The Royal Bastard

by Nicole Burnham

Finally, Rocco spied an emergency exit sign beyond one pointing to the restrooms. He glanced back to ensure that Justine saw it, too, then guided her through the tight confines of the dimly lit hallway and past the line of patrons waiting to use the facilities. Seeing no signs warning that an alarm might sound, Rocco let go of Justine and used two hands to push the heavy metal bar on the exit door.

  A blast of cool night air hit their faces as they stole outside and eased the door closed behind them. The moment it clicked into place, the pub noise lessened from a roar to a hum. Voices were still audible from the crowded square in front of the pub, but they were no louder than the sound of cars on a nearby thoroughfare or the complaint of a skinny white cat stretched across a staircase on the opposite side of the alley.

  “This feels marvelous,” Justine said on an exhale. “I didn’t realize how loud it was inside. My ears are ringing.”

  “Mine, too.” He took her hand once more and squeezed, glad they were free of the infernal tracking device. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I hope the Russians start swearing a blue streak at two a.m. when they discover we’re gone.”

  “And not a minute before.” Rocco relished the idea of Karpovsky lingering outside the bar until closing time, then realizing that he’d wasted his night and lost his prey.

  Justine’s answering smile kickstarted his heart. The sooner they were done with this and on with the rest of their lives, the better. He turned to lead her toward the Repubblica Metro stop when the sharp flick of a lighter and inhale of breath signaling the presence of a smoker in the alley caught his attention.

  “Ah, Mr. Cornaro,” came a heavily accented voice from the shadows in front of them. “So kind of you to exit where it is quiet. And to bring your designs with you? This is added bonus.”

  Another voice came from behind them, “Far more convenient to simply talk business than forcing us to kidnap your wife. Safer for both of you, as well.”

  Karpovsky. And Radich.

  Chapter Twelve

  Determining that the easier path to escape was through the leaner man, Rocco slowly spun. He kept a tight grip on Justine’s hand. “Viktor Radich, I presume?”

  Radich moved from behind a stack of empty beer crates to the center of the cobblestoned alley. He looked different than the hunched, anonymous man Rocco had observed near his office building. Clad in well-fitted slacks, casual loafers, and a light gray shirt, Radich appeared confident and perfectly comfortable in his surroundings, the type of man who could move through the streets of any world city as if it were his backyard. Other than the purple marks under each of his eyes, no doubt the result of Rocco’s fist, he appeared invincible.

  “I’m impressed.” Radich aimed a deliberate glance at the backpack Rocco carried over his shoulders. “If you know my identity, then you should have known I possess the skill to program the GPS device so I’m alerted to tampering. But perhaps your genius applies only to the field of medical engineering?”

  Two more figures moved into the alley behind Radich. Rocco’s alarm must have shown on his face, because Radich laughed. “You also should’ve known I wouldn’t allow you to escape a second time. Particularly when you’ve been so kind as to bring me what I really want.”

  “Ethics? Class?” It was a desperate move, but it was all he had. “Sorry, can’t give you those. You’ll have to obtain them on your own.”

  Beside him, Justine tensed. Not in fear, but as a prelude to action. He flexed his fingers in hers, hoping she’d take it as a warning to bide her time.

  “The design plan for the artificial pancreas, Cornaro. Take five steps toward me, then set down the backpack. Once you provide me with your passwords and I check your computer to ensure it has what I need, I’ll allow you to leave.”

  “And my wife.”

  Karpovsky grunted behind them. “Not your wife.”

  “As my partner says. Mrs. Cornaro shall remain as my insurance. Or my guest, if that’s how you’d prefer to categorize it. Once I deliver a copy of your designs to those who hired me, I’ll release her safe and sound.” Radich’s voice held none of the self-satisfaction or bullishness seen in movie-theater villains. Instead, his speech was straightforward, as if he were discussing a routine business transaction over coffee and bagels. “Five steps. Now.”

  As Radich’s demand echoed through the confined space, a drunk stumbled into the alley a few feet behind Radich and his men. A man wearing a black hoodie was with the drunk, laughing as he tried to hold up his friend. Without needing to be signaled, one of Radich’s men turned and yelled in Italian for the men to return to the square. The man in the hooded sweatshirt called back that his friend needed to throw up, adding a few choice profanities for Radich’s man.

