Deadly Memories

by Susan Vaughan

  Courage? Sophia Constanza Elena Rinaldi, brave? She didn’t feel brave. Fear chipped at her mind. Panic pounded with every beat of her heart. Perhaps Santa Elisabetta would give her the strength she would need tomorrow.

  For tonight, the bliss of being in Jack’s arms would block the fear.

  On Saturday morning Jack and Sophie drove the fifteen kilometers to Fiorasole.

  Beside him, outwardly calm and eager, Sophie gazed out at the vineyards and farmhouses. She wore sunshine-yellow—guaranteed to catch Tomasso’s eye—a bright twisty thing on her French braid, a sleeveless top, loose-fitting capris and canvas shoes called espadrilles, the only footwear in her classy wardrobe she could run in.

  He hoped like hell she wouldn’t have to run.

  Sophie was throwing herself into the Colosseum with a Mafia beast, with Jack as her sword-bearer. Byrne and his Interpol pals had thumbed-up the plan in true Roman fashion. Jack had her back, but damn, Sophie wasn’t an operative, and his gut said the danger in this arena was too great.

  At first, the venerable market town looked benign and picturesque—wrought-iron gates, colorful doors and shutters, a couple of crumbled Etruscan tombs—and deserted. On the cobblestone through street Jack saw two small children kicking a soccer ball. Nobody else in sight.

  When he braked the Opel at the piazza blocked off for the market, he nearly turned around and aborted the op.

  Vendors’ stalls and wagons, crammed with what appeared to be complete stores of wares, lined the piazza from entrance to the far end. On the left side, stragglers filled the steps of the redbrick duomo—a Romanesque gem, according to Sophie and her guidebook. A buzz of voices—vendors hawking their wares and shoppers haggling prices—assaulted his ears as soon as he doused the engine.

  Abort the op? He couldn’t.

  He needed whatever scraps about Vadim that Tomasso knew. Compromising Sophie’s safety for that purpose birthed a second clawed beast to rampage in his chest. Rubbing his sternum was an automatic reaction—as if that had a chance in hell of easing his dread.

  “What’s the matter?” Sophie’s hesitant question betrayed her anxiety.

  Anxious didn’t begin to name the beasts in his chest. “This place is a circus and a beehive all rolled into one. Swarms of people. Stacks of crap as far as the eye can see. A maze of aisles.”

  Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, but her forehead crinkled with anxiety. “It reminds me of the Macy’s after-Christmas sale. Only there’s much more.”

  “This setup is worse than I expected. If Tomasso grabs you, some bozo with a side of pork or an antique lamp might block my way. Sophie—”

  She squeezed his forearm where muscles jumped from white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Jack, you have everything set up. I’m wearing an earpiece transceiver and a button like yours—” she fingered her lapel pin “—and I have the mini flashlight hooked to my waistband. You won’t lose me.”

  He jetted out a long breath, calming himself, cloaking himself with the job. If things turned sour, he could abort at any time. “Interpol’s in place. I got the go-ahead.” He touched the tiny transceiver hooked on his ear.

  They’d worked out procedure and communications last night between calls to Byrne, whom he would owe major favors when he returned to the States. The Global Positioning System buttons and communication equipment had been delivered to him in the same envelope with the Opel’s keys. The flashlight contained a panic button. From a command post nearby, Interpol was monitoring their locations on GPS. Jack could communicate with both via his lapel mic.

  “Remember, stick to English so I can follow.”

  “Andiamo,” Let’s go, Sophie said with a teasing grin, but her hand shook as she slipped the straps of a cloth shopping bag over her arm.

  He wanted to hold her tight, to tell her…to tell her…

  Hell, he had no business making this personal. “Roger that.”

  After they left the Opel, Jack watched as Sophie ambled toward the crowded marketplace. She stopped at the first stall, where an entire roast pig stared glassy-eyed from a slab. The vendor—porky himself with little eyes in a fleshy face—sliced hunks of meat for another shopper to take home.

  Moving on, Sophie turned and waved at Jack. He re-turned the farewell and turned away. Losing sight of her for even a nanosecond stung his nerves like bites from Florida fire ants.

