“What has happened?” Aaron shouted. “Where is Piero and Enrica? Where is Sarah?”
After a few moments, the chief commissioner of the Umbria region approached. He stood in front of Aaron for a few seconds without speaking. Then he narrowed his eyes and half smiled. “You are the godson.”
“Yes. But what has happened? Where is Piero and Enrica? And where is Sarah?”
“Let him pass,” the chief commissioner told the troopers.
Aaron walked past the troopers and the chief commissioner reached over and grabbed his arm above the wrist. “Signore,” said the commissioner. “I am very sorry. Before you go in the room, you should prepare yourself.” The commissioner lowered his gaze and shook his head.
He walked through the foyer into the living area. Italian forensics teams were busy taking photos and scanning the area for evidence. Piero and Enrica were seated next to one another on the fireplace hearth with their backs against the wall. Blood trickled down their foreheads where the bullets had entered.
Aaron gasped and felt faint. He felt the commissioner grab his shoulders and ease him down as Aaron fell to his knees. His mind went blank and he felt a tightness in his throat as he looked upon his godparents’ blank stares.
Sarah. “S-Sarah,” he stuttered. “Where is Sarah?” Aaron stood.
“Who is Sarah?” asked the commissioner.
Aaron pushed away from the commissioner and two officers moved to stop him. The commissioner extended his arm and shook his head to stop the officers from restraining him. Aaron ran through the house and out the back door toward the barn apartment. The commissioner and two officers followed.
He ran to the pool where he last saw Sarah. She wasn’t there but her running clothes were where she placed them earlier. He then ran to the apartment. Her prepaid phone sat on the kitchen island counter but Sarah wasn’t on the first floor so he ran up the stairs. Sarah was gone. Aaron felt his pulse pound in his temples. His mouth was dry and his face felt flushed. As he descended the stairs, Aaron surveyed the scene. There are no signs of a struggle. He turned his gaze toward the cocktail table where he and Sarah had reviewed the financier’s notebook ledger. The notebook was also missing. The commissioner waited for Aaron at the bottom of the stairs.
“Signore, are you well?” asked the commissioner.
Piero and Enrica were murdered execution-style and Sarah was kidnapped. This was a professional hit, Aaron concluded.
PART 3
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CITTÀ DELLA PIEVE, ITALY
THURSDAY, JULY 21ST
11:00 A.M.
Whoever did this is going to pay. Aaron grieved for the loss of his godparents by throwing all of his energy into trying to determine who murdered them and kidnapped Sarah. He felt a sense of guilt that his decision to hide out at the vineyard had predetermined that outcome.
If his suspicions were correct, his previous life as a covert agent for the government was over anyway, and he steeled himself for however this would end.
Again and again, he thought about the events that led to this circumstance and concluded that, even though there was a slight chance an ISIS cell had discovered his mission and retaliated, the mostly likely answer was the Council. The Council had turned on him and ordered his termination.
Aaron picked up a pen and paper and sat on a barstool seat at the kitchen island counter and he wrote:
1.
The Council was pissed I included Sarah, a civilian with no clearance.
2.
The Council refused to sanction a righteous op. No explanation.
3.
Stafford was pissed I only gave him the thumb drive and not the notebook.
4.
Council ordered me to return after Barcelona but I refused.
5.
Paris. What the fuck happened in Paris? Stafford called in the cleaning crew and then ordered me not to go after the UAE Col. UAE Col terminated before I returned????
6.
Push back from Senate Judiciary. WTF?
7.
Senator Walsh on BBC calling me a rogue agent that needs to be brought to justice.
Aaron clenched his teeth and boldly scribbled;
STAFFORD!!!
Aaron heard a knock at the door and he reached onto the bar stool next to him and pulled a Sig Sauer from his backpack. He called out, “It’s open, come in.”
The commissioner entered and Aaron set the pistol on the counter.
“Are you expecting more trouble Signore Monroe?” he asked.
