“Some of yours?” he asked Antonio.
Antonio shook his head.
Paul moved to the end of his couch so he could face the four directly and reached for his gun, which Antonio had given back to him when they arrived at Myth.
Antonio nudged his brother and gestured to the men. A few of the mafia groupies noticed the impending danger and quickly made themselves scarce. The two with Mateo were either too drunk or too high to notice. Mateo himself had each arm around one of the women and was oblivious to everything except their breasts.
“We should leave,” Paul said. “We’re easy targets here.”
Before anyone at the table could move, however, the four men drew weapons and fired.
Chapter Seven
Bottles and glasses exploded into a rain of sharp glass shards. The table separating them from the men practically shattered, flinging shrapnel in all directions. The crowd on the dance floor screamed and stampeded for the exits. The music kept playing.
Paul grabbed Mateo and shoved him toward the back exit while Antonio and Giovanni returned fire. Bullets whizzed past Paul’s head, but he didn’t shoot back. There were so many people in the club that he could easily hit an innocent bystander. Mateo, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Coming to his senses, he grabbed his huge gold pistols.
As he turned to fire, Paul yelled, “You’ll never hit them in here. Wait ‘til we’re outside!”
He shoved the man through the emergency exit and out into a dark alley, setting off a high-pitched alarm. Behind them, the music in the club finally cut out, and the sudden silence highlighted the shrieks of the club-goers struggling to reach the exits.
Just as the emergency door was swinging shut, more gunshots cracked the air.
Mateo stumbled. “My leg!” Blood gushed from his thigh and ran down his pants.
As Paul grabbed him under the shoulder with his free arm, he felt the searing impact of a bullet hitting him in the back. Mateo slipped from his grip, and he fell forward.
Antonio and Giovanni burst out of the club, firing behind them, and Antonio kicked the door shut before any more bullets could pass through.
Mateo wailed.
Paul pushed through his pain and hauled himself back to his feet. It felt like a hot poker was pressing into his shoulder blade, and his left arm was weak, but he could still move it.
“How bad?” Antonio asked.
“I can still shoot,” Paul replied, raising his weapon.
Antonio reached down and threw one of Mateo’s arms over his own shoulder. Giovanni took the lead as they headed out of the alley, while Paul angled his gun behind them to cover their flank. They approached the street and cautiously surveyed the area. Panicked men and women were still pouring out of the club’s main entrance and fleeing both ways down the street.
“They’ll be looking for us,” Antonio said.
Giovanni shot a hard look at his brother, annoyed by the obvious statement, then returned to cautiously searching the crowd.
Police sirens sounded in the distance.
Giovanni gestured for them to follow him, but as they moved onto the sidewalk, a gunshot rang out from somewhere in the crowd. “Shit,” Giovanni yelled as he returned fire. A woman in a green dress crumpled in the middle of the street, a red splotch blossoming across her stomach. Screaming people trampled her in their hysteria.
The four gunmen stalked them. Two crept down the sidewalk. Two moved down the street, using the parked cars as cover. The familiar one with the beard was on the street. He barked orders Paul couldn’t hear, but the meaning was clear. He wanted them dead.
Mateo growled, yanked out one gold pistol with his left hand, turned as best he could with Antonio acting as a crutch, and shot indiscriminately into the crowd. People scattered or dropped to the street, dead or bleeding.
Antonio holstered his gun and wrapped his free arm around Mateo’s waist, allowing both men to shuffle forward more quickly. The pain in Paul’s back blazed with every step, but he kept pace with them. Giovanni covered them from the rear.
The gunmen returned fire. Bullets punched into cars. The Grimaldis’ black SUV was parked ten cars ahead, facing forward. If they made it to the SUV, they could get away.
As the last of the club patrons cleared the area, the sirens and gunshots grew louder.
Mateo cried out in pain and dropped his gun.
“Shit,” Antonio spat.
Blood pumped from two holes in Mateo’s chest.