  It wasn’t the foul language, but the voice that made Rocco release Justine’s hand and tighten the backpack straps against his shoulders.

  Radich appeared unbothered by the commotion and gestured again for Rocco to drop the backpack to the cobblestones. “Five seconds, Cornaro, or your wife will not enjoy her time as my guest.”

  “Don’t do it, Rocco,” Justine spoke so softly he barely heard her. “Think of how many people need it. We have to try—”

  “Quiet,” Karpovsky moved within arm’s reach behind them.

  “It’s fine,” he told Justine before looking over his shoulder at Karpovsky. The man held a gun. Of course. “Can she wait over there, next to the building? If you go crazy and fire that thing, I don’t want her hit.”

  “I hit what I aim to hit.”

  “Then out of the line of fire of those men.” He tilted his head toward the two thugs standing behind Radich. “It’s not like she can go anywhere.”

  “Mrs. Cornaro may stand on the opposite wall,” Radich said. “Away from the bar entrance. Hands up where they’re visible.”

  Rocco flashed a look at Justine. “Go.”

  “Rocco—”

  “Go.”

  Radich’s eyes tracked Justine as she moved across the alley. With an inward prayer that Karpovsky was doing the same, Rocco flew backward, driving his elbow toward the man’s gun.

  He hoped the drunk and his friend were paying attention.

  * * *

  In one instant, Justine was backing toward the alley wall opposite the bar, her attention squared on Viktor Radich. She fumbled for the words that would convince him not to hurt Rocco, all the while hoping that someone would look down from the windows above and call the police. The designs could not fall into Radich’s hands.

  Before she could formulate an argument, Karpovsky grunted, Rocco yelled for her to get down, and the drunk rugby fans flew at Radich’s men.

  On instinct, Justine ducked. Her back slammed into the stone wall of the building, knocking the breath out of her and sending a shot of pain through her lower leg as she braced herself in a futile attempt to keep from falling. She scrabbled against the cobblestones to recover, her brain warring between the fear Radich would come for her and the need to help Rocco. He couldn’t fight Karpovsky by himself, unarmed, let alone while wearing the backpack.

  If she could somehow get the bag, it’d free Rocco from the weight, giving them a chance to save the designs and possibly their lives.

  Radich barked out orders in Russian as he ran toward Rocco and Karpovsky. Behind him, his two men were losing their fight with the drunks…men she now realized were large, well-muscled, and stone-cold sober. Behind them, three more men entered the alley, all armed.

  Pushing to her feet despite the pain lancing her calf and shin, she raced to beat Radich across the alley. The backpack dangled from one of Rocco’s shoulders as he perched on top of Karpovsky, pummeling the larger man in the face. Karpovsky seemed impervious to the blows as he gripped Rocco’s throat with one hand and punched Rocco’s kidneys with the other. A grimace of pain twisted Rocco’s features, but he didn’t relent, smashing his fists into Karpovsky’s nose and cheeks.

  Unmistakable clicks reverberated through the alley. Guns were
being cocked. Bullets were about to fly. In such a tight space, she had no hope of escaping a shot.

  “Everyone freeze!”

  The command rent the night air at the very moment Justine dove for Karpovsky and Rocco. She landed beside the grappling men, knocking her shoulder into Karpovsky’s head and the cobblestones. She swiveled her gaze toward the voice. The man in the black hoodie stood behind Radich, his forearm wrapped around the lean Russian’s neck while he held a gun flush to the side of Radich’s skull.

  Shock stilled Justine. On her hands and knees, she croaked, “Kos?”

  “Release Mr. Cornaro. Now.” Venom filled the Croat’s voice as he glared at Karpovsky, the tone so deep and threatening even Justine jerked backward at the sound.

