There was much to do, he thought, and it bothered him that Hans had not awaited him here as instructed. Victor felt a tug of irritation. But a quick glance at a mirror revealed a calm expression. The reflection nodded back at him.
A distant hammering issued through a vent in the floor, reminding him of what was happening down below. The noise from the dungeons wouldn’t have been heard hundreds of years ago, but the addition of a heating and ventilation system provided acoustic avenues for sound to travel in unusual directions. He made his way downstairs. The stone steps were worn smooth. They spiraled into the depths of the mountain. Sconce lights replaced ancient torch holders. Their illumination revealed a thin sheen of moisture on the rock. He felt the chill to his bones, but he didn’t mind. He imagined his forefathers experiencing the same sensations, shrugging them off against the magnitude of their calling.
The reinforced steel door closed behind him, and a dozen men in heavy coveralls and hooded ski jackets jumped to attention. Heels clicked together with military precision. They stood among a stack of crates of various shapes and sizes. A few of them had yet to be sealed. Gears turned overhead in the cavernous space. Thick steel cable fed around a huge flywheel before disappearing through a wide gap in the cliff face. A gust of snow whipped into the room.
“As you were,” Victor said, as he donned one of the fur-lined coats from a rack by the door. The men relaxed and continued their work. One of them stepped forward. He gave a slight bow and pointed at the receding gondola.
“That will be the last load today, Mein Herr,” he reported. “We must wait for the storm to subside.”
Victor watched as the last of the precious items was prepared for shipment. He knew that similar crates were being packed all over the world. Preserving mankind’s culture was integral to their mission. “How many more loads?” he asked.
“Three more will take care of everything you see here.” He motioned toward a secured double door at the far side of the room. “And one more…”
Victor nodded his approval. Everything was on track.
The entrance door opened. Hans rushed in. He didn’t bother with a coat. “There’s been a development,” he said.
The surge of adrenaline Victor felt was no threat to his composure. His visage remained impassive. A glance at the guard, and the man turned on his heel and returned to work with the rest of the men.
“What is it?” Victor asked.
Hans explained.
Victor welcomed the news with a calculated expression that offered no hint of the excitement he felt inside.
“This changes everything,” he said.
Chapter 9
Venice, Italy
JAKE’S FACE WAS everywhere.
Francesca stifled a sob. Marshall had used an application to snap-share the media from the camera to the personal devices in the room, including Alex’s tablet. She watched as her son held the locket beside the displayed image. His fingers traced the outline of Jake’s face on the screen. Alex was content. She envied the serenity he emanated. It was a stark contrast with the anxious emotions that otherwise filled the room.
Tony and her father huddled in a corner with two men from the Gondoliers’ Guild. One of the gondoliers issued a string of orders into his phone. Marshall’s fingers danced on his smartphone. Lacey hovered beside him. She was still in her wedding dress. The veil was on the floor. Her eyes were red, but her expression was determined. Sarafina played a haunting melody on a sixteenth-century clavichord at the other side of the salon. Her downturned face was hidden by her shoulder-length hair.
The fabric of Francesca’s world unraveled with each passing thought. How could Jake have allowed her to go on believing he was dead? He’d been gone for six years. Yet still she woke every morning with an emptiness that was only partly filled by her children. Had everything she’d felt been one-sided? Had he ever loved her at all?
She watched as Alex flipped from one image to the next—the cameras had captured four shots of Jake’s face. She wondered at the thoughts that must be traveling through her son’s mind—and she fought to control a surge of anger.
Had he not cared about his own son?
The answer was in the question. The revelation startled her. She’d known of Jake’s regrets over the turn of events in his life. Of his remorse at how his presence placed those close to him in danger. Of his belief that they’d all be better off if he had died in the MRI accident in the first place. She recalled his parting words in the jungles of Venezuela. Instead of death, I offer you life! he’d said. The words had haunted her. Only now did she fully understand their meaning. He’d chosen to disappear, to allow everyone to believe him dead, for their own sake. In his mind it would have been the ultimate act of love.
