by Zoe Sharp
“What’s happening?” Schade asked.
“The island…it is being assaulted,” Ugoccione said faintly. The next second, his face went from pale to flushed as he turned on Kincaid. “Is this your doing, Erico? Is this how you treat your friends?”
Kincaid got to his feet, more controlled but no less concerned. He shook his head. “Nothing to do with me, Tomas. You have my word.” He glanced to Schade. “Contact Williams. Tell him to brief the pilots. Wheels up in three minutes.”
“No,” Ugoccione said flatly. “Until we know what is going on—until I know—nobody leaves. Capisce?”
Kincaid didn’t bother arguing. “Where are they?” he demanded of Bernardo. “And how many?”
Before Bernardo could answer, a rake of automatic gunfire stitched across the terrace, sending chips of stone spitting outwards.
I grabbed Helena out of her chair and spun her behind me, keeping a grip on the back of her neck to force her head down as we ran for the safety of the house. We didn’t stop until we were two rooms deep, away from any windows. The outer walls of the old building were several feet thick. More than enough to act as a barrier unless they’d brought a tank.
“Well, I guess that answers the first question,” Schade said. He had a hold on Kincaid’s collar that mirrored my own on his wife. Beyond them, it was hard to tell if Lopez was covering Mo Heedles or if she was covering him.
“Where’s Ugoccione?”
“They were right behind us,” Lopez said.
Kincaid glanced at Schade, who read his intention at once. “No way, dude. Let his own guys take care of him.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of him, you can be sure of that,” Kincaid said, putting a whole different spin on the words. “If that bastard’s served us up like Thanksgiving turkey, I’m gonna make damned sure he’s with us on the table.”
31
We found them just inside the French windows. Bernardo was lying where he’d fallen between the doorway and a heavy table, deathly still. It was only the dark ooze from a wound to his leg told me he was alive at all. Hearts that have stopped beating no longer pump.
Ugoccione lay further inside, slumped on the floor with his back against an ornate chaise. He was clutching at his side, the pale linen shirt staining dark around his fingers. As soon as we appeared, though, he still had enough left in him to pull a gun on us.
For half a second, we all froze. Then Ugoccione let the muzzle droop as though he no longer had the strength to hold his aim.
“Come to finish the job, eh?” he asked tiredly.
“Don’t be a goddamned fool, Tomas,” Kincaid said. He covered the distance between them, keeping low, and gently nudged aside the bloodied hand Ugoccione had clamped over the wound. Schade, his own gun out, stuck close behind. Neither of them made any effort to disarm the other man.
“Please…” Ugoccione said. “Please… See to Bernardo…”
Mrs Heedles was already pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. There must be a stock of them in that woman’s handbag. She nodded to Lopez. “See if you can get him farther inside.”
Lopez was ex-military and didn’t argue. No point in treating the wounded if doing so exposed your medic and got them killed in the process. He cautiously stretched a hand to Bernardo’s collar and unceremoniously dragged the man into better cover. I kept close to Helena and my eyes switching between possible breach points, of which this room had too many for comfort.
“He hit his head…when he went down,” Ugoccione said, voice beginning to slur.
“Mrs Heedles is taking care of him.” Kincaid had the Italian’s shirt peeled back, revealing a matt of body hair, and was inspecting the wound. I didn’t miss the way he glanced at Schade, his face grave. Helena snatched a silk cloth off the table, tipping a vase of flowers in the process. It glugged water onto the tabletop and cascaded over the edge like rain.
“Here, at least try.”
She handed the cloth to her husband. He took it with a faint smile, wadded it into a makeshift dressing and pressed it to Ugoccione’s side. The man was struggling not to pass out, jerking his eyes open as he fought to stay with us.