  Behind Kos, the two men who’d accompanied Radich sat with their backs against the alley wall, hands on their heads, their chests dead-center in the sights of the heavily-armed men who’d entered the alley after the apparent drunks. Karpovsky turned his scarred, bloodied face enough to see his compatriots immobilized, but kept his hand at Rocco’s throat, prompting Kos to add, “If you do not let go, Mr. Radich’s brains will decorate the street. Yours will follow. Then your friends’. I have the authority to shoot at my own discretion and I will not ask again.”

  The tall, dark-haired man who’d pretended to be drunk a few minutes earlier advanced on Karpovsky, whose wild-eyed gaze went from Rocco, to the erstwhile drunk, then back to Rocco. The Russian knew he was trapped, but like an angry animal with prey in his teeth, he refused to let go.

  Kos’s accomplice picked up Karpovsky’s gun from where it lay against one of the pub’s trash barrels, handed it to Justine, then crouched to press his own angry-looking handgun to Karpovsky’s head. “Remove. Your. Hands.”

  Slowly, Karpovsky released Rocco’s throat, then raised his arms out to the sides. Rocco climbed off him, pain etching his features as he took a deep, choked breath. Kos’s accomplice quickly rolled Karpovsky to his stomach, secured the huge Russian’s hands with a zip tie, then searched him for more weapons while Justine moved to Rocco.

  “Are you all right?” he gasped.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.” The cut on his head was bleeding again, and he was holding his one hand tight to his body, as if his knuckles ached. She slid a palm over his cheek. “I think you need a doctor.”

  “I’m fine…or I will be. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He stood, using his uninjured hand to help Justine. Turning to Kos, who still held his gun to Radich’s temple, he said, “Thank you.”

  “Watch Karpovsky while Umberto secures Radich, and we’ll get you and Mrs. Cornaro out of here, sir.”

  Rocco took Karpovsky’s gun from Justine, then trained it on the soldier while the dark-haired man—the one Kos referred to as Umberto—used another zip tie to secure Radich’s hands behind his back. As he was doing so, three more armed men, all dressed like the two who’d entered the alley behind Kos and Umberto, approached. They moved to the side of the alley to talk in hushed tones with Umberto, who seemed to be directing the entire group. One of the men stepped aside and spoke into a small device attached to his shoulder. Less than thirty seconds later, a windowless black van rounded the corner.

  “Who are these people?” Justine asked Kos.

  Kos looked at Rocco, apparently unsure how to answer. “Friends.”

  “Surely not your personal friends.” Not running around Rome with lethal weapons. She felt her eyes go wide as the back doors of the van flew open to reveal more armed men. They leapt out, then assisted Umberto in loading Radich, Karpovsky, and their two accomplices. Another thought occurred to her and she turned to Rocco. “Are we going to have the Italian police after us for this?”

  Rocco leveled a look at Kos. “They’re government men, aren’t they?”

  Kos glanced at Justine before nodding in the affirmative to Rocco, who uttered an oath before saying, “Fabrizia. This is her doing.”

  For perhaps the first time in his life, the ever-stoic Kos exhibited genuine surprise. “Yes, sir. Umberto is the royal family’s head of security. He called in the DIA, the Italian anti-mafia investigative forces. They’re working on this as a joint mission.”

  Justine could see the wheels of Rocco’s brain spinning. He had to wonder how Fabrizia knew what was happening in Rome…and what the king and queen revealed to the Italians in order to pull off such an operation. “How did you get involved?”

  “I knew it was Queen Fabrizia who visited after your mother’s funeral. Even with her hair under a scarf, she’s easy to recognize.” Kos hesitated, his grim expression foreshadowing bad news. “I went back to the villa yesterday morning to pick up my overcoat and found that the library and master bedroom had been ransacked. Your safe had been blown open and your desk was overturned. Queen Fabrizia’s card was lying on the rug underneath the desk.” Kos proffered the card, which Rocco slipped into the back pocket of his jeans without a look.

  Justine put a hand on Rocco’s lower back and felt the tension there at the mention of the queen’s name.