She hated him for it.
She loved him for it.
An elevation of tension from Marshall and Lacey brought her thoughts back to the present. The couple was focused on Marshall’s phone. There was urgency in the whispers they shared. They moved toward Tony and her father, passing them the phone.
Tension doubled.
Francesca rose to join them. Her father was tight-lipped when he angled the device so she could see the screen. Marshall edged closer and tapped the PLAY button. The video focused on the two men racing after Jake. A passerby bumped into one of the men, causing him to stumble. As he caught himself, Marshall tapped the screen. The image froze. He zoomed in.
Francesca’s breath caught. The man’s jacket had flapped open. A pistol with an unusually long barrel was holstered underneath.
“It’s a silencer,” Tony said. “So he ain’t a cop.”
“Which means Jake is in trouble,” Lacey said.
“He needs our help,” Marshall added.
“Big surprise there,” Tony said. He sounded disgusted. “Where Jake goes, trouble follows.” He squeezed his hands into fists. His knuckles cracked. “Dammit, anyway!” he growled under his breath. “He shoulda told us he was alive.”
“Take it easy, man,” Marshall said.
“I’m pissed!” he said.
“You’re pissed?” Lacey said, motioning to her gown.
A moment passed as each of them absorbed the enormity of the situation. Knowing looks were exchanged. Tony sighed, Mario nodded, and Lacey pointed an accusing finger at Marshall.
“Don’t think for a minute that this is going to keep us from getting married!” she said.
Marshall pulled her close. “An early release of the latest iPad couldn’t keep me away.”
Lacey smiled despite herself. “But first we gotta pull our missing groomsman’s butt out of the fire,” she said.
“She is right, of course,” Mario said. His English was good, though heavily accented. “We will help him.”
Francesca mimicked their nods before catching herself. “But it’s not safe!” she said, glancing at the children.
“We’re past that,” Tony said. “Because whoever is after him knows we’re here. It’s no stretch to figure they were watching us in case Jake showed up.” He hesitated. His voice softened. “They already know where you live.”
Her hand went to her throat. The truth of his words struck like a hammer blow.
Tony grasped her shoulders to steady her. “No worries, darlin’. Your pops and I already have a plan.”
Francesca nodded dully. It was happening again, she thought.
Jake was back.
And her world was spiraling out of control.
Chapter 10
Venice, Italy
RENZO RACED DOWN one alley after another. He avoided the more crowded thoroughfares, hesitating at the next canal crossing, peering right and left before proceeding. The rumble of motorboats had faded, but he knew the chase was far from over. He suspected his pursuers had unloaded teams behind him. Others likely waited ahead.
The San Polo district was primarily residential. Though tourists still explored the area, most of those he passed appeared to be locals. He kept moving, recalling f
rom the map how to make his way back to the Hotel Danieli. He hoped it was the last place they’d expect him to go. The next alley opened onto a small piazza where a group of young boys passed a soccer ball in front of a small church. Men played cards beneath an umbrella at an outdoor café. Two mothers rocked strollers as they chatted on a park bench. Renzo slowed. Foot traffic was lighter here, but there were still plenty of locals who would be more than happy to point the way to a crazy man sprinting past.
He was halfway across the piazza when the church bell rang. The reverberations stunned him, resonating in his skull, each clang like a doorbell on a locked memory. His feet kept moving, but his mind felt suspended in time. The sounds, the piazza, the church—they were all familiar, as if he’d been here before. He grappled for the memory, startling when an image actually resolved itself. He remembered standing on a rooftop deck, a moment of peace as he watched the woman from his dreams through a pair of binoculars…
Renzo stopped midstride and turned toward a building at the opposite side of the square. A wreath of bougainvilleas framed the rooftop gazebo that he knew would be there. The sight of it shocked him. The doctor had said his memory might come back all of a sudden. Was that happening now? The possibility was intoxicating.
