Fatal Error, page 22
Adrenaline prickled her skin.
He had reached the ladder.
She threw open the cabin door. Enzo’s white Ford was parked outside. She lurched down the cabin’s steps to the car. Her injured leg objected, but she pushed on.
The car was open. She ran her hands over the ignition switch, under the seat, and in the door pockets. No keys.
A duffel bag lay in the passenger side foot well. She ripped open the zipper, and froze.
Wires ran into a thick coiled towel. The other end of the wires ran to a small box. There was a large roll of duct tape. There was no doubt in her mind what Enzo had in store for her if the handover had occurred.
She let go of the bag, gingerly.
She needed a weapon and she knew where to find one. She stabbed the trunk release button, and levered herself out of the car.
“I’m going to kill you!” Enzo screamed.
Her heart pounded, and her skin prickled. A wave of heat washed over her. Her lungs worked overtime, straining to fill her blood with oxygen. She clamped her tongue against the roof of her mouth to stifle her voice.
Enzo was at the cabin door.
He leaned against the doorframe, his right leg raised off the ground, his right arm dark with blood. His open mouth was twisted to one side, drawing his nose off center. His eyebrows were pushed down hard.
“You’re going to die.” He spat the words, speaking from deep inside him, from force of will.
No time to search for her gun in the back seat. She dived for the car’s trunk and threw the lid open.
Enzo limped toward the car, breathing hard and grunting back the pain of weight on his right knee.
The trunk was empty. She lifted the carpet, and wrenched the plastic cover off the spare tire.
Disposable gloves. Bright red reflective triangle. She threw them out.
The tire-iron. A two-foot metal bar bent into an L-shape. One end cast into a crude lump for a socket.
She whipped the tire iron from the car, and swung it in Enzo’s direction.
He stopped five feet from her. Grunted. “You think you’re going to stop me with that?”
She hefted the iron, holding it shoulder height, redoubling her grip.
He watched her hands.
She swallowed.
A twisted smile crept across his face. “All I have to do is get my gun.”
He turned for the passenger door. Her heart went wild. Damn, Damn, Damn! Why hadn’t she checked the glove compartment?
He limped a step, his back to her.
She had to strike first. She couldn’t let him reach his gun. She took a deep breath, adjusted her grip, and swung for the back of his head.
He spun around, both hands out, the last vestiges of his sick smile still on his mouth. He grabbed the iron.
She strained, but he twisted, burning her hands, and levering the tire-iron from her.
She hopped back.
He laughed, and slapped the iron into the palm of his hand. “Well, well. Look what I have here.”
She panted, and inched backward.
He limped a step closer.
The gash in her leg burned.
She looked around the clearing. She couldn’t make a fast getaway, but she could move better than he did. And he couldn’t chase her. Not rapidly, anyway.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled.
She inched away from him.
He smacked the tire-iron into his hand again and raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to enjoy killing you. For my brother.”
She dived around the rear of the car, her legs pushing hard, the screaming from her thigh ignored.
He followed, scraping the tire-iron against the trunk lid. He was faster than she expected. Faster than her.
She whipped open the rear door, threw herself inside, and slammed the door.
He stood outside, watching her, his eyes wide, his nostrils flaring with each breath. Adrenaline was fueling him, too. He was naturally stronger than her, and he knew the car, the cabin, the area. He had the advantage.
Again.
She pulled back from the door. Through the window she saw the tire-iron. It swayed back and forth. She ran her hands over the front passenger seat. Could she use Enzo’s bomb? Could she do anything with it?
Enzo lowered the iron, and reached for the door handle.
She threw herself at the door, hammering her fist down on the lock. There was a solid thump, the power locks sealing the doors.
He tried the handle. It clicked, useless. He let his arm drop to his side, and shuffled his weight on his one good leg.
She breathed.
His torso twisted, his arms flailed. She glimpsed the iron swinging. A long circular arc. Around his shoulder, over his head, and down toward the back of the car.