Mrs Heedles had improvised Bernardo’s tie and a ballpoint pen into a tourniquet. She motioned Lopez to keep the pressure on while she retrieved a penlight—also from her Mary Poppins handbag—and shone it into Bernardo’s eyes. She gently examined the back of his head with her gloved fingertips. They came away bloodied, but she sat back and nodded.
“Be thankful your man has a thick skull,” she said.
“I am,” Ugoccione murmured. His eyes fluttered closed again. “Thank you, signora.”
Schade’s phone must have vibrated in his pocket. He answered it with a brief, “Yeah?” listened for a moment, then looked to Kincaid. “Pilots are getting antsy.”
Kincaid held out his hand and Schade gave him the phone. “Williams? Tell them to be ready to leave the moment Fox gets to you with Mrs Kincaid. Understand?”
“Now, wait a goddamned minute, Eric—”
It was Helena who protested. If she hadn’t, I may well have done so.
“I need you safe.” Kincaid threw the phone back to Schade, who caught it without looking.
“I’m safe right here,” she argued. “Either we all go, or we all stay.”
Kincaid’s eyes narrowed. A muscle jumped in the side of his jawline, but he held onto his temper and his tongue. He glanced at Mrs Heedles and gestured to Bernardo. “Can he be left?”
She shook her head. “It will take about ten minutes for his blood to clot,” she said. “Until then, we need pressure on the wound or he’ll bleed out.”
Kincaid nudged Ugoccione, leaned down into his eye line to be sure he was paying attention. “Tomas? Do you have your own doctor on the island? Anyone with medic training?”
“Si,” Ugoccione gave a faint smile. “Bernardo…”
Kincaid swore under his breath.
Somewhere outside came another burst of automatic weapons fire. It was close, and closing. Those of us who weren’t already on the floor ducked instinctively below the level of the windows. Ugoccione grasped at the lapel of Kincaid’s jacket.
“I am sorry, Erico,” he said. “I did not know…” And he began to cough. There was blood on his lips.
“It’s OK,” Kincaid said. “Old friendships…they are not easily broken.”
Ugoccione nodded briefly, and closed his eyes again.
“Eric? Is he…?” Helena’s voice was a whisper.
Kincaid didn’t look at her. “Charlie, please get my wife out of here,” he said quietly. “We’ll meet you at the airport. If we’re delayed past our take-off window, don’t wait. We’ll rendezvous at the chateau in France.”
I hesitated for a long moment before I gave a reluctant nod. It went against everything in me to cut and run, but my loyalty was to my principal—to keep her safe. Besides, hadn’t the first rule I’d taught my self-defence students, back in the day, been that staying to fight was always the last resort?
Kincaid glanced at Mrs Heedles. “You, too, Mo.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said calmly. “In the absence of anyone better qualified, I’m the nearest thing you have to a doctor. You need me right here.”
Kincaid nodded. He got to his feet, cupped Helena’s face in his hands and kissed her.
“You are the world to me,” he told her. “I need for you to stay safe.”
“You know I’d die for you,” she whispered.
“Ah, Helena,” he murmured. “Without you, I’d have no reason to live. Don’t you know that by now?”
He let his hands drop. I had to tug Helena’s arm to get her to move. She kept her eyes on her husband all the way to the door, then finally turned away with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
As we ran through the castello, I was glad she was too embarrassed by her own raw emotions to meet my eyes. Otherwise I would’ve had to hide emotion of my own.
32
“You
OK?”
We’d reached the last doorway. Beyond it lay open ground. My question to Helena was partly out of concern, yes. But it was also to gauge her focus on the here and now, and how much of a liability she was going to be.
I stopped raking my gaze over the landscape outside just long enough to glance at her over my shoulder. Her lips were folded tight together, lines etched deep between her eyebrows, but as she met my eyes her chin came up and she gave a short nod.
“Don’t you worry about me, Charlie. I’m not about to go to pieces on you.”
“Never thought you were.”
She gave a soft snort but didn’t call me a liar outright.
