it before she could.

  “Hush!” Came Niccolò’s voice in her ear. “Spartoi. Keep still—stay quiet.”

  A discharge of submachine gun fire lashed the air, punctuating Niccolò’s warning. The shooter was so close, his falling shells like wind chimes in winter. Putting a red-stained finger to his lips, Niccolò implored Louisa with his eyes. Only now seeing the blood for the first time, she gasped. With a slight shake of his head, Niccolò kept the finger in place.

  Boots ran by, heavy and menacing even as they faded into the whiteness. Niccolò waited for them to pass, then half sat, half slid to the floor.

  “My God!” Whispered Louisa. “What’s happened, zio—tell me!”

  “The stairs,” her uncle chuckled. “You were fast tesoro. I see now why Giorgio calls you, Little Rabbit…”

  He pulled his jacket aside, showing a large red blot in the center of his white shirt. Stitched darkly across the fabric, four ragged holes oozed blood.

  “No!” Louisa moaned, trying to staunch the flow. “Oh zio no, no, no!”

  “Ah!” Niccolò grimaced. “It’s all right. Here—stop that and listen to me. You must listen.”

  He took her hand.

  “You need to get out,” he said. “You need to go—run!”

  “But—” Louisa protested.

  “No—no but. Just do what I ask—just this once. They can’t take you too—I can’t bear the thought.”

  Louisa shook her head, confused and overwhelmed.

  “I was going to tell you everything—” he sighed. “One of these days, when the moment was right. I was going to tell you everything. I’m sorry—”

  He chuckled again, but now there was blood on his lips.

  “At least I can still buy you some time—a head start.”

  “What are you saying, zio?” Louisa stammered. “I don’t understand!”

  “I’m sorry,” Niccolò winced. “There’s no time for talk. I’ve already called it in—polizia, Carabinieri—I called the whole cavalry.”

  His cell phone fell from his free hand and clattered to the floor.

  “You’d be surprised how quickly the wheels turn when you use the word terrorist. I gave them Savino’s badge number for good measure. They’re on their way now.”

  Louisa tried to find her voice, tried to say something, anything.

  “Go, tesoro,” her uncle said. “You must escape while you still can. They can’t find you here. They can’t take you too…”

  He looked up into her face and mustered a hopeful smile.

  “Don’t worry about me. They’ll fix me up when they get here. I have my badge—I’m one of the good guys—one of the team, remember? I’ll be fine. Here—take my keys. I’m parked a few blocks away on Via Nord Ovest.”

  Louisa fought back tears, hot, stinging tears.

  “I—I love you, Louisa,” smiled Niccolò. “You’ve been the best daughter a man could hope for.”

  An eruption of heavy gunfire shattered the moment, rattling off the tall columns.

  “Go,” said Niccolò with finality. “Run, my Little Rabbit. Run!”

  …

  With nothing but soft outlines and shadows to guide him, Cato stole through the roiling clouds of white. Ears straining, he kept his head cocked, hoping to locate his enemies by sound. Before the smoke
grenades, he had been doing well. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Hannity and the Spartoi seemed to be everywhere, circling him like sharks in stormy seas.

  Pausing behind a column, Cato crouched and listened. A sound drew near, boots crunching on bits of marble and debris. Shouldering his carbine, he edged around the pillar. Ahead, one of the Spartoi appeared—pale, blonde, and predatory. Face turned to the right, the young man didn’t immediately see Cato, an advantage Cato pressed too quickly. He jerked the trigger, but the shot was bad. Leaping clear, the Spartoi spotted him and pumped off a series of rounds that sent Cato ducking for cover. He rolled to the other side of the pillar and tried again.

  ‘Never shoot from the same position twice,’ Corallina had taught him. ‘Always keep them guessing where you’ll be next.’

  Sweeping the barrel up, Cato drew a bead on the Spartoi’s head and squeezed. With a soft click, the trigger depressed, yet the rifle remained inert.

