Heading south, Cato and Louisa moved away from the Piazza del Popolo, and the old city gates. Doing his best to keep up, Cato followed at a little distance. The pain in his leg had grown worse, and their recent demolition-derby-style stunt had ripped his bandages loose. Running down his thigh, blood pooled in his shoe and left wet smears on the sidewalk with each step he took. At the stairs of a small church, he stopped and sat down.
“This way,” urged Louisa.
“I know, but I need to deal with this.”
He swung Leta’s backpack from his shoulder and opened it. Rummaging past the Uzi, dossier, and camera, he found the stash of silky headscarves and selected a bright red one at random.
“Let me,” said Louisa.
Kneeling, she took the thing from Cato, and knotted it tightly around his thigh.
“Good?”
“It’ll work. How far out are we?”
Louisa looked up the street and squinted.
“Twelve blocks—give or take.”
“That’s a lot of ground to cover,” Cato grunted. “You think we can make it?”
A whine of sirens kicked up in the middle distance, and a helicopter appeared in the skies above Vatican Hill.
“You’re damn right we’re going to make it,” said Louisa. “I didn’t get us this far for nothing.”
Laughing despite himself, Cato smiled.
“I helped a little you know, remember that thing with the Uzi on the bridge?”
Louisa pulled Cato to his feet.
“I do remember something like that,” she winked. “Vaguely.”
A dry pop called out, cutting through the din of the crowd.
“That was a gun,” muttered Cato. “I guess they’re still alive. I really hoped you’d killed them back there.”
“Me too,” said Louisa. “We’d better keep moving. That sounded close.”
They rejoined the drifting throngs, pushing through them with less care. Growing louder by the moment, the sound of sirens rang off the storied buildings, and the helicopter dropped low for a pass. Heads turned, and people began murmured worried words in a thousand different languages. Tossing the occasional look over his shoulder, Cato kept an eye out for signs of blond-haired monsters in the sea of faces. Inside his jacket pocket, the Springfield clinked reassuringly against the Adamantine arrowhead.
Radios crackled and three policemen ran past on the sidewalk. Raising a hand, Louisa called after them.
“No,” whispered Cato, gripping her arm. “We can’t.”
“They don’t know what they’re running into,” she struggled. “They’ll be slaughtered like animals. We have to warn them!”
“What if they’re working for Bruno?” Said Cato. “You said so yourself—the police are corrupt. We can’t trust them.”
Bitterly, Louisa pursed her lips and watched the officers vanish into the crowds. When they had gone, she turned to Cato and shook her head.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
They struck out once more, shoving forward as the crowds grew thicker. Ahead, the sounds of sirens mixed with the buffeting drone of the circling helicopter. The scene became agitated, and the masses started to surge. Another group of policemen appeared, some armed with large assault rifles, others only with pistols. Marching against the current of the crowd, they shouted in Italian, waving people out of their way.
“What’s going on?” Called Cato, jostling to maintain his proximity to Louisa.
“They’re shutting down the street,” she said. “We’ll never make it through the checkpoint with all of these fucking guns.”
“Damn it,” swore Cato. “What do we do now?”
Louisa started to respond but a eruption of submachine gun fire cut her off. Rending the charged atmosphere, it sent people screaming in every direction. Nearly overcome by the panic, Cato grabbed Louisa’s hand and held on tight so he wouldn’t loose her. A second chorus of shots yipped shrilly, and bullets whizzed past to shatter storefront windows and gouge marble. A man selling flowers clutched his chest and pitched backwards. Shrieking at the sight, the masses heaved and began to trample one another in their reckless haste.
“This way!” Cried Louisa, trying to lead Cato for a break. “Come on!”
Looking back, he caught sight of muzzle flashes, closing like wolves in the confusion. Pulling out the Springfield, he tried to take aim at them, but there were too many people in the way. A woman in a sundress gasped fiercely as a bullet sliced through her calf. Wobbling, she clawed at Cato and dragged him down with her. His hold on Louisa’s hand broke, and before he could so much as even call her name, she was promptly swallowed by the crush.
