The scene was set. I was about to become the lead actor. I kept searching. There must be a way … look, think, imagine.
The makings of an idea trickled into my head. It wasn’t much, but maybe there was a chance, a tiny, remote possibility that I could turn this around.
Remote as it was, there was nothing else.
I knew what I had to do.
Chapter 32
I looked at my watch yet again. It was nearly time. If everything was running on schedule, there was only about ten minutes to go. I studied the position where I estimated the prime minister and Ascardi would be standing. Thanks to the barriers, the location was obvious and I’d be able to get a clean shot.
I raised my scope to have one last look across the piazza where Fontana was sitting with Domenico, Aislinn, and Patrick Jay. Fontana had been smart. He was positioned on the side of the table furthest from me. I couldn’t see his phone. I assumed it was either in his pocket or positioned in front of him on the table. Domenico was sitting across from him. So, although I could see Fontana’s head quite clearly, Domenico’s body was between me and the phone, if indeed the phone was on the table.
Aislinn and Patrick Jay were seated either side of Fontana. I assumed he thought them to be some kind of insurance. If so, he’d underestimated me, and my accuracy. Nevertheless, Domenico’s presence at the table was the insurance.
I studied the dimensions of the table and distance between chairs over and over again. Then I closed my eyes and saw the picture in my head. I opened them again and checked my accuracy. I repeated the process twice more. I did the same for the position on the piazza just behind the security barriers where a microphone had now been set up. The media was gathering behind a barrier around ten feet away, but my shot was still clean.
I had a clear shot at everyone.
With five minutes to go, I reaffixed the scope to the rifle. I drew the rifle under the cover of the builder’s sheet and pointed it toward the piazza. I kept the barrel back, hidden behind the facade. When the time came, in a couple of minutes, I’d rest it there, but there was no need to expose myself in that way yet.
I moved the rifle backward and forward, scoping the barriers, then the café. I couldn’t help but notice the hundreds of people across the piazza as I scanned. The innocents.
Then it was time. The rise in noise of the crowd immediately below me told me something was about to happen. The prime minister and Ascardi strolled into view. The PM was smiling and shaking hands as he walked toward the microphone, ever the politician.
I pushed the rifle out and rested it on the ledge of the facade, still scanning my targets. Ascardi had been meticulously explicit; there would only be a small window to make the shot. The café, the PM, Ascardi, Fontana, back and forth.
I let the builder’s sheet slip off. I needed to feel the breeze to fine-tune my calculations.
I slowed my breathing, found my rhythm.
“Sharp, don’t move, not even a bit.” I recognized the voice of Jasper De Vries.
Shit.
“I’ll need to put the rifle down,” I said. My brain was jolted into turmoil, urgently scrambling for a solution.
“Slowly, then turn around, again slowly.”
I laid the rifle down, slowly, and turned around.
De Vries stood in a variation of the Weaver stance: feet wide apart, one perched slightly forward, an allowance made for bridging the roof pitch. His pistol was held in a two-handed grip, the trigger hand slightly forward. The barrel pointed directly at my torso. I’d used the same stance before. Textbook.
“De Vries, if I don’t take a shot here, innocent people—civilians—are going to die.” I knew there was zero chance of him believing me, but I had to try.
“I am not a fool, Sharp. Do you think I will stand back while you assassinate this country’s head of government?” he replied.
“I can only tell it like it is,” I said. I figured he was around six feet away from me. It always seems much further when someone is pointing a gun at you.
“Carefully climb slowly to your feet and move toward me, away from the rifle,” De Vries instructed.
“As you say.” I followed his instructions. The seconds were ticking away, too quickly. If the prime minister and Ascardi stepped out of range, the next sound we heard would be an explosion.
“One last time, man, listen to what I’m saying. Ascardi has a bomb planted somewhere in the piazza. People will die!” My voice sounded terse and reeked urgency, but the agent just didn’t get it.
“Keep moving slowly toward me.” I felt the harshness of his stare almost challenge me to act. Defiance. Clearly, he believed nothing I said.