I took a few moments longer to check for signs of ambush. If I’m honest, I needed to clear the rush of memories out of my head, too. I’d spent a long time looking after people whose marriages were for the sake of appearances. Little more than mergers contracted for the sake of family alliances or to strengthen industrial dynasties.
Finding a couple who shared a genuine connection was a rarity that shook me.
Mainly because it reminded me of what I’d had with Sean.
And lost.
I took a steadying breath. “Move when I move, stop when I stop, and if anything happens, head for the helicopter and don’t look back, all right? I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
Without waiting for an answer, I stepped out onto another terrace—this one overlooking a walled garden rather than the lake—and set off at a steady pace between tall dense hedges that smelled like yew. The path underfoot was of white gravel, which was impossible to run along without making noise no matter how carefully you put your feet down. With Helena at my shoulder, I abandoned stealth in favour of speed. I was relying on the fact that the hearing of anyone who’d just been firing an assault rifle on full auto would be compromised anyway.
The gardens opened out into a complex design of low topiary. Box hedges about knee high that had been shaped and trimmed with geometric precision. Very impressive, but not much use for cover.
As we hit a turn in the path, I heard Helena gasp. The body of a man lay sprawled ahead of us. I approached with caution, although the amount of blood around the body told its own story. He was dark-haired, with a well-trimmed beard and a Mediterranean complexion, but he was not wearing the uniform I’d seen on Ugoccione’s men. Whoever killed him had taken his weapon but left two spare magazines on his belt. Perhaps not surprisingly, I recognised them as belonging to an M4. I looked again at his features and wondered if they might lean more towards Syrian than Italian. I tried not to let the beard distract me. They were more popular in Italy since the last time I’d visited, but that didn’t prove anything
I took in as much detail as I could about the dead man without doing more than slowing for a couple of paces, then took off running again. Helena stayed with me, stride for stride. I was thankful for her natural athleticism. It saved me having to carry her.
At the far end of the topiary garden was a narrow gate out into the wooded area that comprised the majority of the island. I opened it a crack and peered through.
A couple of guys were visible moving through the trees. From their dress, they were members of Ugoccione’s security patrol, but I ducked back out of sight anyway. My Italian wasn’t up to complicated explanations and I didn’t fancy having to try in a mixture of pidgin and mime.
Avoiding contact with anyone seemed by far the best course.
I kept an eye to the narrow gap between gate and wall until they’d passed out of sight, then we slipped through and high-tailed it into the trees.
It was around one in the afternoon, local time, so I knew if I kept the sun over my right shoulder we’d be heading roughly for the helipad. Even allowing for our increased speed, it took longer to reach it than expected. Long enough for the doubts to creep in, anyway.
Eventually, I caught sight of rotor blades through the trees, spinning lazily. We were approaching the Sikorsky almost directly from the rear. I dragged Helena down behind a small storage shed on the perimeter of the clearing and speed-dialled Williams. He picked up almost instantly.
“Charlie! Where are you?”
“Close by,” I said. You can never be sure who might be listening. “Any trouble?”
“Not that we’ve seen.”
“Good. We set to go?”
“Soon as you’re on board.”
“Coming in, your six o’clock. Try not to shoot either of us,” I said, and ended the call.
Williams must have said something to the pilots because almost at once the engine note rose and the rotor speed picked up.
Helena knew the drill by now. The pair of us ran, side by side, for the starboard door. Williams was on the ball enough to swing the door open the moment we reached it and we jumped aboard. It was only as Helena slumped into her seat that I noticed her hands were trembling.
“You OK?” Even as I spoke, I was aware that I’d asked her that question once already, back at the castello, and asking her again now was not going to endear me. Sure enough, her head came up, eyes flashing. At least it took her mind off any residual fear.
She opened her mouth to snap at me, but before she could say anything, the pilot suddenly throttled back the engine and hit the kill-switch.
“Hey,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “Mr Kincaid said to go immediately.”