The rear window exploded. Glass flew. She whipped her hands to her face, and screamed. Slivers slashed her skin. Shards rained down on the rear seat, cutting into her thighs. She pushed back, sliding from the seat and thumping onto the floor.
Enzo swung the iron again and again, pounding the edges of what glass remained.
She whipped her head back and forth. She ran her hand over the carpet, and under the rear seat.
The rear seat, where she had lost her gun.
She shoved her arm under the seat, her fingers stretching, her palms brushing the carpet. The glass dug into her torso, and scraped at her hands.
She twisted her head to see under the seat, but the black carpet soaked up every glimmer of light.
There was a tearing of metal. She looked up. Enzo was stabbing the tire-iron into the door lock. He levered and strained, bowing the door. The side window exploded, raining more glass on her legs.
She thrashed her arm under the back seat, stretching her fingers, probing and searching. It had to be there. Unless he’d found her gun. Taken it.
Enzo twisted the tire-iron. The door locks thumped up. Metal squealed and the door bumped open. Forest air mixed with the decades-old dust of the Ford’s carpet. Enzo slammed the tire-iron into the roof of the car, piercing through the headliner. He leaned in through the door. “You’re mine.”
She bent her knees, and punched her legs toward him. He moved sideways. Raising his bloodied arm and wrapping it around her ankles. He clamped down, locking her legs under his arm. She strained and kicked, but Enzo’s grip was hard, and her angle not good.
He lurched back, pulling her feet out of the car.
She grabbed at a metal spar under the seat, tensing her muscles, and pulling herself inches back into the car.
He limped. Adjusting his position. Gaining better leverage.
She pulled on her legs. Harder this time. He moved backwards. Ripping her hands from the spar, stealing her only chance of resisting.
She flailed with her hands, searching for anything solid.
He pulled her legs from the car.
Her fingers caught something under the seat. A gentle touch. A glancing blow. Fast and brief. Once and gone.
She wrapped her fingers around an edge in the carpet, bracing herself. He pulled harder. She was half out of the car, her back on the doorsill, her abdomen exposed to him.
Her memory clicked. The touch. Brief and fast. Hard and flat. Angles and edges. A crosshatched pattern. Her skin tingled, and she lurched for the corner, her fingertips brushing metal.
He gave one more wrench, pulling her chest from the car, pinning her arms inside, against the sidewalls, under the seat.
She touched her gun. The Heizer.
He dropped her legs, and panted.
Her fingers slid over its metal. Skimming its grip, caressing the short barrel.
His eyes were narrow slits that bore into her. His breath hissed in sharp blasts through clenched teeth. He swung the tire-iron, low, left and right. He spat. “You should have stayed at home. You thought you were so damn clever, didn’t you?” He grabbed her belt, yanking her up. “But you made a mistake.”
He leaned down, his lips drawn back over clenched teeth. “You shot my brother.”
She slipped a finger through the Heizer’s trigger guard.
He raised the tire-iron behind his head.
Her fingers snapped closed around the handle. She twisted, levering her arm from under the seat, thrusting the gun through the door.
His eyes widened. The veins in his neck bulged. He tensed his shoulder, whipping the iron forward.
She fired. Arm straight. One shot. Center mass. Stomach, abdomen, chest. Three feet. She couldn’t miss.
His shirt twitched around his stomach. His left side. The very edge of his silhouette.
His face froze.
His straight arm folded. The iron came down. Over his head. Socket end first. Loose and slow. Smacking into the roof. Skittering across its surface. Tumbling through where the rear window had once been.
Jess’s belt slipped from his fingers. He doubled up, his hands clutching his side. A deep red stain growing on his shirt.
She pulled her legs up.
“It was his mistake.” She punched her feet forward, ramming his shoulder back, twisting his head. His ruined knee collapsed.