I didn’t know what to do. One unexpected move and I’d be shot.
So, I made an unexpected move.
Trying to appear like I slipped on the steep angle of the roof, I fell forward. As I went down, I pushed back with my feet on the gutter that ran between the two rooflines and sprung forward toward the agent. It was a desperate move, but desperate was all I had. De Vries adjusted his aim, but before he could fire, I wrapped my hands around his right ankle and yanked hard. Despite his professional stance, he had balanced himself precariously with a foot either side of the pitch, so he went down quickly, hitting the hot surface of the roof with a massive thud.
The agent’s gun slipped from his hands. For a fraction of a second I was tempted to reach for it when I felt the force of a freight train pound the side of my face. Except it wasn’t a freight train, it was a well-calculated punch from a professional who was trained to do this for a living. The blow left me dazed, but high on adrenaline, it would take more than one punch to stop me. Then he did it again. The agent connected with the same spot on my face, sending waves of sharp pain through my head. My only remaining semi-coherent thought was Don’t let him get the gun.
Through my blurry fog of vision, I saw his outline rise above me, a dark silhouette against the bright sun. His elbow was drawn, fist clenched. I knew then he didn’t need a gun; his fist was going to be the weapon that neutralized me.
As the punch powered toward me, I rolled frantically to the right. De Vries’ fist glanced off my left arm. Normally, that would have been a win, but he connected with my wound, sending another round of agony my way.
The last blow had cost De Vries his balance. Things had suddenly become messy, both of us sluggishly trying to land a definitive blow and struggle for a foothold at the same time. We rolled over the roof together in a clenched embrace. De Vries’ face was a picture of intensity, and I expected mine looked like an abstract portrait soaked in blood. I managed to free my right arm and lunge a panic-driven blow to his left temple. I didn’t wait for a reaction and hit him in the same place again. The agent hadn’t been able to get either arm out from under me to retaliate. He grunted in frustration. Suddenly, the grunt turned into a war cry as his right arm broke free. I made a grab for it, but he swept it out of my reach, leaving me no chance to block his impending blow. The war cry ended with De Vries’ elbow landing a crushing blow to my windpipe. Gasping desperately for air, I tried to break free.
I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t find air. Now on his knees, De Vries wrenched his other hand free. He was on top of me and punching each side of my head, my face turning to rubber. I found what little strength I had left and headbutted him between the eyes. He looked startled. The expression spurred me on. I punched the side of his face quickly, three times in succession. De Vries was moving slower now; he started to roll off me, not by choice. I punched him again and then shoved my palm into his shoulder, wrestling his body off mine. He put out an arm to stop himself but must have miscalculated. His head hit the roof with an almighty whack.
Not wanting to repeat the agent’s previous mistake, I immediately hoisted myself up and over him. The movement shot pain from my wound into my shoulder, but I knew if I stopped now this man wouldn’t give me an opportunity to start again. I balled my fists and hit him hard in the face, again and again, alternating hands
. He was too stupefied to react meaningfully. A few light blows glanced off me. I was sure each blow I delivered with my left hand caused me as much pain as him. He continued to struggle under my weight, clearly surprised that our roles had been reversed. I suspected the blow to his head from the roof had done me a big favor, but I wasn’t stopping to assess the situation.
I honestly don’t know how many times I hit De Vries, but I was certain I stopped when he lost consciousness.
I wasn’t far from that state myself, but there was no time for self-pity. The fight with the agent had taken too long, yet I hadn’t heard the expected explosion. Wondering if there was a chance the PM may still be in sight, I clambered down the roof, grabbing the rifle with one hand. I cautiously peered over the edge.
The PM and Ascardi were still talking to the press, but they looked like they were finishing up. The politician was stepping away from the microphone, and his minders had moved in closer, preparing to surround their charge. Ascardi looked nervous. He even risked a glance up in my direction.