“I can’t say I’m expecting any, but under the circumstances, I hope you understand,” Aaron replied.
The commissioner walked closer to Aaron and gazed at the weapon on the counter. “That is a fine weapon, sir. Nine millimeter, is it not?”
“Uh-huh,” Aaron replied.
“That is at least some comfort to me as the forensics team has confirmed the weapon used to murder your godparents was a Smith and Wesson .45 caliber magnum.”
Aaron knew that since the Commissioner had no one else, in all likelihood he would have placed Aaron at the top of the list of suspects. He felt his heart pound and resisted the urge to throw the commissioner out the door. He sat rigid in his chair and folded his hands on the countertop. “Can I help you, commissioner?”
The commissioner moved his gaze to the paper Aaron had scribbled notes on. “What is that you are writing, Signore?” he asked.
“I’m writing a letter to a friend,” replied Aaron. He tapped his pen on the table. “If you don’t mind sir, what is it that you want?”
“Signore Monroe, I have come here to tell you your location at the presumed time of this crime has been confirmed. Several witnesses have verified you were at the football game in town.”
“That’s good to know.” Aaron leveled a frustrated look. “Sir, am I a suspect? Are you going to charge me with the murder of my godparents and the disappearance of my girlfriend?”
The commissioner waved his hands in front of him. “No, signore. No, signore. You are not a suspect, and I must tell you again I am sorry for your loss. I assure you we will do everything we can to find these villains. But, of course, I would advise you not to attempt to return to America until this is resolved. I’m sure you understand.” The commissioner closed the door behind him.
Aaron smirked. Yeah, right, of course I understand. He got off the stool and went to the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of water and twisted the cap off. If the Council sent a hit team, how did they find me? Nobody knows of this place. Only me and Sarah. Sarah? Aaron staggered a little and set the water bottle on the counter and leaned against it for balance. There was no sign of a break-in or struggle. His throat was very dry. He picked up the water bottle and downed half of it. What the hell are you thinking? Not a chance. Don’t even entertain that thought.
Aaron revisited who else knew he and Sarah were at the vineyard. The only people we came in contact with were the locals and . . . and, the forger in Perugia.
* * *
He drove his godparents’ Peugeot back to Perugia. Unlike the previous drive, the day was sunny and bright. Not so for Aaron’s mood, which was dark and doing a slow burn as he walked into the forger’s camera store.
The short, overweight, bald man with thick glasses and the same gray cardigan sweater came out from behind a curtain.
“Bienvenuto,” he said cheerfully. Upon seeing Aaron the small man’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. “I can’t make another passport. I have to close now.” He turned and walked behind the curtain toward the back of the store.
Aaron followed at a faster pace and easily caught him. He grabbed his shirt collar from behind and threw him onto a couch. “Why are you running? What are you afraid of?”
The man cowered on the couch. “What do you wa-want?” he stammered.
“Who did you tell about the passport you made for me?”
“I didn’t tell anyone, I swear!”
Aaron li
fted him off the couch and threw him hard across the room where he crashed into his photo background curtain and lights. “You’re fucking lying to me!”
“No. No. I’m not.”
Aaron picked him up again and backhanded him which sent the man flying across the room and he landed back on the couch. He walked over to the man and reached behind his back and pulled his Sig Sauer out of his waistband. Aaron put his knee in the chest of the forger and placed the gun up to his forehead.
“You need to make a choice,” Aaron hissed. “You can tell me the truth and stay alive in your miserable fucking life, or you can lie to me one more time and the next sensation you’ll feel is this nine-millimeter punching through your forehead!”
“Alright! Alright! I’ll tell you,” the man whimpered. “Please don’t kill me!”
“Talk. I’m listening.” Aaron put extra pressure on his chest.
“I was contacted by an American,” he wheezed. “I saw a post on a chat room for people in my line of work. The post read to be on the lookout for you and a pretty woman and that any information that could help locate you would be rewarded handsomely. I replied to his post and he contacted me by e-mail. I told him where I saw you. That’s all I know. I swear!”