She pointed the gun at his face. “And you’ve made the same error.”
Enzo didn’t move. His mouth hung open. His lips a wide twisted curl around his teeth. His arms hung loose around his abdomen.
Jess panted. She shifted her grip on the gun. Adjusted her aim. Focused on the point between his eyes.
His shoulders sank. His arms fell free. His back curled down.
She shuffled onto the doorsill, leaning forward, arms out, gun trained on his head.
He grunted. Panted. Groaned.
And lunged.
His arms lashed out. Grabbing her gun hand, turning it upwards, squeezing, crushing, prying.
Her fingers burned. She screamed. He twisted her arm, turning her sideways as her body fought to keep back the pain.
He twisted the gun in her hand. She flung a kick at his side. He grunted, and ripped the gun from her.
She lurched back into the car.
He pointed the gun. Eyes wide. Shaking and panting.
The gun wavered. He back-pedaled, putting the distance between her and the gun that she should have put between them earlier.
She blinked hard, sweat stinging her eyes.
He groaned. “I don’t make mistakes.”
He took a deep breath. Steadying the gun. Adjusting his grip. “And you’ve made your last.”
His fingers curled tighter. The muscles in his arm bulged, bracing for the recoil.
Jess snapped her eyes closed. Jerked back. Brought her knees up. Curled fetal.
A single shot rang out.
Loud, close, heavy.
The last of the Heizer’s barrels.
But she felt no pain.
Another shot boomed. Then a burst. Short. Hard. Crackling. Shaking the air. Scraping on her nerves.
She opened her eyes. Her head was on the floor between the front and rear seats. Her legs lay out of the car door. Across the clearing, the undergrowth swayed in the breeze and trees danced overhead. The sky blazed blue.
She breathed out. Ficarra was gone.
She levered herself off the floor. He lay on the ground. His legs twisted under him. Bloody holes peppered his chest. Glassy eyes stared from a frozen sneer. Blood drained from his mouth.
She swallowed hard, forcing back bile building in her throat.
Boots pounded in her direction. A lone figure. A large gun. A bulletproof vest. Head swiveling from car to cabin to woods. The gun following.
She rubbed her eyes. “Mm…Morris?”
He dropped to her side, his gun on Ficarra. His heavy boot kicked the body, to be sure.
Ficarra didn’t move. His mouth hung open. His glassy eyes saw nothing.
Morris scanned the woods one last time then turned to her. “Both damn barrels, Kimball! Next time…use both damn barrels!”
She coughed and spluttered. Her lower lip trembled. She coughed. Tears streamed down her face, although she didn’t feel them. Her chest heaved and bucked. She curled forward.
He put an arm around her shoulders.
She clung to him, trembling, eyes streaming. Her face rested against his shoulder. The bulletproof vest was rough on her cheek.
He patted her back.
She thumped his.
Seconds passed.
She choked and sniffed. She forced her mouth shut and held her breath. She pulled away from him.
Sweat ran down the side of his face. His bulletproof vest swelled and contracted as he gulped air. He scanned the clearing, training the weapon with his gaze.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”
He flashed a tight-lipped grin. “If you hadn’t fired the first shot, I don’t think we would have got here in time. We were way back. Going carefully. Slowly. We didn’t know what was here.”
She took a deep breath, and held it down lest the tears returned.
She wiped her nose again, and waved her dirty hand. “Sorry.”
Morris grinned. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Oh God!” She grabbed his arm. “Wilson Grantly.” She twisted round to the cabin. “He’s in there. There’s a tunnel. And rats.”
“Slow down, Jess. Vanelli is checking it out.”
She frowned. “It might be dangerous.”
He hoisted the gun. “We came prepared.”
She looked around the clearing. “Just the two of you?”
“Yeah…well…long story. But he called the cavalry when we heard your shot. They’re on their way.”
She nodded. “I think there’s a bomb in the duffel bag.”
