by Matt Rogers
‘The kidnapping thing,’ Viola said.
There was unsuppressed shame in her voice. Rollins didn’t have any trouble sensing it.
‘How’d he suggest it?’
Viola bowed her head.
Definitely shame.
‘They just started as simple junkies. We all worked odd jobs to make ends meet, but minimum wage doesn’t cover a crack addiction. They’d give Xiao everything they had, because he imported the best stuff in all of Italy, and he’d give them just enough to get by. My money helped a bit, but not much.’
‘You gave them all your money?’
‘They were desperate.’
Rollins didn’t respond.
‘I know what I did,’ she said. ‘I can see it now. But it’s so easy to think you’re helping…’
‘And when their tolerance built up?’ Rollins said. ‘And they needed more? And they couldn’t afford it?’
‘Xiao gave us the idea. He liked the sound of more money coming in, so he suggested we try and get it by any means necessary. He said there were plenty of tourists who walked the trail between Vernazza and Monterosso who kept all their converted pounds and dollars in euros. Lots of cash, right there for the taking. He said there were plenty of places to set up shop along that trail.’
‘Why didn’t he do it himself?’
‘He’s retired. He used to be a kingpin overseas. Now he outsources everything, from the crack pipeline to the money exchanges to the creative accounting. He used to do it on a city-wide scale, so this level is nothing. But it gives him enough passive income to put his feet up and take advantage of his wealth.’
‘Sounds like a nice guy.’
‘That’s why I’m telling you to give up.’
‘You think that’ll make me give up? That just gives me motivation.’ He drew closer to her and nudged the Walther PPX into the small of her back. ‘Let’s go.’
15
Dusk had well and truly fallen by the time they made it to their intended destination. The booth that preceded the hiking trail between Vernazza and Corniglia, ordinarily manned by a staff member throughout the day, had been abandoned by the evening. Rollins and Viola had an unobstructed path up the mountainside. It took them thirty-five minutes to reach the narrow bend in the trail that led directly up one of the hills, veering away from the route to Corniglia.
Viola stopped in her tracks. They were alone on the trail. ‘This is it.’
Rollins stared up the new path, noting the rapidly darkening sky. At this hour the trees seemed far more menacing, their thin branches twisting in grotesque fashion on either side of them.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Sam, I’m telling you…’
‘How many guards does Xiao have? Don’t lie.’
‘Two,’ she said, without a shred of hesitation.
He watched her face. ‘You lying?’
‘No. I know them. They’re a pair of ex-SAS guys. British. They wound up in Italy a few years ago and realised that working ordinary jobs wasn’t the life for them.’
Rollins knew exactly what she was talking about. If you didn’t have a moral compass, and you had particular skills, it didn’t take long in a minimum wage position to realise you could get far more done if you turned a blind eye to the consequences. Frankly, he was surprised there weren't more of them guarding Xiao’s premises, hanging onto his every move like leeches.
Filth attracted filth, after all.
But Viola had an intense aura of truthfulness in her words. She seemed different from the timid woman Rollins had manhandled in the house hours earlier. She was seemingly realising there was a way out of this mess. If she stuck to her word, and helped Rollins through this despite the risks, then maybe he would give her a second chance.
He still hadn’t decided whether he would.
She had been implicit in the deaths of four innocent people — one of them a kid.
She had said nothing, and done nothing, as it happened.
All in the name of fuelling her friends’ addictions.
But human beings were complicated. Nothing was black and white. Manipulation and coercion were powerful forces.
So he would decide later.
Not now.
They started up the hill…
…and soon Rollins realised Viola had made the choice for him.
The narrow mountainous trail led to a spherical courtyard at the end of a secluded residential street. The asphalt seemed alien in the midst of the wilderness, and it took Rollins a moment to realise what he was looking at.
The road speared along the flat ground and twisted into the near-darkness, acting as a meeting point for a series of long driveways that led into the hills, into privacy. This was the central node for a number of private villas, buried at certain points along the mountainside with beautiful views of the coastline.
Viola had been telling the truth.
But as they stepped out onto the asphalt, she twisted on the spot to look at him, moving so fast that his finger tightened around the Walther’s trigger in anticipation.
The act was gone. Her eyes were wide and terrified. She stared right at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There’s more than two. I shouldn’t have done this. Sam, there’s still time.’
He didn’t respond. All his cognitive function was focused on their surroundings — the night hadn’t completely taken over yet, and there was still some semblance of natural light in the sky. All he could see were the outlines of bushes and trees and long flat stretches of mountainside leading to the various driveways along the road.
Nothing threatening.
Yet.
They were far enough off the beaten track for Rollins to be comfortable producing his weapon. He wrenched the Walther out of his pocket and had it aimed at Viola in an instant.
‘Twice?’ he said. ‘You fucked me over twice.’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No — I’m not fucking you over this time. I’m trying to take it back. Before we get there.’
‘Get where?’