…
Born along, Louisa tried to see where Cato had fallen, yet every time she turned, another person was there, driving her onward. Desperate not to abandon him, not to let Hannity and his dragoons succeed in their mission, she dug her heels in and doubled back. Now fighting against the torrent of fleeing innocents, Louisa used her elbows to cut a narrow channel. However, with each new eruption of gunfire, the crowd shifted kaleidoscopically, making it impossible for her to keep her bearings.
Realizing she would never find Cato this way, Louisa gave up and dashed for the cover of a nearby arch. Just as she reached it, a fresh rattle of machinegun fire sent heads ducking low. Yanking Leta’s Kimber from the waistband of her jeans, Louisa clicked off the safety and racked the slide. When the machinegun snarled again, she rose on her tiptoes and looked over the frightened runners at the source of the assault. Twenty paces out, his salt-and-pepper hair matted with sweat and blood, Mr. Hannity stood before the body of a slain policewoman.
Louisa narrowed her eyes and took aim. Perhaps sensing that he was in the crosshairs, Hannity spun around just as she fired. Luckily for him, Louisa had unconsciously relied on her training, aiming for Hannity’s center of mass rather than his head. Knocked back, the mercenary disappeared behind a spray of sparks, but was up almost instantly, returning fire. As bullets peppered the arch around her, Louisa held her ground and cringed. Re-leveling the well-balanced .45 she squeezed the trigger again. Struck in the left hand, Hannity roared with pain. Disappearing like a magic trick, two of his lower fingers became airborne chucks of wet meat. He clutched at the mangled limb and ran for the cover of a tall stone pillar. Tagging him once more, Louisa shot him in the side, but the round ricocheted off a plate of concealed armor.
A police helicopter raced between the buildings, its whirring blades billowing wind over the frightened crowds. Louisa glanced up, trying to wager how much time she had before more reinforcements arrived. Even though she fought on the side of Rome in this battle, the police had no way of knowing that. To them, she was just another armed combatant without a uniform to distinguish her. If she wasn’t careful, they would put a bullet in her heart.
A familiar pistol barked, it’s distinct voice causing Louisa’s gaze to dart hopefully. Materializing from the scrimmage, Cato came into view, limping backwards as he popped off rounds with his silver Springfield.
“Cato!” She called.
He turned and began to flash her a relieved smile, but froze midway. From the crowd, a uniformed policeman burst forth, his shotgun raised and aimed at Cato’s chest. Without hesitation, Louisa swung the Kimber around and shot the man before he could pull the trigger.
XLIX
As blood leached from his pulpy wound, Hannity crouched behind a granite column and dug a pair of shooting gloves from his back pocket. Summoning every ounce of dead-hearted, cold-blooded will he had, he pulled one of the gloves over the raw, shredded flesh of his ruined hand.
“Grrrraaaaa!” He spat in agony. “Come on—come on!”
He worked his remaining fingers into their corresponding sleeves and pressed the glove as tight as it would go. Cool leather touched against exposed nerve endings, making him see stars. Shock threatened to set in, but now that the worst was over, he forced it back. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his vision of stars, and sto
od up. This wasn’t the first time he had been shot, and there was still work to be done.
Unholstering the 1911, Hannity gripped it in his good hand and crept around the pillar to reassess the situation. Everywhere, people flocked in droves as the scattered police tried desperately to direct and control them. Dancing up from the end of the block, blue and red lights painted the underbelly of a circling Agusta Bell AB 212 police helicopter. Hannity glanced to where he had last seen the bitch that took his fingers, but she was gone. Already knowing Cato was gone with her, he fought the urge to shoot a passing tourist out of spite.
The helicopter gusted by, scanning the crowds like a sentinel. Sending a stream of deadly sparks after it, Boreas strafed into the street and fired until the chopper turned around for a second pass. With a wry smile, Hannity admired the boy’s tenacity—his dogged determination. If he wasn’t going to let a little trouble slow him down, then neither should Hannity.