  “When I saw the condition of the villa, I called your cell number and got nowhere. I also tried your apartment, Mrs. Cornaro, and received no answer. I’d seen the news of possible gunfire outside your building, and combined with the break-in, I was deeply concerned. Given the queen’s unusual visit that afternoon and that she arrived with her hair and eyes covered” —Kos shrugged— “I doubted the timing was coincidental. Whoever got into the villa managed to circumvent your security. The alarms never went off, so the police weren’t alerted. When I couldn’t reach either of you, I decided to call the number on the card to see what I could learn before I reported the break-in. I was stunned when the queen herself answered. You know it’s her private cell phone?”

  At Rocco’s nod, Kos continued, “She told me she knew Teresa Cornaro and had visited the villa first to offer her condolences, and second because she thought Mr. Cornaro was being pursued by people who wished to steal his work. She told me she believed you were headed to Rome, then asked me to come here to meet with Umberto. She said she would make some calls in the meantime in order to ensure your safety. I flew here this afternoon.”

  “On your vacation.”

  “I told you, sir, I don’t require a vacation.”

  “When this is over, you’re getting one whether you want it or not. If you don’t go, your wife will force you to quit, and I can’t have that.” Rocco angled his head to study the queen’s head of security more closely. Umberto was talking with the man behind the wheel of the black van. “He was the queen’s driver in Dubrovnik, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Umberto saw Justine, Kos, and Rocco watching him and gave the group a curt nod before rounding the van to jump into the passenger seat. The rest of the men working with Umberto climbed in the back, keeping guard over the Russians.

  “Umberto said that King Carlo and Queen Fabrizia have spoken privately with their contacts in the Italian government to ensure the men are prosecuted to the fullest extent of Italian law. The Russian government will also be notified about their activities in Italy and in Croatia. Radich is an American citizen, so the Russians may not be able to reach him, but Karpovsky is bound to be sent back there.”

  “Thank you,” he told Kos as the van exited the alley. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  “I’m sure you’d manage, sir.”

  Justine smiled at Kos. “Maybe, maybe not. But we both appreciate it.”

  Whoops and cheers echoed from the direction of the square. “Sounds like a match just ended,” she told the men. “Sooner or later, some real rugby fans will find their way back here. We should leave.”

  “I’ve been asked to assist with that, Mrs. Cornaro.”

  Rocco turned to Kos. “What do you mean?”

  “The king and queen happen to be in Rome on a diplomatic mission. They’re here for four days, meeting with the Pope and several Italian officials. King Carlo’s private jet is availabl
e to take you wherever you wish to go during that time, so long as it’s back here when the king and queen need to return to Sarcaccia. Queen Fabrizia suggested it’d be safer for you to leave the country until it’s confirmed that no one else is after your work.”

  “Happen to be in Rome?” Rocco’s lips thinned. “Seems awfully coincidental.”

  “The Barralis visit Italy several times a year. It’s my understanding that the Italian and Sarcaccian governments partner on many projects, given the island’s proximity to the Italian coast.”

  “Well, use of their plane isn’t necessary.” Rocco told Kos about the flight he’d already booked to the States and his plan to deliver his designs to Johns Hopkins.

  Kos considered it. “You’re wise to go to Baltimore, but given that it’s available, I recommend taking the royal jet. It allows you to leave the country sooner and without going through public airports, which could be dangerous if the Russians have anyone else after the designs.” At Rocco’s hesitation, Kos added, “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds, sir, either in contacting the queen or with my recommendation.”

  Rocco placed a hand on Kos’s broad shoulder. “I hired you for your brains and your loyalty more than your muscle, though that’s come in awfully handy tonight. It was a good decision to call Queen Fabrizia when you couldn’t reach me. It probably saved our lives. If it’s fine with Justine, we’ll go with your suggestion.”

  It surprised Justine that Rocco had permitted a visit from Queen Fabrizia after Teresa’s funeral, but accepting the use of King Carlo’s jet was even more shocking. Then again, perhaps it was a necessary step on Rocco’s path to healing the wounds of his past.

  She looked from Kos to Rocco. “I’ll do whatever is safest. The sooner we have this behind us, the better. And the sooner patients who need it will be able to take advantage of that pump.”

  “The plane is fueled and waiting,” Kos told them. “I’ll notify the pilot. I should have you on board within the hour.”