‘To Xiao’s. It’s not as simple as you think it is. There’s six or seven of them. The SAS guys. Maybe more. And they’re all trained. I thought…’
Rollins grimaced. ‘You thought if you led me to them they’d kill me? And then they’d let you go?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Viola…’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and then her gaze drifted over Rollins’ shoulder and her eyes widened in panic.
For the second time in the space of four hours, Rollins took a staggering blow to the back of the head.
16
This time, he stayed conscious.
It almost made it worse.
Rollins stumbled two steps forward before the giant crack across the back of his skull let him know that he was severely inhibited and he wouldn’t make it much further. His knees gave out, his legs turning to jelly as he sprawled stomach-first across the road, tearing his jacket and undershirt to shreds in the process. He came to a halt on his belly with one side of his face pressed against the cool asphalt. He tried to move his limbs, to grip his fingers and try to work out where the hell the Walther PPX had ended up.
Completely useless.
All of it.
He didn’t even manage to twitch his fingers before the second blow caught him in the side of the face, breaking his nose and knocking one of his teeth loose. The pain overwhelmed him, but that wasn’t the issue. If push came to shove he could ignore almost any superficial injury in the process of getting the operation completed. But the concussive strike to the back of the head had knocked him senseless, keeping him conscious but inhibiting his motor functions. He flapped around on the asphalt like a dying fish, too stunned to feel sorry for himself. A dark shadow loomed over him and raised some kind of blunt object to deliver a third blow to the centre of his forehead.
Rollins stared up at his attacker, and realised an unobstructed swing to the top of his skull would f
inish the job.
He likely wouldn’t survive it.
But his attacker held back at the last second.
Instead, the man above him laughed.
Rollins closed his eyes and exhaled, almost wishing he could have met his demise right then and there.
He didn’t want to think about what was coming.
Staying conscious, as he’d thought before, almost made it worse.
Rollins noticed Viola cowering by the side of the road in his peripheral vision. He tried to turn his head to look at her, but he couldn’t even manage that. The man who had assaulted him laughed again, reaching down and snatching Rollins’ Walther PPX out of the dirt. He lifted it up with two fingers, displaying it to Viola.
‘How the fuck did he get his hands on this, princess?’ the man said.
Yep, Rollins thought. British.
Ex-SAS, no doubt.
Viola hadn’t been lying about that.
She let out a guilt-wracked sob. ‘He shot Lorenzo and Soren. And Marco. All three of them.’
‘And how’d he manage to do that?’
‘He broke out of his restraints.’
‘Did he?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Then that’s their own damn fault, isn’t it?’
‘I…’ she managed.
‘How’d you end up here?’ he snarled, cutting her off.
‘He forced me here.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘You two seemed pretty close when I spotted you.’
‘Gavin, please…’
‘You told him about Xiao, didn’t you?’ Gavin said. ‘How else would he have found out about it?’
‘It just came out.’
‘Did it?’
‘Gavin…’
Gavin manoeuvred the blunt object in his hands that he’d used to incapacitate Rollins. Rollins stared up at the ex-SAS mercenary standing over him, barely able to make out any notable features because of his shimmering vision.
But he was able to discern what the object was.
A bulky Heckler & Koch assault rifle, complete with detachable stock and fitted suppressor. A shockingly powerful weapon, all things considered, and Gavin evidently knew how to use it. He had his finger inside the trigger guard in a heartbeat, and the sleek, matte black suppressor aimed at Viola’s head before she could blink.
Rollins could do nothing but watch.
He didn’t even have the energy to lift his head off the asphalt and assess his injuries.
He was badly, badly hurt.
The second consecutive blow to the back of his head had ruined his ability to think, let alone move his fingers or toes. Right now he didn’t know if he would ever be the same. He had to take his consciousness one step at a time, which meant simply trying to keep his vision and his hearing intact.
He had nothing to offer Viola.
That said, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to help her anyway.
Then she looked directly at him.
‘Sam,’ she said, with a whimper.
And then he saw it.
He saw a damaged girl with a horrible childhood, a woman who had lost her parents and found herself directionless, lost, unsure what to do next. She’d latched onto a trio of friends and followed them down their dark descent, but she’d never joined them in the relief of hard drugs. Maybe that made it worse, considering the fact that she’d been privy to the murder of four innocent people, and no doubt the suffering of dozens of others.
But Rollins wasn’t one to judge.
He could make up his mind about what to do with her later.
Right now, he had to make sure she made it in one piece.
He let out an internal, silent scream, forcing his neurons to connect, forcing his brain to act.
To work.
Go! he commanded.
Nothing listened.
Gavin sensed the body underneath him struggling, and looked down.
Rollins could make out more of his features now. The shaved head. The slate grey eyes. The crooked nose. The five o’clock shadow with flecks of silver, covering a granite jawline.
A hard man.
A hard man who cackled at Rollins’ pathetic attempts to move.
‘What are you doing, pup?’ he said. ‘Trying to help her?’
Rollins grunted through bloody teeth.
Viola sobbed again.
‘You led him here, Viola,’ Gavin said. ‘You stupid bitch. You led him here to kill all of us. I’ve known you were corrupt from the start. You’ll do anything to save your own skin, won’t you?’