“Who was it?” he roared.
“I don’t know. I swear by my mother’s grave,” the man whimpered.
“Are you sure he was an American?”
“Yes. His e-mail was something like; coolbro1969@hotmail and he paid me in dollars.”
Aaron closed his eyes and visualized his godparents sitting against the fireplace with the back of their heads splattered across the wall. His finger twitched on the trigger. Fuck! Aaron took another hard swing with his fist and bashed the man’s nose.
The forger was sprawled on the couch. He held the couch cover over his nose in an attempt to stem the bleeding. “Yes, he was an American. Who else would have a Hotmail address like that . . . Please don’t kill me.”
It has to be Stafford. Aaron placed his Sig Sauer against the man’s forehead again. “I swear, if you ever tell anyone what you just told me, there is nowhere you can hide. I will find out and I will find you and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes. I understand.” The man put his hand over his face to shield it. “Please no more. Please. I beg you.”
Aaron knew what he had to do. The forger was now irrelevant. He stood and walked out of the camera shop and returned to his godfather’s Peugeot.
* * *
The sun set as Aaron drove back to the vineyard. He decided his only course of action was to return to America and confront Stafford and, if necessary, kill him. He had his mind set on rescuing Sarah and extracting revenge for the murder of his godparents. Yet he couldn’t shake a lingering consternation.
Sarah claimed she had never shot a gun, but when I took her to the shooting range to teach her, she hit an exceptionally high score. That was unusual for a beginner. In Paris, she remained outside the UAE colonel’s villa when I left to follow the van full of captives to the warehouse. She could have killed the colonel and the others before I returned. Lastly, she was the only other person that knew about the vineyard. She could have killed Piero and Enrica and taken the notebook.
Aaron shook his head. “No. No way,” he muttered. Sarah wouldn’t do that. It has to be Stafford.
He parked in the garage and closed the door behind him. He entered the living area and strode over to the small cocktail bar. He poured a two-finger glass of eighteen-year-old single malt scotch and took a swallow.
“Dammit!” he shouted. “Stafford! How could you do this?” He threw his glass across the room and it shattered against the wall.
Aaron ripped the watercolor painting off the wall and opened the safe. He took out all the cash — approximately fifty thousand euros — and stuffed it in his backpack. He grabbed the stack of five forged passports, discarded the first two, and found the passport with Paulo’s name, the deceased son of Piero and Erica.
He closed his eyes and thought of the good times he had with Paulo when he was young. He thought of Piero and Enrica and all the years he had known them and how kind they were to him. And he thought of Sarah.
They better not hurt her. He clenched his teeth and balled his fists. What’s going to happen is going to happen. The Council should not have done this to me.
* * *
Aaron drove back to Perugia as the sun rose and parked in the lot of the Deutsche Bank near the university. When the bank opened, he was the first customer of the day. He deposited 40,000 euros in cash into the account under the name of his godparent’s son and then exchanged 10,000 euros for dollars.
The bank agent was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She had dark hair that fell loose and brushed her shoulders and a flawless complexion and had on a pair of red-framed eyeglasses. She placed the cash in an automatic counter, then turned toward Aaron and asked, “Where did you get all this cash from?”
“My parents. They are old school. They thought their money was more secure in a tin hidden in the barn.”
The agent smirked. “Oh, yes,” she replied. “I had an uncle who felt that way. Very intimidated by technology. He wouldn’t even use an ATM.” She stood and said, “Please excuse me, I need to go to the vault to collect the dollars.”
She returned a few minutes later. “It’s a good rate today,” she said. “Ten thousand euro exchange is 11,290 dollars.” She counted the dollars in a variety of denominations and set the cash on the counter. “Taking a trip, I presume?”