I rested the rifle on the top of the facade. No choppers yet. Unable to fly low and interrupt the press conference, they may have missed my tango with De Vries. My head was throbbing, my vision was still blurred, and I was breathing heavily. A deadly trifecta for a sniper attempting to take a shot.
I got back into position. I had the prime minister in my sight, then Ascardi, then the table where Fontana sat. Nothing had changed.
After three deep breaths I concentrated on slowing my erratic breathing into a steady, even rhythm.
The prime minister began to move away from the press. Ascardi looked worried. I figured I had less than ten seconds to make the shot. Keeping the PM in sight, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I fumbled with the pad as I searched for the number I wanted. I found it and pressed dial. Then I put the phone on speaker and sat it down on the roof next to me.
Now I had both hands on the rifle. My breathing was slower; I had some control. It was all about control. Deep breath in, pause, out, pause, repeat.
The phone stopped ringing and a familiar voice answered. “Sharp?”
I had banked everything on this moment, and on the curiosity of human nature.
“Sharp, what the hell? Why haven’t you …”
I moved my sight from the PM to Fontana’s table.
I saw Fontana doing exactly as I’d hoped. As he spoke into the phone, he looked up over Domenico’s shoulder toward my position. It was the natural thing to do. As he turned toward me, the phone that he clutched to his ear came into view.
Breathe out, pause, squeeze the trigger.
The shot reverberated across the piazza as I felt the rifle kick back. Some people turned in my direction, others ran or went to ground. I kept the rifle to my eye long enough to see the phone shatter in Fontana’s hand, taking parts of his hand and ear with it.
I paused for less than two seconds to take in the chaos below me. The PM’s security had instantly surrounded their master. In a huddle, they began to cross the piazza away from the basilica. Ascardi was left behind, his face creased with fury. I wasn’t surprised he was so visibly upset that I had messed with his carefully detailed plans. In truth, his reaction pleased me. Experience had taught me that angry people were more prone to mistakes, and I needed him to start making some. I didn’t look back to the table at the café; I’d heard the screams.
People were starting to point toward the basilica’s roof. Interestingly, Ascardi was not one of them.
I looked up; the helicopters had turned around and were heading in my direction. I was now way too exposed. I had almost no chance of making it off the rooftop alive and even less of escaping the polizia and security swarming the piazza.
My only faint hope was misdirection. I moved over the pitch of the roof to where Agent De Vries was still lying unconscious. I pocketed the Sig Sauer P226 that was laying close to his unmoving body. Frisking the agent, I took his Europol ID out of his wallet and put it in mine. I felt bad for him as I laid the rifle down and placed it in his right hand. For De Vries’ sake, I hoped the marksmen in the choppers wouldn’t shoot an unconscious man.
One last glance down at the piazza. Ascardi ran toward the water’s edge on the western side near the Doge’s Palace. I turned and clambered across the basilica roof.
The chase was now on. Nicholas Sharp, the hunter, back on familiar ground.
Chapter 33
I sprinted toward the doorway leading from inside the basilica. After climbing the ladder, I opened the door and entered the building. It was vital for me to get to the polizia before they got to me. As I stood on the internal walkway looking down into the church, I heard the clatter of boots making their way up to my position. It was time to take the initiative. I looked like I’d just been in a fight, so I’d make that work for me.
I yelled, “Up here! At the door leading to the roof!” I ran toward the row of uniformed men who had just come into sight and were running toward me. Their stern faces and determined expressions suggested they were there to do a job, no matter what or who got in the way. I held out the Europol agent’s ID in front of me. “De Vries, Europol. There was a fight. He’s out there on the roof, unconscious.”
The polizia stopped for a moment. Their weapons were drawn, but they hesitated.
A tall, broad-shouldered officer, clearly the man in charge, moved to the front of the group. He eyed me up and down. This wasn’t going to go my way.
“I’m working with Ispettore Davide Romana of the Polizia di Stato. Call him now,” I continued. I then pointed to the door. “The suspect is out there, go … now, before he comes to!”
Nothing.
Then the radio on the officer’s shoulder crackled, “Target down, up on the basilica roof. He is armed but appears unconscious.”
