His gun clicked.
The bullets stopped.
She stepped out from the pillar, Glock first. “Drop it!”
He threw the gun at her. It clattered across the ground. He gripped his side, and rolled onto his back, breathing in hard, gasping.
She stepped forward, and kicked his gun away. “You hear those sirens? They’re for you.”
He sneered.
She kept the Glock pointed directly at his head.
The sirens grew louder, ricocheting oddly from the building’s corners and walls. She sighed. They were in the garage. Morris was close.
The man lurched. He stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket.
She leapt back, closer to the pillar. “Move and I shoot!”
The man spat at her.
Three big black government issued SUVs screeched to a stop on the other side of the minivan. Morris was first out. He leapt over the hood of the Lincoln, a massive revolver unflinchingly trained on the man on the ground.
Morris looked at her. “Any more?”
She shook her head, and swallowed. “No.”
A swarm of agents followed Morris, splitting up, spreading out, and weapons ready. Two of them cuffed the man on the ground.
Morris holstered his gun. “You okay?”
She nodded.
He looked at the Glock. “Will you put that down?”
She stared at her outstretched arms, her gun still trained on the man. She exhaled, and lowered the weapon.
Morris watched the gun drop to her side, and gave her a flat smile. “Thank you.”
Jess nodded to the man. “He was at Orlando airport, on the flight, and at JFK. He shot my driver.”
Morris frowned.
“That was my car. I left the money in the trunk. He shot my driver, and took the money.” Jess swallowed. “He put Omar in the trunk.”
An agent popped the trunk. Jess couldn’t see inside, but she guessed he searched for a pulse before nodding to Morris. Morris whistled.
An ambulance and two NYPD patrol cars pulled up behind the government SUVs.
“Everything’s under control.” Morris took Jess by the elbow. “Let’s get you out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
New York City, New York
May 11
10:00 PM
At Morris’s instruction, two NYPD cops escorted Jess to the hospital café. Harriet was still there, knitting. She gasped as Jess relayed the events of the past twenty minutes. No sooner had Jess finished her story than a nurse arrived, told them Roger was recovering well from surgery, and took Harriet off to find a hotel.
Jess rummaged through her bag. The crime scene investigation team had taken her Glock. She felt naked without it, her double cop escort notwithstanding.
Her muscles ached from the exertion and the stress. She stretched out and sat back down, but she couldn’t relax. The café chairs had been chosen because they were indestructible, not comfortable.
She checked her first class ticket to Rome. Taboo Magazine had bought a non-refundable e-ticket. Cheaper, but, as the name implied, no refund if it wasn’t used. She grinned. Rome was one of the great cities of the world. It would be criminal to let it go to waste. Besides, she’d planned a couple of days’ recuperation. No reason not to recuperate in Rome.
Morris arrived. He sat opposite her in the almost deserted café, and made a constant string of phone calls. She caught snippets. Several names went by. The word Rome came up on most calls. RCMP and Canada were popular, too. Finally, he put his phone on the table.
“All sorted?” she said.
He gave a flat smile.
She waited as long as she could. “What?”
“The Italians found the payphone and went through the farm with a fine tooth comb. Nothing. No Wilson Grantly. And nothing to suggest the farm was involved with any of the Blazek team.”
She exhaled. “So, we’re back to the planned exchange at the Rome airport. Otherwise, you’ll never catch these guys. Or find Wilson Grantly.”
Morris shrugged.
“You’re going to do something, aren’t you?”
He nodded to his phone. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“What’s his name?”
“The man you shot?”
She nodded.
“We found a key in his pocket. Fitted to a locker at JFK. We found a passport with the name Luigi Ficarra to match a ticket to Rome on Flight 12 tonight.”
“You believe it?”
He grimaced. “We’re running prints and DNA and checking databases, but we can’t exactly ask him.”
She frowned.
He cleared his throat. “He’s dead.”
Her skin tingled. She bolted out of her chair, scraping it back across the floor.
He reached his hand out. “It’s okay, he—”
“I killed him?” Her entire body had begun to shiver.
Morris shook his head. “Cyanide.”
She stared at him.
“Your bullet wouldn’t have killed him.”
She sank back into her seat, and clamped her jaw shut.
“Forensics and an autopsy will prove it, but the doctor on the scene was positive.”
She exhaled loudly. “So, is that it for the Blazek crime ring? The Italian connection? Cyanide suicides?”
Morris shook his head again. “The whole kidnap and ransom thing is a team effort. Assuming our man was Luigi, he has a brother. Enzo. The Mounties believe Enzo murdered Marek and his wife. Shot her while nursing their baby.”
“I heard.” Jess grimaced, and wrapped her arms around her.
“Sick bastard, for sure. Probably even worse than Luigi, who was no Mother Teresa.” Morris nodded and drained the cup of black coffee he’d brought to the table. “And we still have to get Wilson Grantly back.”
