In the Wind (Out of the Box Book 2)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Giuseppe is dead,” Emmanuel says, “and I have no actual proof of any wrongdoing on the behalf of this Fintan O’Niall. Perhaps I was wrong about him. Perhaps he had a messy encounter with a—” He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “I am not his priest, and he is not my responsibility.”

  “Evil thrives when good men do nothing,” I say. I wonder if he appreciates the irony of me saying that to a priest.

  “I don’t know that he is evil,” Emmanuel says, and I can feel his frustration through the phone. “He could be misguided, he could be misunderstood, he could be afraid—it is not my task to judge the man.”

  “Well, he’s not exactly out there doing the Lord’s work,” I say. “Unless—never mind.” I filter myself, keeping from making an unnecessarily nasty Old Testament joke. It’s low-hanging fruit in any case.

  “I am sorry about Giuseppe,” Emmanuel says, “and I’m sorry about whatever you’re going through. Truly, my prayers are with you—”

  “I don’t need your prayers,” I say, snapping, “I need your help.”

  “I cannot help you,” he says, and I catch a hint of sadness. “I am a man of peace. Violence is not … it’s not what I am supposed to do with my gifts.”

  “You’re not supposed to protect the flock with your gifts?” I ask.

  “I’m supposed to turn the other cheek,” he says.

  “Easy to say when it’s only you getting slapped,” I fire back. I don’t even wait for his response. I just hang up.

  I continue on my not-so-merry way. I can still hear sirens in the distance, and I wonder if they’re related to the strike gone wrong this morning or just the usual city madness. I don’t even know that I care, but I let them fade into the background as I think through what’s happened so far.

  Diana doesn’t want to get involved. Father Emmanuel doesn’t want to get involved. They’re both metas, and in Diana’s case, a really badass one, which means I could use her help, at least. I still don’t have the foggiest idea what Lorenzo, Fintan and Anselmo—at least I got his name, now—are up to, other than Mafia-ish things. Gangstas doing gangsta stuff.

  What do the Mafia even do? I run my head through a short list—drug-smuggling, extortion, whacking guys. Actually, the whacking probably comes along with the other crimes, sort of an enforcement mechanism. Thievery? I mean, they’re all about making money and gathering power, right?

  So what the hell is this Anselmo doing that he needs to send his right-hand goon out to snap off Giuseppe? What did Giuseppe—a small timer at best—know that warranted him getting whacked? Was it just that he had some idea of Lorenzo’s identity? Because Lorenzo hasn’t done such a bang-up job of keeping it secret since the night he first came at me in the alley. Admittedly, it ain’t easy to get away with wearing a ski mask in the middle of Rome, even in March, but still …

  No, that doesn’t quite track. I start to wonder how Sherlock Holmes handled this kind of thing, and I remember a phrase from way back, about the dog that didn’t bark being the key to the case.

  Where was Fintan today?

  If they knew that they were coming after Diana, a pretty strong lady, why wouldn’t they bring along a third meta? I mean, that would take some arrogance, wouldn’t it? If you’re coming after someone like her, you want the whole army arrayed against her. But they didn’t have Fintan.

  Which suggested to me—as the dog that didn’t bark, RUFF RUFF—he was somehow key to this.

  But how?

  I almost miss my turn, gliding down the avenue and heading south. It’s a near thing, but I leap over the rooftop gap to come down squarely on the road in the direction I’m heading. I flare the gusts just in time to keep from breaking my legs, and I settle down on the sidewalk, ignoring the surprised looks of a half dozen people around me.

  I weave my way up the street and head into an alley. No one follows, and I circle to the back of the building. At least I think this is the one; Perugini led the way when we came yesterday.

  I go up the back stairs down a darkened corridor. I don’t remember it being this dark when we arrived; wasn’t there an overhead bulb? I catch sight of a switch and flip it. Nothing happens.

  I come around the corner toward the apartment doors and find them open, light spilling out into the darkened hallway. There’s no sound, not a bit, coming from the apartment. Which is concerning. I get closer, and it’s obvious that the door was blown completely off by someone strong. Really strong.