Angling sideways, the Agusta drew level with the rooftops and slid its cargo door open. Framed within, a police sniper in a nylon harness leaned out. Blazing away, he tried to annihilate Boreas with a wall of high caliber bullets, but the boy was too agile. He leaped into the stampede of moving bodies, using them for cover. Several fell dead, and the sniper stopped firing at once.
Next, it was Notus’s turn to attack. Wielding a Mossberg, he broke from the seething throngs and pumped six shots into the thick metal of the helicopter’s flank. It wavered and pulled out of range, sweeping around to shield the sniper.
Spying the pilot, Hannity kept his eyes trained on the cockpit, and shrugged the heavy gun bag from his shoulders. As the chopper dipped to make a fresh assault, he produced the Windrunner XM2010 Sniper Rifle, and snapped a magazine into the mag-well. Gripping the stock with his remaining fingers, he shouldered the rifle and peered through its wide scope at the oncoming helicopter. Dead center, the pilot’s face was so clear that he could tell the man hadn’t shaved that morning. Racking the action, Hannity inhaled to steady himself, then gently moved his finger to the trigger.
A streak of silver brilliance tore through the air, penetrating the helicopter’s windshield and pinning the pilot to his seat. Spewing blood, the man let go of the controls and slumped limply around the protruding shaft of a great, gleaming arrow. The helicopter swung, its rear rotor clipping the crucifix of a tall cathedral to blast apart in a million pieces. Scoured by flying shrapnel, the tail boom buckled, and the engine burst into flame.
Rifle dipping in his hands, Hannity watched, transfixed as the Augusta smashed sidelong into the cathedral and exploded with enough force to press the air from his lungs. Instantly engulfed, a wide swath of the street vanished behind a hellish curtain of fire and black smoke.
Slowly, almost fearfully, Mr. Hannity took his finger off the trigger and turned around. Standing behind him, Artemis the Virgin Goddess shown in the firelight. Like deadly music, her bowstring hummed its subtle note.
“You—” he breathed. “You’re here.”
Eyes crackling, smile wicked and cruel, she looked down at him.
“Rally what remains of your men, Mr. Hannity,” she said. “The time for chase is done. Now, we have no other option but to let our prey come to us.”
L
Mere seconds before the helicopter detonated above them, Cato and Louisa pushed their way off the street and into a little café. When the fuel tank ruptured, and the helicopter blew, each window of the café went with it.
His world rocked by violent cataclysms, Cato lost sight of Louisa as he was lifted by the shockwave and thrown headlong across the dining room. Landing hard, he tumbled to a stop near the bar and smacked his head on the floor. In a burst of fireworks, his dazzled senses retreated, leaving him surrounded by near-total darkness. Struggling to escape it, Cato forced his eyes open and sat up amidst the devastation.
Licking in through yawning windows, hot flames ran up to the ceiling and tripped the sprinkler system. With a hiss of steam and pressure, it began to rain inside, water beating back fire in that timeless contest of raw elements. On the street outside, the inferno raged, barring any hope of escape in that direction.
A bold shadow fell over Cato and Louisa appeared, taking hold of Leta’s backpack to hoist him up by the straps. Though her gaze was wild and her hair a sopping mess, she seemed totally unharmed by the blast—not a single scratch on her.
“Are you alright?” She asked.
“Yeah,” lied Cato, rubbing his head. “You?”
Giving him a somewhat frustrated look, Louisa gestured to the flames.
“I’m fine,” she said. “But—but we need to stop this madness. Look what they’re doing to my city!”
Cato nodded weakly, and stole a glance at the Kimber in Louisa’s hand.
“Thanks for saving me back there,” he ventured. “I know it must have been hard—him being polizia and all…”
Now it was Louisa’s turn to lie, her eyes moving evasively.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “He was—I didn’t have a choice.”
“Yeah. Thanks anyway though.”