  He sauntered through the open door of the bar behind him. Shortly, an espresso in hand, he slipped out the back. Gulping down the brew as the Italians did slammed his system with caffeine. The potent stuff could power the Mars probe.

  After leaving the shot-size cup on a barrel by the door, he jogged past the trash cans into the back street and circled around. Three shops down, Jack ducked through another shop and returned to the marketplace.

  The shops on that side of the piazza occupied an ochre-brick building fronted with a colonnade. He lounged behind one of the columns and hoped he was inconspicuous. His height made that problematic, but remaining on the fringe was his only option. His position kept him out of the sun, but the day’s heat and his stinging nerves dappled him with sweat.

  He listened through his transceiver as Sophie bargained with vendors in a mix of English and phrase-book Italian. Her beauty and waifish vulnerability charmed the men. Her warmth won over the women. By the time she’d made her way down the aisle, she’d acquired more free samples than purchases.

  And no Mafia hit men.

  Thank God.

  Jack rolled his shoulders. He wanted this possible lead to Vadim but not at the expense of Sophie’s life or safety. If the rent-a-gorilla showed up—

  Priorities, damn it. What the hell was wrong with him? He knew what had to be done. But a spiked pang had him rubbing his sternum again.

  As Sophie made her way to the produce section, she began to relax. All around her thronged villagers and travelers, women and children, farmers and merchants—no Mafia hit men.

  Yet. Be alert, Sophia Constanza.

  Pretending to survey the scene around her, she swept the crowd with a searching glance. Jack had disappeared, as planned, but he was watching from cover, also as planned. She tried to prop up her courage with that thought.

  Beside her a blond woman in a chic gray suit discussed a legal case with a man who’d just stepped out of GQ. The woman’s demeanor conveyed cool confidence and expertise.

  Yes, a professional who knew her role. A lawyer, a woman who’d found her calling and made a life for herself.

  “Mamma, Mamma, come look!” A scabby-kneed little boy about five yanked at the blond woman’s skirt.

  She has a child? Sophie pretended to examine a head of lettuce while she observed the tableau with fascination.

  Lawyer sophistication dissolved into maternal smiles. The woman knelt and hugged her son. “Yes, Emilio, what treasure have you found?”

  GQ man frowned with what seemed mock ferocity. “We came here for fresh fruit and vegetables, not toys.”

  Little Emilio tugged on his hand. “No toys, Babbo. A man has puppies! Black-and-white ones.”

  The boy used the Tuscan term for Daddy. Sophie gaped as the laughing parents allowed their son to lead them away to temptation. No mistake—they were a family.

  She replaced the lettuce and sorted through the pears. Well, lawyers had families, too. The woman must’ve established her career first.

  Maybe. Probably.

  Then again, it could happen the other way around.

  Sophie wanted a family, too, just not yet. Still, if Jack let himself love her, could she give up her dreams?

  Would she have to? Did independent have to mean alone?

  “Signora, you want?” The vendor, a red-faced woman in an equally crimson apron, smiled and slanted glances at the pears Sophie was mangling.

  “Oh, sì, sì, mi dispiace.” Fumbling in her purse, she managed to find the right euros to pay the woman. Uh-oh, she’d apologized automatically in Italian. With a shrug she decided that even the ca
sual American tourist would know that much.

  As she strolled down the next aisle with three bruised pears in her shopping bag, Sophie felt a chill in spite of the day’s heat. Without turning around, she knew someone was following her.

  Jack hustled behind another column and spotted Sophie in the throng. The yellow outfit gave her the visibility he’d hoped. She shone brighter than the Tuscan sun baking the piazza. From his vantage point he had a clear view as she strolled farther away from him. The side aisle’s wagons and stalls appeared to hawk mostly T-shirts and linens.

  When Sophie stopped before a stall, scarves and lengths of cloth that might be curtains or tablecloths floating from awnings blocked Jack’s view. Damn, he could hear her but not see her. Not good enough.

  He sidled around the piazza to the end of the colonnade. At the corner he caught glimpses of her through the waving fabrics—enough to satisfy him she was still safe.