“Get him to the car! I’ll cover you,” Paul shouted.
Giovanni fired seven shots in rapid succession then dashed for the driver’s side door of the SUV. Paul moved behind the row of cars. Since no one remained between the gunmen and him, he took careful aim and squeezed off his entire clip. One gunman on the sidewalk stumbled and fell, but he got back up.
Body armor, Paul thought.
The two in the street suddenly rushed him,.
Behind him he heard the heavy roar of the SUV engine.
“Come on!” Giovanni screamed.
Car doors slammed.
Paul spun and ran along the street to the passenger’s side of the SUV. Gunshots ricocheted around him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw all four men sprinting toward him, firing rapidly. He wrenched open the back door of the SUV and hurled himself into the seat, the pain in his back blazing as he yelled out, “Go!”
The SUV lurched forward but then stalled out.
The four men drew close to the SUV and kept on firing.
Windows exploded, flinging glass onto everyone inside the vehicle.
Giovanni cursed and revved the engine again, but car only jerked forward a short distance. Paul raised his eyes over the back seat and peered out the shattered back window. The gunmen were nearly on top of them. The bearded man was about ten feet away. Perfect killing range.
He aimed at Paul, lifting his head as he did so, and that was when Paul finally recognized him. The man had disguised his face, but Paul known him for ten years. They’d been best friends since their training days at the agency.
Eric smiled wickedly and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Eight
Paul ducked behind the seat. A gunshot whistled inches above his head and punched through the roof of the vehicle. A second later, and the SUV finally took off down the street, and as they sped away from the club, Paul’s mind began to race. He couldn’t figure out if Eric had missed on purpose or if he’d ducked in time. Questions plagued him. Had Eric turned? Was he keeping his cover intact? Was this part of another mission he didn’t know about?
“Are you hurt?” Antonio yelled at him, breaking his train of thought. Antonio was kneeling in the middle seat with his hands pressed against the hemorrhaging bullet wounds in Mateo’s chest as the Los Zetas gang member slipped in and out of consciousness.
Paul’s shoulder and leg burned. He raised his arm; it hurt like hell, but he had functionality. He guessed that the bullet was small caliber. By the way the pain radiated, he thought it had lodged against a rib or the shoulder blade. Not fatal. “I’ll live, but I need a doctor.”
“Get to Franco,” Antonio said, glancing outside the car.
“I know,” Giovanni replied, texting while he sped through the narrow streets. “We’ll be there soon. The doc will be ready. How’s Mateo?”
“Not good,” Antonio said. “Go faster.”
Giovanni muttered a string of Italian curses as he dodged a slow-moving car. The cobblestone streets had given way to a two-lane road. They were in a business district, the sidewalks lined with numerous stores, but all were dark and no one was on the street this late at night. So Giovanni swerved into oncoming traffic without restraint every time he passed a car.
The police sirens had faded far behind them.
Eric’s twisted grin dominated Paul’s thoughts. He remembered when Tom Forton, their boss in Rome and their only connection to Interpol, had planned this mission with his oldest friend, Shelly Evans. They’d stressed that bo
th he and Eric had to become their cover identities. That had been harder for Paul to do this time, and he thought it had to do with how he felt about Portia. He wondered if Eric had lost himself within his cover. It had happened to other agents.
He needed to talk to Eric.
Mateo coughed up blood.
“Why Franco?” Paul asked.
The car lurched as Giovanni made a tight turn.
“He’s performing tonight. He always has a doctor on hand in case someone dies.”
Franco Grimaldi was the sadistic killer of the family, a giant of a man who enjoyed killing like an addict enjoyed drugs. But Paul didn’t have any information about him being a performer. He wondered what kind of performance might end with someone dying.
They turned down a small street in a rundown part of town and drove past an old theater renovated to look like something from the 1980s. Bright white bulbs formed a frame around a yellow movie marquee. A single glass-enclosed ticket taker was collecting money and ushering in dozens of people.