Louisa stared into the fire for a long moment, studying the skeleton of the Augusta with willful concentration. Not sure if he should try to comfort her, Cato cleared his throat.
“So—”
“Kitchen,” Louisa muttered, cutting him off.
“Huh?”
“Last time I was in a bombed-out restaurant, I escaped through the kitchen.”
Still a bit dazed, Cato squinted and shook his head.
“I’m sorry?”
“La Spada Spezzata,” said Louisa. “Don’t you remember?”
She turned from the flames and studied the far wall.
“There,” she pointed. “Kitchen.”
“Right,” smiled Cato. “Just like last time—out through the kitchen.”
Running a hand along her bruised neck, Louisa hefted the Kimber and clicked back its hammer.
“Not exactly like last time,” she said in a whisper. “But close enough.”
…
Emerging into the hazy sunlight, the pair stepped through an alley doorway. Overhead, oily smoke from the downed chopper drifted like a dark veil. Backlit by orange flames, it smothered the sky with the acrid stench of melting steel. Nearby, sounds of police sirens and shouting voices could be heard, yet the telltale rattle of gunfire was distinctly absent.
Slipping the .45 against the small of her back, Louisa went to the corner of the alley and peered out. Almost as crowded as the Via del Corso had been, the street beyond was littered with a frantic mix of people and polizia. Moving in a body toward the Piazza di Spagna and the Quirinal Hill, they massed at the base of the famous Spanish Steps, where a clutch of cruisers and Carabinieri vans formed a break against the tide.
“What do you think?” Asked Cato, peeking over her shoulder.
“Well,” Louisa sighed. “The Church of Santa Æmelia is just on the other side of that hill.”
She turned.
“How is your leg? Can you walk?”
Cinching the scarf tighter, Cato winced and gave a thumbs-up.
“You look like a bloody gypsy, you know?” She muttered, eyeing his rumpled suit, helter-skelter black hair, and bright red thigh band.
“Yeah well, we all have our problems,” Cato smiled back.
Louisa chuckled humorlessly and took him by the hand.
“Are you ready?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Then let’s get going.”
They left the alley and joined the mob, merging with a group of terrified-looking German twenty-somethings. Careful to draw as little extra attention as possible, Louisa wound them forward, her gaze searching the scene for signs of Hannity and his Spartoi. And yet, in the back of her mind, she knew they were long gone. Given everything that had just happened on the Via del Corso, they wouldn’t risk another assault on a packed street full of polizia. Instead, it was the
police themselves that Louisa should now be worrying about now. She was a cop killer—a murderer.
Pausing at the burbling Fontana Della Barcaccia, she glanced up the hill to her left and thought of what waited for them there, of who waited for them there, and why. If Ferro could see her now, if Niccolò, or even her father could see her now, what would they think? Would they be proud that she had joined them in service to the Man, Benefactor of Rome? Or would they shake their heads in shame?
Taking a deep breath, Louisa banished doubt from her heart, and focused on putting and end to the madness that had gripped her city. Still holding Cato’s hand, she pulled him around the fountain’s edge toward the Spanish Steps. Above, the Piazza Trinità dei Monti crowned the famous stairway with a towering obelisk and a double domed cathedral. Insulated on both sides by thick crowds, Louisa and Cato climbed unnoticed past the polizia and Carabinieri who stood stationed along the terraced marble. Grunting with each step, Cato did his best to hide his limp, but was soon forced to lean on Louisa for support. Heavy as he was, she bore his weight with ease.
When at last they crested the final flight of stairs and came into the shadow of the obelisk, they parted from the rank and file, and headed southward down the block. Still propping Cato up, Louisa made for an ivy-drenched alleyway some sixty paces off. Catching a whiff of ozone in the air, she felt her heart skip and strain, a compass needle nearing magnetic north. At first thinking she was imagining it, she caught a peculiar look on Cato’s face, and frowned.
“Do you feel it too? There’s a charge in the air—something…”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I—I think it’s him.”
The Man From Rome Page 27