‘No…’
‘This guy killed your friends, so you latched onto him. Right?’
‘No.’
‘Then why else would he be here?!’ Gavin screamed, now irate, his words cutting through the silent mountainside. ‘You should have kept your goddamn mouth shut. Then he would have never found out about Xiao.’
‘He doesn’t know about Xiao,’ Viola hissed, in a voice barely above a whisper.
‘Oh,’ Gavin said, cocking his head with a wry smile. ‘Well, now he does, princess. And you can’t know about Xiao and stay alive.’
The only action Rollins could muster was to raise one hand in a feeble gesture, fingers outstretched, pathetically reaching for the giant assault rifle in Gavin’s hands.
The big brute spotted the move, and laughed again. ‘Oh, buddy. Better luck next time.’
He stabbed down with the rifle’s stock, breaking two of Rollins’ fingers — he felt each crack as the joints bent back far further than nature intended. Recoiling away from the pain, Rollins let out a sharp breath, suddenly nauseous.
But that paled in comparison to what came next.
Gavin twisted the rifle around, took careful aim, and shot Viola three times in the chest.
17
Rollins hadn’t experienced true rage until that moment.
He thought he had. He thought, buried in the jungles of the Peruvian rainforest, at the mercy of a native Asháninca tribe who wanted nothing more than to beat him to death, he had felt it all. All the pain, all the hurt, all the humiliation.
In truth, he hadn’t seen a thing.
But now he knew what it did to a person.
He knew of the inhuman strength one could muster when they saw something traumatising.
In truth, he hadn’t been certain that Viola deserved to live. The world would probably go on unimpeded in the event of her death. No-one would know. No-one would care. As she crumpled and sprawled across the asphalt, stone dead, Rollins hadn’t anticipated experiencing such unbelievable anger.
But he felt it all the same.
He shot to his feet like a bolt of lightning, all his injuries taking a backseat to the adrenalin. It caught Gavin by surprise — the big man hesitated for a split second before bringing the Heckler & Koch rifle around to aim at Rollins.
That split second of hesitation, in the field they operated in, was all it took.
Rollins headbutted him in the bridge of his nose, delivering maximum punishment in as short a space of time as he could feasibly manage. Gavin’s nose cracked, creating another beat of hesitation.
Perfect.
Rollins used his good hand to batter the rifle away, probably breaking one of Gavin’s fingers still inside the trigger guard.
Good.
Gavin recoiled, stumbling back a step as he tried to tame the waves of pain rolling over him. Rollins could almost see his internal thought processes.
Broken nose. Broken finger.
Ouch.
Good, Rollins thought again.
As Gavin backed off a step, he opened himself up to a mid-range strike. Just one, because there was no room for error in this game.
Rollins rarely made an error.
He opened his hips and launched a roundhouse kick and followed through with everything he had, even though he knew it would send him flying off-balance if he missed. He could have held back and made a dive for the assault rifl
e, now skittering across the asphalt away from the pair of them, but that would have left most of the resulting scramble up to chance.
Rollins hated leaving things to chance.
And he never missed.
His shin caught Gavin in the side of the throat, slamming home like a steel rod against the soft muscle and tissue and nerve endings. An audible thwack rang from the point of impact, and the ex-SAS mercenary went down like Rollins had yanked the power cord out of the back of his head. He didn’t hit people like that often — it took a combination of murderous intent and an absence of inhibition. If he threw a punch or a kick with those kinds of intentions, people fell and never got back up.
They simply didn’t wake up again.
Rollins would never know what kind of damage he’d done. There would no doubt be all sorts of torn muscle and broken tissue in Gavin’s neck, one of which would have been fatal, suffocating. Rollins didn’t deem it necessary to linger on what had happened.
Gavin had acted, and it had caused two reactions.
First, Viola was dead. Second, Rollins was angry.
Rollins didn’t get angry often.
In a red haze of emotion, he stepped over the body of the British goon without giving it a second thought. He strode across the asphalt and collected the Heckler & Koch rifle where it lay. In the carnage, he hadn’t had time to properly assess what model it was, but now he had all the time in the world. He recognised the familiar contours of a HK416 and wrapped one hand around the vertical foregrip, sensing the sheer weight of the weapon in his hands. The dull ache of his broken fingers gnawed at his brain, but he dismissed the pain without a second thought.
He had a gun.
It was wholly unnecessary for a bodyguard on the Italian coastline to wield this kind of firepower, but Rollins imagined that was what Xiao had been going for.
The aura of invincibility.
The smugness that would come with hiring a small army of ex-military types to protect him where he slept.
He wondered if these men were up to the job.
Rollins took one final look at Viola’s corpse, struggling to understand why he was fighting back tears. He hardly knew her, and she’d tried to kill him twice. Maybe it was because he knew she’d been telling the truth. There really had been something there, between them, no matter how subtle and how ill-conceived it might have been. In any other situation, things would have unfolded completely differently. But she had been too far down her path, and, Rollins figured, he was too far down his own.