“Yes,” Aaron replied. “To visit my uncle.” Aaron placed the cash in his backpack and thanked the agent as he turned to leave.
He walked a few curvy blocks up Via Ariodante Fabretti, past Gucci, Guess, and Valentino storefronts and stopped at an Alitalia travel agency and purchased a coach seat for a flight from Rome to Chicago.
In order to match the picture on his passport, Aaron stopped for a shave and a haircut: high and tight. Then he had the hair stylist dye his hair red. The final touch was completed at an optical store in a nearby mall where he purchased a set of brown contact lenses to place over his blue eyes.
Aaron stopped at a water closet on his way out of the mall and confirmed the image he saw in the mirror matched the image on his passport. He smiled wryly at the image, then murmured, “Game on.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, U.S.A.
SATURDAY, JULY 23RD
1:20 P.M.
The flight departed Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino International Airport in Rome at nine thirty in the morning. Aaron tried to sleep but he always found it difficult to do so on a westbound flight because it was daylight the entire way and this time was no different. Instead, he watched a mindless movie about a sexual predator and a college student. Then he read the in-flight magazine from cover to cover.
The landing was smooth and he collected his carryon bags, which was all he traveled with, and departed the aircraft. Without the need to collect any checked bags, Aaron was one of the first to get in the queue for Customs and Border Control. As he stood in the short but slow-moving line he half smiled and wished he had enrolled his forged identity in the Global Traveler Program so he could have avoided this inconvenience.
Past customs, with his backpack over his shoulder, he dragged his roller bag through the O’Hare International Airport and stepped outside into an oppressively hot afternoon. There was not a cloud in the sky, and with the high humidity and the area surrounded by concrete roads and glass buildings, the temperature index was well over one hundred and ten degrees.
Aaron got in the taxi line. Fortunately, the line moved quickly and within ten minutes he was seated in the back seat of an air-conditioned cab. “I need to go to the nearest U-Haul franchise, please,” Aaron said.
The driver had dreadlocks down past his shoulders. He turned around and glared at Aaron. “Are you fucking kiddin me? I waited in the pickup line for an hour and a half and you want to give
me a fuckin five-minute fare?” The driver turned away from Aaron and looked for the taxi steward. “Give me a break. Get outta my cab, man.”
Aaron leaned forward close to the screen and said, “Hey. Don’t give me any shit. I’ll make it worth your while.” Aaron pulled a stack of twenty-dollar bills out of his backpack. “Five hundred bucks. You take me to the U-Haul and you can get back in line after that. Get one more fare and probably go home early. Take your wife out for a nice meal.”
The driver turned around again. “You shittin’ me?”
“Five hundred bucks. Easy money. If you don’t want it the next guy will.”
“Okay man,” responded the cabbie. “Let me see the green.”
Aaron handed him the cash and the cabbie put the car in gear and accelerated into the madhouse traffic around O’Hare field. The U-Haul dealership was in Wheeling and the trip took twelve minutes. As Aaron opened the door to step out of the taxi the cabbie looked back with a big, gold-toothed grin and said, “Dude, have a good day!”
Aaron was concerned he could draw attention with a one-way rental from a car rental agency so he went to the U-Haul and used his fake identification to rent a small van. “I’m helping my sister move to Washington. She just graduated from Northwestern University and wants to get a job with the government,” he lied. “The smallest van you have will do. She doesn’t own much.”
He rented a nine-foot cargo van and headed Southeast on I-70. It was a long drive on a boring interstate highway. Finally, he stopped in Columbus, Ohio around eleven at night, which seemed like it was close to the halfway point, and stayed at a Marriott Courtyard for the evening.
After a breakfast, he continued on I-70 until he saw a small gun shop off the highway near Brier Hill in rural Pennsylvania.
Aaron exited the interstate and pulled into the gravel parking lot of the gun shop. Having left Italy with only carry-on luggage, he was in need of some firepower if he was going to face Stafford and whatever other, unknown enemy.
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