A startled shout, and the memory vanished like smoke in a breeze. Two men had bumped into a couple as they entered the far side of the piazza. They spotted him immediately.
Renzo swore to himself. He took off like a sprinter on a track. Any advantage he’d gained was lost. His brain’s betrayal fueled a boiling rage. It spurred him forward. He ran blindly, numb to the scowls from those he rushed past. He ducked down the nearest walkway and poured on speed. Two more turns and the path dead-ended on a canal. An intersecting waterway stretched straight ahead. A gondola glided toward him. It slowed as it approached the turn into the waterway that blocked his path. The gondolier did a double take as Renzo skidded to a stop.
Renzo glanced both ways, immediately realizing his mistake. Buildings stretched up the sides of both canals. There were no sidewalks. He’d been corralled. A boat engine revved from the distance to his right, and a speedboat surged toward him. The man seated beside the driver pulled a pistol from under his jacket. The boat swerved around a second gondola, nearly swamping the slighter boat in its wake. The gondolier’s angry fist stopped waving when he spotted Renzo. He pulled a phone to his cheek as the boat raced past.
The pad of running footsteps behind Renzo told him the jaws of the trap were closing. The gondolier in front of him confirmed the only choice he had left.
“Vieni!” the man shouted, motioning for Renzo to dive into the water. His boat had just entered the intersection.
Renzo plunged headfirst into the canal. He shallowed his arc to avoid any hidden pilings. His legs scissored, and he pulled through the murky water. He passed beneath the length of the gondola, broke the surface, and swam another twenty meters to the next dock. As he pulled himself out of the water, he took in the scene behind him. The gondolier’s back was to him. He waved his hands about amidst a frenzy of angry shouts. His gondola wobbled kitty-corner in the intersection, blocking the speedboat. The man had bought him the time he needed.
Renzo’s smile collapsed when he turned and saw two more men standing before him. Rubber-soled shoes. Dark glasses. Out of breath. Each of them held a pistol trained on his face.
“Good-bye,” the shorter man said.
The life that flashed before Renzo’s eyes was only four months long.
The squeak of a hinge bought him a few more seconds.
The taller man before him spun around at the sound. Green shutters swung open three stories above. A woman placed a basket of damp clothes on the sill. A clothesline stretched above the alley. She waved to two teenage boys standing on an opposing balcony. One of them aimed his cell phone down on the scene.
The two men in front of Jake were cut from the same cloth as those who had chased him in Focette. They were professionals. The taller man lowered his weapon. He flashed a badge upward.
“Polizia,” he shouted. “Back inside.” He spoke in Italian. His accent was Germanic. The woman retreated, slamming the shutters closed behind her. The two boys didn’t budge. They spoke in excited whispers. The second one pulled a phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and aimed it at the scene. Renzo could imagine the online hit-counter spinning ever faster beneath the live feed.
The shorter man kept his pistol trained on Renzo. He removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. His bald head shone. His glare was predatory. “If you try anything,” he whispered in Italian, “they die as well. This will be your only warning, Mr. Bronson.”
The name held no meaning for Renzo, but he had no difficulty understanding the threat. He was dripping wet and out of options. His shoulders sagged. “I understand.”
The man held a finger to a point just beneath his ear and spoke. “We have him. Teams two and three, report to the evacuation point.”
Two minutes later, Renzo was seated on the floor at the rear of the motorboat. Flex-cuffs secured his hands and ankles. A blanket had been thrown over his shoulders to hide the bindings from onlookers. The boat idled slowly down the canal. The driver was apparently searching for a secluded spot that would become Renzo’s final resting place, at least until someone discovered the body. One guard sat in the open bow. Another sat beside Renzo. The bald team leader sat across from him. The windbreaker on his lap barely covered the pistol in his hand.
“You killed three of our brothers yesterday,” he said. One of his shoes rested atop a cinder block. A rope linked the block to Renzo’s ankle cuffs.