  “Shit!” Swore Cato, working the charging handle. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  The Spartoi—the one known as Zephyrus, heard the hollow sound and raised his submachine gun. Diving back behind the column, Cato cringed as great bites of marble were chomped out around him. In the chaos, he ejected the rifle’s magazine and felt his pockets for another. There were none. With hardly a second to process this, he saw a small black disk slide across the floor to stop by his foot. No bigger than a hockey puck, it emitted a faint sizzling noise that grew tighter as if building toward something dangerous. On impulse, Cato kicked the object back the way it had come a heartbeat before it went super-nova in the looming clouds.

  A deafening bang tore the air and a great blossom of sparks rained streamers of blinding light. Caught in the blast, the Spartoi, Zephyrus, reeled in surprise and dropped his weapon. Going on the offensive, Cato pulled a Glock from his waistband and opened fire. Arms up, Zephyrus covered his head as bullets ripped through his suit and pinged off a set of thin armor plates hidden beneath.

  The pistol went dead, and Cato reached for the Springfield. Countering before he could get it, Zephyrus attacked, ringing his bell with a right-hook that whipped him around and sent him staggering. Rattled, Cato blinked away a shimmering multitude of dance stars. Suit shredded, face leering, Zephyrus charged at him. Trying a second time to raise the .45, Cato got it free, but Zephyrus chopped the gun from his hand, then sliced an elbow into his temple. Like a bad edit, the scene jumped and Cato found himself on the floor. Shimmering brighter than ever, the stars converged on a single point of focus to his right. Amid the dancing lights, he saw the Springfield, laying in wait.

  Rolling onto his hands and knees, Cato began to scurry across the floor. Zephyrus followed after him, reaching calmly into his jacket to produce a long, silver blade. In desperation, Cato turned and kicked the man in the groin, but nothing happened. He kicked again and Zephyrus grabbed his ankle, holding it fast. Knife poised, he aimed high up Cato’s thigh at the Femoral artery. Twisting wildly, Cato jerked so that the blade skirted through muscle and fat. He screamed in pain and drove his foot into Zephyrus’ knee. There was a satisfying pop, as the joint give way. Zephyrus wobbled and took a step back.

  Struggling up, Cato ignored the wet heat in his left leg and dashed for the Springfield. A second Spartoi moved to intercept him, appearing from the smoke like a vision. With no time to change course, Cato ducked under a killing shot, and flipped the Spartoi over his shoulder. Off kilter and injured, he dove for the pistol, scooping it up as he rolled to a stop. Together now, the two monsters, Boreas and Zephyrus closed in on him as one. Raising the Springfield, Cato squeezed the trigger, but the concussion that followed was not that of a mere .45. Instantly, both brothers vanished into the haze, kicked back as if by the crushing blow of an invisible warhorse.

  Cato stared at the Springfield for a beat then slowly looked up to see Louisa Anastasi standing behind him, holding a shotgun in her bloodstained hands.

  “Let’s go!” She said, ejecting the spent shell. “We need to get out of here—now!”

  XLII

  Mr. Hannity heard the shotgun blast seconds before the faint wailing of police sirens reached his ears. Halting in the smoke, he frowned and tried to wager how far out the cars were and how many they numbered. Already, Cato had proved a tough nut to crack—a real scrapper. Adding police to the mix would only make things worse. Besides, when the Vecchio arrived, as he inevitably would, Hannity wanted the odds to be squarely in his favor—five to one.

  The shotgun roared again and the unmistakable music of shattered glass pricked at Hannity’s ears. Synapses firing, he knew at once what the sound meant. Zeroing in on the source, he broke into a run. Amplified by the blown-out window, the wail of police sirens grew louder, their individual oscillations morphing together as they neared.

  Hannity reached the far wall and skirted it, making for a swath of foggy sunlight in the haze ahead. As he did so, the figure of Cato became briefly visible, disappearing out the window like a runaway cat. Hurriedly shouldering his MP5, Hannity blasted the frame with a deluge of bullets, but it was no use, Cato was already gone.

  “Fuck!” He shouted.

  Dashing to the window, Hannity hoisted himself up. Almost at the end of the street, Cato and his little girlfriend were heading north, running away from the hotel and the oncoming police sirens. Unfortunately, Notus and Eurus were at the southeast corner building, oblivious to Cato’s flight.

  About to scramble over and continue the chase alone, Hannity wavered and thought of the promise he had made his men.

  ‘No matter what happens, we don’t scatter,’ he had said. ‘We retreat as one.’