“But you have a plan?”
“Oh, I have a plan. But there’s a lot of people involved now. A lot more to coordinate. More hoops and red tape.”
“The Grantlys are depending on us.”
“Us?”
“I promised Harriet.”
He sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, Jess. You’ve done a wonderful job, and we wouldn’t have reopened this case without you.” He looked at his hands then back at her. “We really do appreciate everything you’ve done.” He frowned. “But we’ll take it from here. I can give you an exclusive for Taboo when we get everything wrapped up. How’s that?”
She looked at him. His back straight, his shoulders square, the scar on his lip a shade redder than she remembered.
She knew his pain. They were on the same side of law and order, and crime and justice. She reported raw and painful stories, highlighting the victims, and sometimes…sometimes, bringing some measure of justice.
But he took on the criminals, the drug lords, and the gangs. He put together links, and patterns, and traces. The world only saw the moments of fame on television broadcasts, but behind them, she knew his days were filled mostly with perspiration, sometimes with inspiration, and for one tiny fraction of a percent, pure terror.
“Okay. Sure. That’ll work. Glad I could help.” She watched his face, trying to determine whether he believed her. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m not cut out for gunfights. I really do believe the pen is mightier than the sword.”
“Thanks, Jess.” He grinned and raised his empty cup in a salute. “I owe you.”
She stretched her legs out. “Oh, yeah. I wore out my shoe leather on this case.” She turned her toes up in her shoes. “I almost forgot.”
He snorted a laugh. “Sure. I owe you. Send me the bill.”
“No.” She leaned over the table and smiled. “Get them for someone else.” She tapped his wedding band. “I think she deserves them.”
He looked at her, his face a mask. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but stood, instead. “Thank you…I’ll tell her.”
He cleared his throat. “I have to get going. I’ll handle things with the NYPD. You’re f
ree to go.”
She stood. “Good. Because I have a first class ticket that I don’t want to waste.”
He gazed at her, his eyebrows down, and his head tilted forward a fraction. “You’ve done your bit, Jess. Leave Enzo Ficarra, and whatever else we find in Italy, to us and the Italians, okay?”
She held out her hand. “I have plenty of things on my to-do list. Don’t worry.”
He cocked his head and gave her a skeptical look for a few moments before he relaxed and shook her hand. “I’ll get your Glock back to you as soon as I can.”
He walked out of the café, his phone already against his ear.
She wasn’t concerned about misleading him. He’d find out soon enough. But if she’d been straight about her plans, he could have prevented her from getting on the plane. This was one of those situations where forgiveness was easier to get than permission.
She waited until Morris left before she picked up her messenger bag, and followed him outside. She needed sleep and a decent meal, but she wasn’t worried, she’d get both in a first class seat across the Atlantic.
Her shoulders ached, and her feet were sore. She was almost sorry she had turned down Morris’s offer of new shoes.
Fifty feet ahead of her, Morris turned right, back to the parking garage and the crime scene investigation. She turned left, and waited in a line for a taxi.
He was a good man, and a good agent. Together they had stopped one-half of a crime ring. But only the first half. The second half waited in Italy. Enzo Ficarra. Luigi’s brother.
She exhaled. Morris might have it covered. The Italians might be there to handle things. Wilson might be rescued. But it was all might, might, might. And as Morris said, there were more hoops and red tape involved now.
She wasn’t good with red tape. She wanted results. She owed it to Omar, who was only doing his job, to the people who had lost their lives and the ones who had lost their life savings, and most of all to Roger and Harriet.
She had promised to help them get their son back.
That was exactly what she planned to do. How would she accomplish that without the ransom money? Taboo. Taboo might pay. At least temporarily, until she could get the Grantlys’ money back from Morris.
A taxi pulled up. “JFK,” she said as she climbed in the back. The taxi’s tires chirped when the cab drove away. She watched the billboards and the neons and the streetlights race by and clenched her fists.
Tomorrow, Enzo Ficarra was expecting an American to get off Flight 12 to meet him at the airport for the hostage exchange. She wouldn’t disappoint him.
She’d have to hustle to make it, but she absolutely would not miss her midnight flight.
She didn’t.
THE END
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Investigative journalist Jess Kimball embarks on her next thrilling adventure in Fatal Error. Available now on Amazon!
DIANE CAPRI
and
NIGEL BLACKWELL
_________
CHAPTER ONE
Tuscany, Italy
May 12
A dog barked, lonely in the night. The sound rolled down the hill. Echoing over the lawn. From the house at the top, to the woods at the bottom. It was more a timorous complaint than a demand for attention. The kind of sound made by the upper half of a body. Short. Thin. High pitched. Pushed out with an expectation of kindness borne from years of loving attention. Enzo Ficarra smiled. It was not the growl of a broad rib cage and strong lungs. It was not a big dog.