Giovanni turned the SUV down an alley and skidded to a stop behind the theater. He climbed into the back seat, then he and Antonio carried Mateo out of the car. Paul clambered out behind them and followed Giovanni’s instructions to knock on the back door. He knocked several times, before a tall, gorgeous, blond woman in a leather bikini, thigh-high boots, and a full sleeve of tattoos answered. A whip wound around her hip and she held a stun gun.
She looked Paul up and down with the expression of a thirsty cat closing in on a bowl of milk. But once she caught sight of Antonio and Giovanni, however, her face turned serious. She threw the door wide and pointed to a set of stairs.
Giovanni and Antonio carried Mateo to the second floor. Paul trailed behind. They pushed through a large red door marked “Management” and entered a functional office containing a long black desk, a black leather chair, and a black leather couch. The entire left wall was a see-through mirror.
A well-dressed man in bright clothing sat on the couch, reading a pornographic magazine. As soon as he saw them, he hopped up and grabbed a large bag. “In here,” he said, opening a door that had been concealed in the back wall.
They moved into what looked like a small operating room. “Put him on the slab,” the man said, pointing to a small exam table.
Giovanni and Antonio did as directed while the doctor quickly put on scrubs.
Giovanni cursed in Italian, then said, “How did they know we’d be there?”
After the doctor had examined Mateo, he said, “These wounds are serious. He should be in a hospital.”
“You’re paid to fix things here,” Antonio said.
“He could die,” the doctor replied.
“Then save him!” Giovanni shouted, pulling his gun and pointing it at the doctor’s head.
The doctor nervously glanced at Paul, as if he wondered whether he should care about the shoulder wound.
“It’s not serious,” Paul said, even though blood covered his shirt.
“Let the doctor do his job.” Antonio put a hand on Giovanni’s gun arm and gently pushed it down. He grabbed a kit and a thick sheet from a side table and ushered Paul back out of the room. Giovanni stayed behind, his eyes boring into the doctor.
Antonio closed the door and put the sheet over the couch. “Sit here.”
He reached into the bag and brought out a bottle marked “morphine” and a needle.
“No morphine,” Paul said. “Give me a local anesthetic.”
He didn’t want to risk blabbing out secrets while in an altered state of mind.
Antonio shrugged, put the morphine back in the bag, and retrieved xylocaine instead, gesturing for him to turn around. A needle pushed into his back, sending a fresh wave of pain through Paul’s back, but it soon dissipated.
The heavy bass thump of club music sounded beyond the mirror wall. From his seat on the couch, Paul had an excellent vantage point of the large floor through the one-way mirror. A hodgepodge of people were gathered in the room below. Some men and women wore business suits, while other patrons wore jeans and t-shirts. Many women wore cat costumes or dark leather jumpsuits. Several men strode through the club bare-chested with dark leather pants. Waitresses in black vinyl bikinis and matching thigh-high boots carried drinks through the sea of bodies.
A stage was set up on the right side of the room. It was completely dark and bare except for a spotlight illuminating one human-sized X standing vertically in the center. The X was painted black and had red cuffs on each prong. It looked sturdy, like something you’d secure a human to.
“Your brother performs here?” Paul asked.
“Yeah,” Antonio said. Through the reflection in the glass, Paul saw him remove the bullet from his back. Antonio then grabbed a needle and thread. “He also owns the club. It’s a way for us to wash money. But it’s also a place where he can indulge some of his…urges.”
“What do you mean?”
Chapter Nine
The lights went out. The crowd whispered in anticipation.
“Watch and see,” Antonio said, his attention firmly fixed on his task. Whether he wanted to avoid the “performance” or was simply focusing, Paul couldn’t be sure.
The spotlight winked out. An announcer who sounded like a sports commentator in a stadium said, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm welcome to Master D.M.C!” He pronounced the initials like punches, with the last letter trailing off into an explosion of cheers and whistles from the crowd.