  Dropping back into the smoky lobby, Hannity resigned himself to his better judgment. He whistled a call to the brothers, and waited for them to come. In the long run, it would be smarter to stay together, safer.

  “Let’s go boys!” He called. “The cops are here!”

  Preceded by the scuffling of boots in the haze, Boreas and Zephyrus appeared, their white shirts dotted with blood, their faces pocked with shallow gashes. Supporting his brother’s weight, Boreas had Zephyrus under the arm while the other limped beside him.

  “Scatter-shot huh?” Said Hannity, inspecting their wounds. “Looks like the armor took the worst of it.”

  He turned to Zephyrus.

  “What happened to you?”

  Gingerly, Zephyrus flexed his right knee and a wet grinding noise ached out.

  “Damn,” muttered Hannity.

  Crouching down, he pulled the keffiyeh from around his neck and used it to bind Zephyrus’ knee as tightly as he could.

  “Pressure will help,” he said. “I bet you heal as fast as you grow. Now come on—Cato’s in the wind and we need to finish him off quickly.”

  Hannity stood and began moving back toward the lobby’s entrance. Behind him, the brothers kept pace, but he could hear a soft crack each time Zephyrus took a step. At the doors, he paused to check the street. Still holding their posts beside the Benz, Notus and Eurus nodded the all clear. Coming out, Hannity squinted in the sunlight. Less than a block away now, the chattering scream of sirens was an impending din.

  “We’re leaving,” he announced. “Get in the car—”

  Skidding around the corner, a police cruiser whirled into view. Chased by a second, third, and fourth car after that, it stormed down the street and squealed to a stop some fifty feet away. Breaking along side it, the other cars clumped together to form a roadblock.

  “On me,” waved Hannity, falling back.

  He darted behind the Benz and looked north along the building’s perimeter, back the way Cato and the girl had gone. A volley of shots sprang up at the roadblock, blasting out the Benz’s windows. Staying low, Hannity peered carefully around the bumper. The cops were in the open, firing with almost reckless abandon. Lurching, the Benz dipped as its tires burst. A round screeched past Hannity’s head, making him cringe.

  “New plan,” he growled. “We go on foot. But first, we need to kil
l this tail.”

  Producing his last smoke grenade, he pulled the pin.

  “Like we practiced boys—do it just like we practiced.”

  Hannity stood and hurled the canister into the air. It hit the pavement and rolled to a sputtering stop just before the first cruiser. Joining him, Eurus and Notus opened fire with their belt-fed SAWs, painting a brilliant picture of earthbound shooting stars. Engulfed, the cruisers began to smoke and flash. Rocking violently, they pitched like ships in a tempest. Changing over from sub machineguns to M16s, Boreas and Zephyrus leveled three-round bursts that sutured the seething chaos with spews of red.

  More sirens approached, coming in from several directions, compounding the layers of noise. Unconcerned, the brothers wound forward, Zephyrus limping a little behind the others. Fast disintegrating into the clouds of fire and smoke, the blockade became a mere skeleton of what it had been.

  An armored transport van raced through the smoke. Stenciled brightly on its hood, the words Carabinieri pulsed in blue and red. Hannity bore his teeth and reloaded his weapon. The Carabinieri were Italy’s answer to the SWAT team—more tooled-up than their brothers in blue, and better trained to handle urban combat. Stopping just before the mutilated roadblock, the van turned broadside, and its back doors flew open. Heavily armed men poured out in waves, spreading along either side of the street. The brothers changed tack to engage their new targets, but were met with heavy return fire. A second Carabinieri van cut in from down the block, and mirrored the first. Hannity spun, realizing that they were trapped—hemmed in.

  “Cover!” He called. “We’ve got company!”

  Men emerged from the van, rifles trained. Firing at them, Hannity tagged two and wounded a third. Blood misted brightly and bodies pitched to the ground. He fired again, holding the trigger down and fighting against the recoil. Rounds whizzed past, deadly close, and hotter than brimstone. Appearing on Hannity’s left, Notus swept his SAW toward the second front and set it loose. With a spew of copper links, the machinegun ate bullets like candy and spread them among the attacking Carabinieri in wets bursts of crimson.