His desk was exemplarily clean. Either he kept no hand-written notes, or he knew how to treat them. Were there secrecy trainings for the organized crime?
Somewhat angry, I leaned on a sideboard and contemplated. What could I do? Wait for him to announce a place like Viciousmidget had done? Or hope for him to return by evening, so that I could follow him the next day?
“Will the boss return today?” I heard one guard asking another.
“Nah, he’s gone to his boat, let off steam with some girls. He’s handed the dirty stuff to Rascati.”
“Rascati. Well, that’ll be some carnage.”
“I’ve heard something of axes and block. He prefers traditional methods.”
“Yuck. Good that I don’t have to watch.”
“I know, too, where I surely won’t be tomorrow at ten.”
“No?”
“That spectacle will happen on the Piazza Plebiscito.”
“He won’t stop at nothing. Well, I’ll have a look whether the kitchen still has something to offer.”
“Paolo’s been shopping this morning. The fridge is full.”
The steps disappeared into two directions.
You’ve got more luck than brains, Jo, I told myself. These were two target locations I could make use of, one of them with date and time and the other effective immediately.
So I immediately ventured on my way to the harbor.
I placed my bet on Mergellina—why should a Capo’s or vice Capo’s boat not be moored in Naples’ most exclusive yacht harbor, at the foot of Posillipo hill?
Pietro had about half an hour head start, and he traveled by car. I went on foot. By using every shortcut—beeline across the rooftops—I could catch up some time to the harbor. Indeed the Camorra boss arrived nearly at the same time as I.
He was accompanied by an assistant and ten armed bodyguards. Moreover, somewhere he had collected three young women who looked just as much a street rat as I did—if I wore my ragged disguise.
The women danced along the mooring cheerfully. One blonde just took off her blouse and bared her voluptuous chest. The curly black-haired woman lifted her mini skirt, pirouetted, and proudly presented her bushy pubes. The third woman with the black brush cut didn’t have to drop or lift anything, as her white shorts and the skimpy bustier left nothing to fantasy. The open champagne bottle, from which she just took a gulp, unveiled the source of her happy mood.
Her cleavage glistened wet in the moonlight. Seemingly, one or another dash from the bottle had taken the wrong route.
Once it was clear which of the large yachts was their target, I jumped into the water and swam across. From the water side, I came aboard, invisible and undetected.
A sweet life he was leading, this man who had first unleashed Russo and now this Rascati on the innocent people in this town. While their blood was shed elsewhere, he’d enjoy life with these girls?
No, he’d let off steam with them, whatever that meant. For now, he took the blonde and the curly one in his arms, reached for the blonde one’s tit and under the curly one’s skirt. The latter returned his favor by rubbing her hand along his crotch. Was it really only about sex?
In a corner of the rear deck, I found several furled ropes. I risked a closer look. One end was slightly frayed, like torn open by sharp items. No. Bite marks?
Handcuffs were mounted to the rope’s end, carefully greased against seawater rust, and with microscopic fragments of skin in the lock mechanism. Yuck.
I was still peeved about the morning massacre, and this discovery didn’t help to make me happier. No, Sir, that’s not the way!
I only had to consider the order in which I’d take out his fifteen men—ten he had brought and five who already had been aboard—with their large-caliber pistols, who had strategically spread out across the open deck.
This moment, someone lit the spotlights mounted above the deck, and fifteen gun barrels jerked in my direction—too well-aimed to believe in pure chance.
Chapter Forty-seven
No, not quite. They were aiming at the place where I stood, but not exactly at me, not exactly at my chest or my head.
The three girls didn’t understand what was going on. What was the difference? They didn’t wear any of these mirroring sunglasses with the thick temples that would protect them from strong ultraviolet radiation. From the ultraviolet radiation coming from the—spotlights?
Analysis.
—Increased ultraviolet radiation confirmed—
And what did I see in this spectrum? My footprints, up to the point where I was standing now. The entire deck was finely dusted, and wherever I had placed a foot, the dust showed the respective pattern. Crap.
Darn Jelly crap—my camouflage surely didn’t reproduce the UV patterns either, that is, I covered a part of the fine dust. The shooters didn’t have to look for the footprints alone.
All this crossed my mind within fractions of a second, and there was only one option—jump, before their lead could pierce my head.
I jumped, adjusted my position, and came back down between two shooters. One kick, one strike, and I had two enemies less.
Once I had landed, I offered a target again to the other shooters. This became painfully clear when the first large-caliber bullet grazed me.
—Penetration probability thirty percent—
Right now, I didn’t want to know that. Could these people not limit themselves to ordinary pistol ammunition? At least neither of them has a plasma rifle, I just thought before Pietro’s assistant conjured up such a tool and started shooting without consideration for the boat or the neighbors. Had I already mentioned that there were way too many such weapons for my taste? Yes, I had.