The spotlight flicked back on. Handcuffed to the X was a blond woman of about eighteen with a bare chest and black vinyl bikini bottoms. Her white skin looked like milk in the glow of the spotlight, and her hair was styled in a fashion you’d see a business woman wear. Standing next to her, holding a cat o’ nine tails, was one of the largest men Paul had ever seen. He stood about six and a half feet tall, was heavily muscled, and wore only dark leather pants. His dark hair was slicked back, and he swung the many-pronged whip back and forth, a predator with a twitching tail anticipating his next meal.
Franco Grimaldi. Paul had only seen his picture and that hadn’t conveyed the sheer size of him.
The crowd slowly hushed.
Franco broke into a smile, flashing even white teeth.
The woman’s blue eyes stared at him adoringly. Each time the whip came close, she leaned forward, begging for its touch. He lightly whipped her thighs and stomach. Playful. Teasing.
Gradually, he applied more force. After each whipping, the woman writhed in pleasure and yelled, “More!” in a throaty voice.
Paul glanced around the room. All eyes were focused on the stage. Many looked excited, some shocked, but no one blinked.
Once the woman’s skin had developed small red welts across her belly and torso, Franco put the whip down and brought out a large black candle. He lit it, then slowly dribbled the wax across her chest. Each time a bead of wax dripped onto the woman’s bare white skin, she gasped in what seemed like ecstasy. She never took her eyes off Franco.
At one point, he paused and asked, “Do you want to stop?”
She yelled, “No, Master! I live to serve. I serve to live!”
He smiled wickedly and said, “Very good, my pet.”
With his free hand, he ripped her bikini bottom off, revealing a completely shaved pubis. He dripped wax across her stomach and pelvis.
The house speakers issued a low staccato beat that gradually pulsed quicker.
As the candle burned low, Franco put it aside.
“Please, Master,” the woman begged.
The spectators moved forward in unison, crowding the front of the stage. Franco turned to them, his erection evident through his tight pants. He surveyed them for a moment, slowly turned back to his slave, and parted the wax around her labia.
“Please, Master. Please make me come!”
The music increased tempo as Franco pushed his finger inside her and moved it up and down.
The music beat faster.
&n
bsp; Franco stroked her to the beat of the music. Faster and faster.
The woman screamed, “Please let me come, Master!”
Franco stared into her eyes and said, “Not yet.”
Their eyes locked on each other, both feeding off the other in some way. The spotlight only illuminated the front two rows of people, but Paul saw the effect the show was having on the audience. Women leaned forward and gripped the stage, as if they were about to spring up and take the writhing woman’s place. Men’s bare chests heaved. One woman had hiked up her skirt and was masturbating.
Franco didn’t seem to notice or care about the congregation. He was engrossed in the eyes of his slave.
“Please let me come,” she wailed.
He said nothing, but his motions became more violent as the music rose to a crescendo.
“Master, I’m begging you!” she yelled.
Franco stared into her eyes and said three words, “Come for me.”
The woman’s body exploded into violent spasms and her face contorted into a look of intense pleasure. Her shudders slowly subsided and Franco removed his finger. The woman went limp and hung suspended from the X.
The music stopped.
The crowd went crazy, cheering and cat calling.
Franco pointed to the woman who had been masturbating and motioned for her to come forward. She lunged on stage and kneeled in front of him. Franco slowly pushed his forefinger into her mouth and she sucked it like a popsicle.
The crowd roared louder.
The spotlight zoomed in on Franco.
Franco waved to the crowd, then the light winked out.
Paul heard the snap of surgical gloves being removed, and it brought him back to Antonio’s operation. “All stitched up,” he said. “The bullet wasn’t deep, probably a ricochet.”
“You’ve had medical training?”
“A little.”
That information wasn’t in his files.
The house lights came on. The stage was empty, but the crowd was vibrant, talking and laughing and milling about. People paired off into shadowed alcoves. Some left in groups of three.
The Italian Deception Page 3