Morris peered into the front seats. “Right.” He nodded and mocked. “Vital safety tip.”
He helped her from the car to the other side of the cabin, away from the bomb, and Ficarra’s bloody remains.
He led her to a fallen tree as a line of dark blue gazzellas raced into the clearing. Armed carabinieri poured out, taking up positions around the clearing, checking Ficarra’s body, and descending on the cabin.
Morris briefed them quickly, pointing to the bag, and a man called for a bomb disposal squad.
She sat on the tree and panted, her arms wrapped tight around her.
The carabinieri emerged from the cabin carrying an overweight man. Jess had never seen Wilson Grantly, but she’d seen photos in his parents’ home. He looked different now, but recognizable.
He groaned with every movement. His hair was matted, lacerations covered his face, and dark stains covered his torn clothes. They laid him on the ground as an ambulance arrived.
The medics went to work. Swabs and needles and bandages. They cut away his clothes, and fixed an oxygen mask to his face.
He grew quiet. Painkillers taking effect. They set up an intravenous drip, and loaded him into the ambulance.
One of the medics carried a bag over to her. He swabbed her cuts with anesthetic. He shone a light in her eyes and bandaged her thigh. He said something to Morris, and left.
Morris shrugged. “He thinks you should see a doctor.”
She held up a trembling hand and swiped it through her hair. “No kidding.”
Morris grinned and rubbed her shoulder.
The ambulance left, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Vanelli emerged from the cabin, and walked over. He nodded in her direction. “You okay?”
She nodded.
A sheepish grin lifted his mouth. “Yeah. Stupid question.”
She smiled. “But you figured it out. The anagrams.”
Morris winked. “We’re the FBI and the Carabinieri. We know everything.”
She groaned. “Give me a break.”
“You did good, Kimball.” He grinned and patted her back again, as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d survived. “You did good.”
Her muscles protested her every move. The adrenaline was wearing off, but her hands still shook.
She looked at Morris. “You said, next time.”
Wrinkles covered his brow.
She nodded in the direction of Ficarra’s body. “Over there. You said, next time. Next time use both damn barrels.”
He shrugged. “Friendly advice.”
She looked at the cabin. “I don’t ever want a next time.”
“I have the feeling with you, there’s always a next time.”
She closed her eyes. They sat in silence.
Vanelli drew a car around. Morris opened the rear door, and helped her in. She sank into the seat, and laid her head back.
The winding coastal path back to Rome passed vineyards and olive groves and white crested waves breaking in rocky bays. Clouds nestled in an expanse of blue, small and puffed for the sole purpose of making the blue richer.
It was the dream of Italy. A beauty so strong it had given the Romans the confidence to strike out across the continent, and painters and poets inspiration across the centuries. But she saw none of it.
She was asleep before they reached the main road.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Jess sat at a breakfast table on the balcony terrace of her hotel, soaking up the warmth of the morning sun. Life bustled in the square below her. Waiters weaved between outdoor café tables, communicating in gestures and dispensing coffee. Mopeds threaded through traffic jams. Pedestrians dodged street sellers.
The fountain glistened in the sunlight. Tourists sat on the wall around the pool. Water splashed from an angel’s trumpet. The occasional blast of a car horn echoed off the old stone walls.
Everything was chaos. Madness. And beautiful.
Someone cleared a throat.
She turned as Romeo placed a silver tray on the white tablecloth, and gestured to the plates.
“Cappuccino, cornetto, berries, and cream.” He smiled. “Breakfast of champions, as you Americans say.”
“What’s that about Americans?” Morris stood in the doorway to the terrace, barely recognizable in jeans and a polo shirt. Vanelli stood behind him, immaculate in his dark suit, white shirt, and blue striped tie.
Romeo shifted his weight.
Vanelli said something in Italian, and Romeo left.
The two joined her at the table.
“How’s the leg?” said Morris.
She patted her thigh gingerly. “Getting better.”