  Sophie thanked the vendor and was about to leave the booth when a raspy male voice murmured something in Italian. A display piled high with T-shirts hid the speaker from Jack, but the man’s threatening tone hiked his pulse.

  Before Jack could move for a better view, he heard Sophie. “What are you doing? Take your hands off me!”

  The menacing voice again, in hesitant, heavily accented English, said, “You come. No trouble.”

  Jack’s adrenaline spiked. The game was on.

  But damn it, he couldn’t see them for the crush of people and the angle.

  The steady chorus around Sophie told him no one noticed that this man was kidnapping her. People seemed to be caught up in their own business. Italians were used to pushing and shoving.

  But he slowed his pulse with one thought—witnesses would deter overt violence.

  Into his mic Jack said in a low voice, “Tomasso has approached her. I’m moving in.”

  “Copy that,” came the French-accented reply. “I ’ave ’er on the screen. Heading toward the duomo. Backup on the way.”

  Jack signed off, checked his weapon and started edging in the direction his contact had indicated.

  Sophie’s sharp intake of breath came next. “Is that a gun in my ribs?”

  “No talk. You come.”

  The edge of fear around Sophie’s bravado squeezed Jack’s heart. No panic. She had the presence of mind to let him know Tomasso had a gun. Jack shoved emotion away, concentrated on control and experience.

  Sophie and her captor came into sight. He saw them making their way toward the duomo’s open doorway.

  Jack began to step from his shelter toward the market.

  Cold steel pricked his neck.

  He froze in place.

  Jack, where are you? Sophie’s mind screamed.

  Terror constricted her throat. The oxygen in the crowded piazza seemed insufficient as she fought for air. Even if she could drag in enough breath to yell, she couldn’t scream bloody murder. Tomasso would run away, and they’d lose him. She had to cooperate.

  Maybe Jack hadn’t heard her before. The mic wasn’t working or his transceiver was turned too low.

  Slowly she slid her left hand to her waistband, toward the panic button on the flashlight.

  “What you do?” The man’s words spat at her like bullets from his pistol. “Put hands down.”

  He hustled her up the duomo steps and inside.

  “Why are we going into the church?” she managed to gasp out before the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind her.

  Jack rammed back with one elbow as he went for his Glock with the other. A hard body shoved him against the column. His head cracked against the stone. Ignoring the clanging pain, he fought off waves of dizziness.

  His attacker had been ready for a countermove, Jack realized as the man relieved him of his Glock. The knifepoint stung. This time it drew blood.

  “Andiamo al duomo,” the man said, his breath a rancid stench of garlic and dental neglect. “Subito.”

  To the church. Now. Jack knew enough Italian for that.

  He got the picture. Tomasso had a new henchman, a man who’d been watching for Jack. Jack had been watching Sophie’s back but not his own.

  Fury drummed down his nerve endings. Fury at himself for allowing emotion to interfere with proper procedure. He’d conducted surveillance like an amateur.

  Resisting Rot-Breath, even if he took him down, meant Tomasso would get away with Sophie. Sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He had to keep cool and obey.

  Rot-Breath would take him to Sophie.

  Then he would come up with other options.

  As he let the goon march him toward the duomo, Jack scanned the market. Only locals—women and children, robust farmers in rough country clothes.

  Where the hell was his backup?

  Inside the massive brick church Sophie shivered in the cool air. Candles’ waxy scent and the musty odor of centuries-old mortar mingled in the duomo’s shadowed interior.

  Her captor dragged her into a side chapel and shoved her against the wall. As she fell, her weight rocked a marble post. It wobbled on its base, then settled.

  “Non ti muovere e stai zitta,” he said as he gestured his meaning—stay put and be quiet.

  The sight of his ugly black pistol was all Sophie needed to make her obey. She edged away from the marble post so as not to bring it down on her head. Apparently the pedestal for a statue, the heavy pillar stood empty.

  Fear pounding in her veins, she huddled in the corner. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d separated her from the crowd. Jack was supposed to stop him.

  Would the GPS button work from inside a brick-and-stone building? Where was Jack? Why didn’t he reach her before this man dragged her away?