I announced my displeasure in the shape of a poison arrow. Then I deprived my next enemy of his gun—screw the camo!—and began to deal out lead myself. Only keep moving nicely and—ouch!—hope for the remaining seventy percent, or that the bullet at least wouldn’t hit critical regions.
Each hit further impeded my camouflage. To maintain it with my quick movements cost me energy I’d later lack.
Well then—fifteen enemies were quickly settled. Finally, I batted the gun from Pietro’s hand and pushed him back on a bench.
Then I dropped my camouflage entirely and briefly focused inside.
Two grazing shots, two hits, none penetrated. Painful bruises, structural damage to the suit, significantly reduced power supply—nothing to worry about now.
In the long run, I’d have to be worried about men like Pietro who didn’t just depend on brute firepower, but used their brains to prepare for invisible opponents. Or, put differently—the days I could depend on my camouflage were numbered.
“Who are you?” Pietro demanded to know.
Surely, I didn’t owe him an answer. First, I gave the three scared women a grim glance. “Get lost.”
“But—”
“Now!” I interrupted Brushcut. “And next time, make a better choice of company. Your friend needs live bait for shark fishing.”
That did it—the blonde grabbed her blouse and ran, and the other two women followed.
Pietro was already smiling again. “This will have consequences.”
I smiled back and sat down on the bench next to him. While Pietro examined my curves, I reached for his crotch with one hand—and squeezed his balls.
He wheezed.
“Now, you will tell me everything I want to know,” I advised him. “You’re lucky that I’m no longer as peeved as this morning. But it needn’t remain that way.”
Chapter Forty-eight
“I am not versed in interpreting human facial expressions, Companion. But I do not recognize the confidence you radiate usually.”
“No, Companion. I’m sad, troubled, worried, stumped, and weakened.”
However, not weakened enough to drop the idea of swimming two kilometers out into the sea in the middle of the night to talk to my Dragon Compani
on. Okay, I had granted myself an ample, if not decadent meal in a good restaurant from Pietro’s money. Then I had let the breezy summer dress made of my nanos disappear again and dived into the sea.
“What is the reason for your sadness?”
“There are several reasons. My appearance was the cause for the Camorra—the Italian Cartel’s Neapolitan part—to kill several hostages. I couldn’t prevent this awful deed.”
“It is not your duty to protect the humans from their own kind everywhere, Companion. I understand that you assume responsibility when you accept a mission, but that only concerns your immediate actions.”
“No, Achrotzyber. Reasonable acting encompasses consideration of possible consequences.”
“Undisputed, Companion, but consideration is not the same as assuming responsibility for a third party’s actions. But please report the events in detail.”
I did that.
“I understand now. Your intervention caused an unexpectedly brutal reaction. Still, that does not mean it would be your responsibility. You can only decide and consider consequences on the basis of available information. This assessment is always inherently incomplete.”
“I know, Companion. Nevertheless, the death of these people makes me sad—just as the death of those I had to kill myself. That’s also what troubles me so much—I’m good at killing people, and I’m using this means more and more often, where I’d only have knocked out the culprits in the past.”
“This matches your assessment of the consequences—that the culprits, left alive, would pose a threat to you and others.”
“Yes. I do understand. And yet—what am I turning into? Humans have inhibitions against killing. I’m tearing these barriers down, and thereafter?”
“You will rely on your logic, Companion, and deliberately avoid those situations that would require you to kill—unless you expressly accept this consequence. Is it not so?”
Yes, it had to be so. Or did I lie to myself this way?
“Is it this causing you to worry, too, Companion?”
“Partly. Moreover, I’m worried about the operation tomorrow. I will have to kill again, and in this case I fully accept it, but I’m worried because I don’t know whether I can protect the victims—more so, as Pietro has shown that they’re prepared for invisible persons. I’m stumped regarding my approach. And I’m not at the peak of my powers.”
“That means—you will need an approach that is not based on camouflage and especially preserves your resources. You will have to act fast and efficiently to be able to protect the innocent. Correct?”
“That’s how it is, Companion.”
“Even if I am yet a hatchling, I will gladly support your planning, if you would like to share your ideas with me.”
“Gladly. At least you can help me sorting out my thoughts.”
Chapter Forty-nine
Long before dawn, I, still camouflaged, occupied my vista point on the roof of the Palazzo Reale at the eastern face of the Piazza Plebiscito, with a fantastic view on the arc-shaped colonnades to the right and left of the church of San Francesco di Paola on the square’s western face. That the church’s namegiver also was the name patron for a well-known Bavarian beer brand made me somewhat thirsty, but breakfast had been cancelled. I had to know what would happen here.
At least there was no dust spread out that would glow in the ultraviolet spectrum. Nor had my walk around the square and the side roads unveiled any nasty traps. Was that not Rascati’s style? Or had he simply not come that far yet?
Initially, only birds gave me company, and once a stray cat on the next property. Then the first street rats came along, searched the square for anything useful, and left.
Two of these street rats looked phony. They were too well-fed and too clean, and most of all, their hair wasn’t as greasy and dirty as it should be. Police?