That seemed to do it. “You stay here,” said the senior cop, poking me in the chest. “Rossi, you stay with him,” instructed the officer to one of his younger subordinates. Then the group swarmed past me toward the door.
I waited until they were out of sight and then turned to the young officer. “Rossi, is it?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
Not for the first time in the last few days I looked a law enforcement officer directly in the eye and apologized.
“I’m so sorry, Rossi,” I said. I clenched the Sig Sauer in my pocket.
His face expressed bewilderment as I flipped it around so the butt was pointing out of my grip.
“What for, Sir?”
“This, I’m afraid.”
In one swift movement I produced the weapon and brought it down hard on the back of the young officer’s head. I caught him as his knees buckled and lowered him to the floor. I didn’t like cold cocking anybody, never mind a law officer. He would certainly have a headache when he came to, maybe even concussion. I guiltily prayed for nothing more.
Without further hesitation I bolted down the basilica stairs and out the giant front doors, waving the Europol ID ahead of me as I ran.
I couldn’t believe that no one stopped me.
Ascardi had a head start, and he was aided by the fading evening light and public confusion. The piazza was in disarray; no one really knew what had just happened, so people were panicked. Parents were clutching their kids’ hands and heading out of the area, and a blue stream of polizia swamped the vast space as shopkeepers and restaurateurs closed their shutters. I was halfway across the piazza, running toward the water, when I caught a glimpse of the entrepreneur through a gap in the panicked crowd. He was way too far ahead. Standing at the southern end of the square, at the edge of the stone quay by the water, he was embroiled in an intense-looking conversation on his cell phone. If he turned right, he would be heading for either his house or the Aman hotel. If he turned left, I figured he would head toward the unknown location we’d been looking for.
He did neither. An expensive-looking launch, not dissimilar to the one I had arrived in, pulled up in front of him. He stepped off
the dock, straight onto the boat’s stern.
I kept running, but I knew I had no chance. The launch took off as quickly as it had arrived. The boat was a hundred yards out by the time I got to the water’s edge. In the half-light I could just make out the figure of Ascardi’s other offsider from La Fenice at the wheel.
I turned and ran along the quay toward the place I’d left my boat a few hours earlier. I yelled and shoved and pushed people out of my way. This would come down to a matter of seconds.
Thankfully, the boat was still there, waves lapping at its sides. I jumped down, pulled the keys out of my pocket, and started the engine. Running frantically back to the stern port cleat, I slipped the rear rope. Climbing back into the cockpit, I leaned over the windscreen and threw off the forward line. I then pulled back hard on the throttle, reversing quickly, making the boat’s stern cut into the chop behind. Once turned about, I centered the wheel and pushed the control forward to full.
As the waters of the Bacino di San Marco opened up before me, it was clear that I had a lot of distance to make up. I powered forward, my boat jumping onto a fast plane over the waves as they sprayed showers of saltwater around me. Ascardi’s boat was now just a speck in the distance.
Five minutes into the chase my confidence began to grow. My boat’s speed across the water was rapid; the previously purring engines howled in mechanical stress. It was hard to be certain, but I seemed to be gaining on the craft ahead.
Then I looked up toward the horizon; what I saw in the distance eliminated any hope I had felt.
A thick bank of fog had descended right down onto the water. It was as though a dark, gray fortress wall had appeared out of nowhere and Ascardi’s boat was headed straight for it.
For a good seven or eight minutes we remained in formation, my boat’s engine still screaming as I pounded across the waves. Spray lashed my eyes, but I kept focused on the boat ahead. Distances across water can be deceptive. I was uncertain how far away the wall of fog really was. I pulled De Vries’ gun out of my pocket. I steered with one hand as I lined up my shot with the other. If I could get close enough to make the shot, I could maybe even just hit the fuel tank and slow Ascardi down. Probably another minute or so and I would have a chance … thirty seconds … I raised the gun … the stern was almost within range … I would make it.
LETHAL SCORE Page 20