  Sophie pressed her fists to her mouth to hold in the panicked sobs swamping her chest.

  The shuffle of feet on the stone floor approached the chapel. Jack? He’d be killed. She had to warn him.

  She swallowed her panic and yelled, “Jack! Look out!”

  The thug Tomasso barked a laugh and ordered her to be silent.

  She watched in mute shock as Jack stumbled into the chapel and fell to his knees. Blood trickled from beneath his ear. A man with a long ponytail and a wicked-bladed knife entered behind him.

  “Sophie, are you okay?” Jack said, climbing to his feet.

  She bobbed her head, but fear made her movements jerky as a broken puppet. “What did he do to you?”

  “Silenzio!” Tomasso raised his pistol.

  Flinching, Sophie subsided, but he stopped short of striking her.

  With a nasty laugh he lowered the gun and stepped to one side, in front of the pedestal.

  Jack shook his head slightly in warning. Wait, his eyes seemed to tell her.

  Comforted that Jack would know what to do, Sophie crouched in her corner and reminded herself to breathe.

  Backup, she remembered. Where were they?

  “You called it, Tomasso,” she heard the new man say in Italian. “This fool didn’t know I was there until I had him.”

  Clearly buying Sophie’s act that she knew no Italian, they talked freely of their triumph. She watched Jack for guidance while she listened.

  Tomasso ordered the other man to make sure no one was in the nave or other side chapels. When the ponytailed man returned with the all-clear, Tomasso began to screw a long attachment onto his pistol.

  Sophie knew little about guns but recognized a silencer when she saw one. Her racing heart leaped up into her parched throat. The leader’s next words confirmed her worst fears.

  They were going to kill Jack right there and take her with them.

  How could she warn Jack? What could she do?

  When Jack saw the silencer on Tomasso’s Beretta, he knew that he had little time to act or he would never get another chance.

  Rot-Breath held only the knife. The Glock was jammed into his waistband. Tomasso was the immediate threat, but for the moment he ignored the two captives and blabbed away in rapid Italian wi
th his henchman.

  Jack stood legs apart, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, his arms loose. Mental telepathy would’ve come in handy, but eye signals were all he could send Sophie.

  Tomasso continued to stand where Jack wanted him—in front of their best chance. Their only weapon. A distraction at the least. He willed Sophie to interpret his glances….

  He saw her frown, then look to her left and at Tomasso’s back. Her eyes widened in comprehension. With snail-slow deliberation she placed her hands around the marble stand.

  When she looked back up at Jack, he mouthed, Now.

  She gave a mighty shove.

  The pedestal toppled. It knocked Tomasso off his feet. Italian invectives echoed off the chapel’s stone walls. The Beretta squirted from his hand and skated across the floor.

  Jack had no time to go for it. He pivoted and aimed a kick at Rot-Breath’s knife hand. The dagger clattered to the stones. He dived headfirst at the man’s midsection.

  The two men fell to the hard floor in a welter of tangled limbs. Jack’s Glock slipped from Rot-Breath’s waistband. It clanked onto the floor, and Jack grabbed it.

  The henchman landed solid blows to Jack’s belly and one to the jaw. He fought tough and street-dirty but was shorter than Jack and untrained. Jack managed to hold on to the gun.

  Where the hell was Byrne’s Interpol crew?

  Crimson fury fueled Jack’s strength, fury at all this bunch had done to Sophie, to him, to countless others. Fury at Vadim for hiring them. He delivered a solid chop to the throat, and the man collapsed like a tent. Just in case, Jack shoved the Glock’s nose into the soft flesh beneath his chin.

  “Well done,” Matt Leoni’s cheery voice said above him.

  “You!” Behind Leoni stood Commissario De Carlo and two other guys Jack recognized. Not Interpol but the task force.

  Had his good friend Byrne sunk him?

  Would De Carlo take him into custody along with the Mafia rent-a-gorillas?

  Leoni held Tomasso’s Beretta in one hand.

  Jack’s heart sputtered before lurching into overdrive. Sophie. “Sophie, what about Sophie?”