The sound quelled the last of his concerns.
He had scheduled this meeting for the following day. They would not be expecting him a day early. They would not be prepared to fight.
He walked slowly up the hill. Measured steps. Neither rushing nor sauntering. The walk of a guest expecting to be welcomed. Deception and surprise were the stock of his trade, and he walked to deceive any eyes that might be upon him. Surprise would come soon enough.
The house had square walls and round balconies. Wrought iron railings decorated the windows. Eaves hung out from the building. Arched tiles covered the roof.
It was a traditional Tuscan home. Around the house was perhaps an acre of garden. Enough to give the occupants their privacy. Enough to keep his visit private, too.
He reached the rear door into the kitchen. Deep inside the house, a television played. A mindless show host asking mindless questions of a mindless audience.
They weren’t expecting him. Which was as it should have been, the night before the meeting.
All was well.
He braced a flat metal hook against the doorframe. Three occupants inside. Fifteen rounds in his Beretta. More than enough to do the job. He would act fast. Not that he was concerned they would fight back.
Which might be interesting.
Still, best avoided.
He savored the moment. Long ago, he had learned to crave adrenaline. The chemical that quavered other’s voices, deepened his. What trembled other’s hands and fingers, steadied his. He was never more focused than when events promised a rush.
Tonight should be such a time.
He pulled his silenced Beretta from his pocket, and took a deep breath.
He shoved his weight behind the metal hook. Its sharp edge cut into the wood. Splintered the doorframe. Opened a gap to the lock.
He felt the solid touch of metal. He wrenched the hook down. Pulling at the lock. Tearing at the screws. Wrenching them from the cracked remains of the doorframe.
He barreled forward. All his weight. Shoulder first.
Glass shattered. The lock clattered across a tiled floor.
The door flew back.
He scanned his gun across the room. Left to right. Kitchen counters. Gas stove. Refrigerator.
No one there.
He kicked the door closed.
A middle-aged woman appeared at the doorway into the living room, dressed in her nightgown.
She froze, her eyes wide, and her mouth open. Fear overwhelmed her capacity for thought.
He leveled the Beretta and fired.
The silencer muted the gun’s roar. Still loud. Still forceful. Still a soundtrack to hot metal and death.
The woman tumbled back.
Enzo stepped over the body.
The living room was empty. A single shot silenced the television.
He darted through the door to the hall.
A man stood on the bottom of the stairs, a briefcase clutched to his chest. Ten years older than the woman. Unhealthy, too. Michael Taviani, Mike to his now-dead American wife, Lane. He thrust the briefcase forward. “Please. I have it!”
Enzo glanced up. The stairs were unoccupied.
Mike edged closer. The case still in front of him. Like a shield. “Please?”
Enzo gestured to the living room.
Mike stepped through. He gasped at the sight of his wife, motionless on the floor.
Enzo closed the door, sealing the living room from the hallway.
Mike swallowed. His voice trembled. “You said tomorrow. The meeting—”
“I’m here now.”
Mike stared at his dead wife. “But—”
“I make the rules, Taviani. You know this.”
Mike’s mouth opened and closed. A goldfish. Overwhelmed. Unable to comprehend where he’d gone wrong. Unable to grasp the events occurring around him.
Enzo pointed the Beretta toward a low coffee table. “Open it.”
Mike placed the briefcase on the table. The latch thumped open. He lifted the lid. “A quarter million euro. Like you said.”
“Show me.”
The notes were wrapped in bundles. Mike lifted out a handful. Ten thousand euros. Maybe twenty.
Enzo waved a flashlight over them. A black light. Plenty of ultraviolet energy to excite photons, and reveal invisible marks. These notes kept their muted colors. The subtle blues and reds and greens that thwarted casual counterfeiters. But he wasn’t worried about counterfeits. Mike wasn’t quite that skilled, or clever. The black light assuaged a different concern. The notes were not marked for tracing.
Mike had followed instructions, as expected.
“Close it,” Enzo said.
Mike complied. He held out the briefcase.
Glass crunched.
Enzo spun toward the noise. The wife lay dead as before.
Mike dived for Enzo. “Run!”
Enzo leapt sideways, pointing the Beretta and squeezing the trigger at the same time.
The gun seemed to boom louder than before in the silent house.
Mike twitched and jerked. His legs gave out from under him. His arms flailed.
He tumbled past Enzo. Head first onto the carpet and into his own rapidly pooling blood, which flowed steadily while his heart continued to pump.
Enzo glimpsed a thin figure in the kitchen. The daughter. A teenager. Over-indulged, to be sure. Seventeen now.
She had been the one who answered Enzo’s original email containing fake pleas for help. She’d responded to the sleazy pitch asking for money to save young girls her age from human trafficking. Of course, seventeen-year-olds had no money. But through her, he’d reached her parents’ bank account.
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