Renzo knew the end was moments away. The hopelessness of the situation brought a swell of emotions that issued from locked memories. Of loyalty, sacrifice, and loss.
And defiance.
The fear of death should not rule a man’s actions, he thought. Rather, its rushing inevitability should inspire the moments of his life. He realized that the unbidden philosophy had come from the man he used to be. The brief glimpse of his former self emboldened him. He sat taller, gritted his teeth, and returned the man’s stare.
“They died poorly,” Renzo said. “I won’t.”
The bald man’s face reddened, but he didn’t react as Renzo would have expected. Instead, his eyes glazed over. As if reciting from a ritual, he said, “The death of a few for the many. Cæli Regere.”
“W-What?”
The leader ignored the question. He issued a sharp order in German, and the driver cut the motor. The boat drifted to a stop. A quick scan forward and back, and the driver nodded. One of the guards lifted Renzo to his feet. The other hefted the cinder block. The boat wobbled. Their leader stood to face him. Renzo’s world narrowed to a close-up view of the silencer at the end of the man’s pistol.
Cæli Regere? Renzo recalled the tattoo he’d seen on yesterday’s lead assassin. It was Latin. Something about the heavens? He was about to die for a religious cause?
When the executioner brought his other hand up to shield his face from the splatter, Renzo took what he knew would be his final breath. He abandoned his confusion. He wouldn’t carry the question into eternity. Instead, he closed his eyes and filled his mind with the image of the woman whose eyes haunted his portraits.
A smile found the corner of his lips.
In that final moment, when the mind shines its brightest and sensations increase tenfold, Renzo heard a faint beep. It was a digital alert. He opened his eyes.
The leader lowered the pistol. The index finger of his free hand pressed a point under his earlobe. The other guards did the same as the team listened to an incoming transmission. The leader stiffened. Protruding veins at his temples pulsed at double speed. “Jawohl,” he said to whoever was listening at the other end of the implant. His tone was deferential. However, Renzo saw bitterness in the man’s eyes as he holstered the pistol.
The driver pounded a fist on the dash. One of the others grumbled. Apparently,
they’d all wanted to see him dead. But when the guard holding the cinder block removed a knife from his pocket and severed the rope linking it to his ankles, Renzo knew it wasn’t going to happen right now. He blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Don’t get too excited,” the leader said. He stepped forward so that his face was inches from Renzo’s. His breath smelled of sauerkraut. “There are worse things than dying with a bullet to the head.” He shoved Renzo onto the rear bench seat.
The driver gunned the engine and the boat started off.
Chapter 11
Venice, Italy
RIDING IN THE gondola brought Tony a flash of memories. The last time he’d been in one of these rigs had been more than six years ago, when he and Francesca’s uncle Vincenzo had infiltrated the masked ball at Battista’s palace. That mission and this one had the same goal—to rescue Jake. People had died, including Vincenzo. That’s because shit happened when Jake was around, Tony thought. He patted the knife strapped to his shin. He was gonna make damn sure it happened to the other guy this time around.
He still couldn’t believe that Jake was alive. He’d gone over and over it in his mind. His buddy had jumped off the V-22’s ramp in Venezuela in order to put an end to Battista. Fifteen minutes later, there was a nuclear explosion. End of story. Or so he’d thought. He shook his head. If anyone coulda figured out a way to survive, it woulda been Jake. Hell, he’d gotten outta more fixes than a magician in Vegas. Tony was still pissed that Jake had kept him in the dark. But he buried the emotion under his determination to rescue the most selfless man he’d ever known.
Answers would come later.
The gondolier sang “ ’O Sole Mio” as he pushed the boat across the Grand Canal. A score of gondolas drifted nearby. Their gondoliers joined in the song. The tense tenor of their voices gave the tune an edge that sounded more like a soldier’s call to arms than a romantic accompaniment. Each boat had one or more riders, several of them with cell phones to their ears. Although they were disguised as tourists, none of them were paying passengers.
Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment Page 5