I could be alright with that—if they wouldn’t get into my way. Where had they got the hint on this square from? Or were they systematically searching all larger squares in this town?
Briefly after sunrise, the first churchgoers arrived. I had thought this building would be a purely touristic venue, but probably those who came to gain strength from their belief didn’t mind.
Despite Cartel, Mafia, Camorra—there still was tourism, here in Italy as well as in Las Vegas. It was business, it took the people’s money, so it was welcome.
Would Rascati care what his public demonstration would mean for tourism? Or worse—would he include tourists in his act?
From two sides, street cleaners entered the square. That was probably owing to the tourists, too—at least the showcase locations had to be kept clean.
No, today it was about something different—one of the teams with the small rolling trashcans wore sunglasses, and the other team’s sweepers quickly turned around when they noticed the competition.
Meanwhile, I had to look for a different place—the sun rose in my back, and even camouflaged, I was an obstacle for its rays and thus would cast a shadow.
Instead, I climbed down, let my nanos form a street rat costume comprising knee-long baggy pants and sweatshirt and joined the people at the edge of the square who were watching the street cleaners spreading fine powder and probably couldn’t make sense of it.
Obviously, Rascati had no business with elaborate choreographies. His men arrived in several vans and occupied the access roads with large-caliber pistols, small machine guns and plasma rifles.
Had I already mentioned, that…yeah, I had. It didn’t matter, they were too many anyway.
The camera teams and photographers followed right after the gunmen. They assumed position under the trees before the Palazzo at the square’s eastern face and at the colonnades’ outer ends.
Cheekily, I rounded the square once. The armed men gave me mean stares, and I made an appropriate detour around each of them, but they were probably ordered not to start any premature quarrel, so they left me alone. Upon completing my round, I returned to the shadow of a tree before the Palazzo and waited.
The main actors arrived by bus. From their faces, I could read that they hadn’t come voluntarily and didn’t expect any good—and I was appalled by the selection. Rascati obviously didn’t stop at anything, as there weren’t just young men and women and old people among the designated victims for his act, but also elementary school kids!
The fifty-head-strong herd was kept in check by only four more men with heavy pistols and driven to the square center. I felt sorry for them, but they had to get along with their fear for another while alone.
Rascati drove up in a luxury limousine. He brought a scarcely-clad blonde assistant, a bodyguard and a driver along, moreover a sicko with a scar all across his face, who didn’t appeal to me or the victims.
From the limo’s trunk, the latter fetched a leather apron and a small suitcase with metallic-rattling content as well as a massive wooden block, which he nevertheless lifted to his shoulder with little effort and carried to the center of the square, where he placed it down before the small crowd.
Rascati climbed on the block.
“My dear fellow citizens,” he began with mocked friendliness.
Now he’d announce to the people what they had to expect, so that they could be appropriately frightened, followed by a detailed illustration of the procedures which his assistant butcher would by and by execute under application of several sharp devices during the afternoon. Pietro had told me enough about what Rascati liked most.
Everyone was looking to the square center. I let my baggy clothes disappear and wrapped myself in my matte-black, high-necked, leather-look combat suit. Part of it was one of the large-caliber pistols from Pietro’s yacht. With four full magazines, I had a supply of sixty rounds, enough for every armed man on this square.
Rascati was just reciting his sermon about ungratefulness and education. I stepped out of the shadows and replied aloud, “On behalf of the Italian government I reques
t you and your staff to put your guns down and let these people go.”
His face showed anger about the disturbance, but quickly relaxed when he recognized I had come alone. “Ah, a guest. The young woman who caused us so much trouble. I knew you couldn’t let your people die alone.”
His bodyguard aimed at me with his pistol, and his driver leveled the rifle in his hand. His assistant retreated some way behind her sponsor.
“Those aren’t my people,” I objected. “Those are your people. Your fellow citizens.”
He wouldn’t comment on that for understandable reasons, as it didn’t match his concept. Instead, he nodded at his men, who trained their weapons on the frightened people, carefully making sure they wouldn’t get into each other’s line of fire. The assistant butcher appeared disappointed to me—if it came to the shoot-out, he’d lose a major share of his work.
“Put your weapons down and step back, and nothing will happen to the people. It’s your responsibility alone.”
“It isn’t.” Nevertheless, I slowly placed my pistol on the ground. “It’s in your power to release the hostages. You have a free choice. It’s your order to threaten these people. Thus it remains your responsibility. I won’t accept your twisted logic.”
“I don’t care what you accept. It’s my game, so I make the rules.”
“And you think you can get away with it, because you think that the good guys will play by your rules—by their rules, as you expect them to be. The good will never allow anything to happen to the hostages, instead, they’d rather sacrifice themselves. And the good would never just tear their opponent’s balls off and stuff them down his throat. Am I right?”
He only smiled and slightly cocked his head.
“I tell you a secret then, Capo. I’m not one of the good.”
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