“Maybe so,” the pilot said, his Italian accent strong, “but these guys, they do not wish it.”
I twisted, ducking to stare forwards through the narrow gap between the two rearward-facing seats and into the cockpit.
Through the canopy, I could see two men had moved out of cover and were standing directly in front of the Sikorsky. The first held an M4 assault rifle in his right hand. He was gesturing with his left—universal sign language for the pilot to shut down.
And just in case that message wasn’t clear enough, the second man had a rocket-propelled-grenade launcher locked and loaded on his shoulder. He was pointing it straight at us.
33
Oh shit…
I hit speed dial for Schade. He answered with a laconic, “Speak.”
“We’re under threat. Two bad guys with RPG. Repeat, with RPG. Take-off aborted.”
“We’re on our way,” Schade said.
No sooner had he spoken than we heard the rapid rattle of automatic weapons fire. It came from the direction of the castello, muffled by the trees.
“OK, this may take a while. They got us pinned down in the house,” Schade said, still sounding calm.
There was a pause, then Kincaid came on the line. “What do they want?”
“At a guess, this is capture not kill.”
“I want better than a goddamn guess!”
“Well, that’s the best I have. But if it was a kill mission, you’d already be able to see smoke from the burning wreckage,” I said. Helena gave an audible gasp and I immediately regretted my snarky reply. Ah, well.
“Charlie, don’t let them take her. Not again.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said and ended the call.
As the Sikorsky’s engine died away, the man with the assault rifle shouted, “Bring out the woman. That’s all we want.” His accent wasn’t American, but other than that I couldn’t place it.
Over his shoulder, the pilot asked, “Which woman?”
“Well, that’s the million-dollar question,” I murmured. I glanced at Helena. “Take a look at these two guys. Do you know them?”
“Why would I?”
I suppressed a sigh. “Just take a look, Helena.”
She did, just long enough to be sure, then shook her head. “No. Why?”
“Because if they’re looking to kidnap you, we’re going to let them.”
“What?”
“Take off your jacket.”
She hesitated a moment, then seemed to catch on. At least, she did as I’d asked without further argument. Physically, we were similar in height and build. My hair was cut in a shor
ter, more practical style, and was closer to red than blonde, but they’d asked simply for the woman and that suggested it might not matter.
I dumped my wallet and ID, shrugged into the blazer. If they did know what Helena looked like, they’d realise I wasn’t her as soon as I stepped out of the aircraft. And if they didn’t? Well, at least it might give me an opportunity to get closer to them—closer to that RPG, anyway.
“If you get the chance to take off,” I said to the pilot, “then go.”
He inclined his head slightly, as if wary of making any sudden moves.
Helena looked stricken, “Charlie—”
“Get out with me, keep low, get directly behind the rear of the heli,” I said, cutting her off. “As soon as I start moving towards them, run for the trees. Stay in a dead straight line with the tail. The aircraft should shield you. I’ll do what I can to keep their attention on me. Got it?”
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and nodded.
“One more thing—I need your watch.”
We swapped my TAG Heuer for her diamond-encrusted rose-gold Rolex. I put my hand on her shoulder. “You ready?
She ducked out of reach. Her chin came up in a way I recognised and didn’t like much. “Give me your gun.” When I hesitated, she snapped, “You know the first thing they will do is search you and take it away. You’re supposed to be me, remember? And I would not have a gun.”
With reluctance, I handed over the SIG, complete with holster. She clipped the rig inside her waistband.
“OK, now I’m ready.”
“If she is not out in five seconds, you all die,” shouted the man with the M4. “One…”
“OK, OK, she is coming!” the pilot called, and didn’t have to fake the concern in his voice.
I pushed open the cabin door. It hinged at the leading edge, providing a certain amount of cover from the two men. I stood behind it long enough for Helena to hop out behind me, crouching below the level of the glass, and scurry beneath the tail section.