  I step inside and it’s like a tornado has hit the place. Possibly literally, since I doubt Lorenzo is dead. The chairs are overturned at the table, everything is swept off the granite countertops in the kitchen, there’s a mess of broken dishes on the tile floor.

  I’m quelling the sense of rising panic as I look for something, anything. A ransom note, fingernail scrawl scratched into the table top, breadcrumbs that indicate the direction they’ve gone.

  Expecting the worst, I kick open the bedroom door, and I’m spared because it’s empty. My suitcase is open and has been rifled through. I only have to look for a second to know that one of my suit jackets is gone, and so is a white dress shirt. What the hell?

  I cast a look back into the wreckage of the living room and wonder—what have they done with her?

  38.

  Anselmo

  Anselmo stares at the beautiful woman sitting beside him in the back seat of the car, taking in every lovely line. Her eyes flare at the caress of his gaze, and he smiles. She does not return it, but he cares very little. She is a means to several ends, a lovely piece of bait to dangle before the Treston boy. And not too bad to look at, either.

  “My dear,” he says, “you have a lovely perfume.” She wears the more modern style of jeans, sandals, a shirt. She has her handbag clasped before her, as though it is the very key to preserving her life. It blocks his view of her chest, which is such a shame. She does not respond to his compliment except with a slight nod of her head in his direction.

  The car stops at a light, and Anselmo muzzles his displeasure at the delays. The train to Firenze will be leaving in twenty minutes, and they have almost the entire Via Nazionale to traverse to get there. He sighs, trying to find his patience. It is much closer now that he has the girl, the means by which to make Treston jump into his waiting jaws.

  Lorenzo sits quietly in the front seat with the driver provided by Don George, and they find a companionable silence for a moment. Lorenzo is still hurting, Anselmo can tell, but he is much improved. Doubtless found his balls. The air holds the aroma of not only the perfume but also promise. He has finally shown this boy Lorenzo how to handle these problems. It takes a firm hand, one with strength. He smiles as he looks ahead at the traffic on the Via Nazionale, and considers the future. It is bright, the plan coming to fruition in only a few short days.

  His smile becomes a grin, and he looks down at the new shirt and jacket he has stolen from Treston. It’s not quite his style, but it will do. It makes Anselmo feel young again, that and the beautiful woman at his side. They’re enough to make him feel as though all his problems have blown away in the breeze that makes its way through the slightly lowered window next to his head.

  39.

  Reed

  I’m on the balcony, looking out, panicking—not gonna lie, I am panicking—when the first thought occurs to me:

  Where is Isabella’s phone?

  I pull out mine and start to dial her number, then think the better of it and call someone else instead. “Pick up, pick up,” I say as I notice the sun is sinking low in the sky.

  “Reed-om!” comes J.J.’s voice at the other end of the line. It’s a Braveheart reference. In normal times, I would find this amusing.

  Not right now. “I need you to track Dr. Perugini’s cell phone,” I say breathlessly, and there’s a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Okay,” he says, “I can do that.” All business. There’s a tapping at the keys, and I use the moment of opportunity to blast myself onto t
he roof of the building. “By the way, I got some details for you on this stuff you asked for—”

  “Trace first,” I say as my feet land on the rooftop. “Deets later.”

  “Roger that,” he says, pausing for a moment before his next words come back thick with concentration. “Looks like Dr. Perugini is in a car heading down a road … uhm … not sure how to pronounce this. Vee-uh Nazz-ee—they named a street after the Nazis?”

  “Via Nazionale,” I say and break into a sprint back the way I came only moments earlier. I launch from the rooftop and keep myself from breaking a leg only by flaring my gust at the last possible second before landing.

  40.

  Anselmo

  “You must come be my guest at my estate for a while,” Anselmo says, putting all his charm into it. It’s a natural fact that women find power and money appealing, and he has both. This is simply the way things are, a universal truth. He glances at her to find her looking at him cautiously, and he knows it means good things. “It’s a lovely place, on a grand hilltop—with a pool.” He feels the slight rush of the wind through the crack in the window. “You can sunbathe in a bikini … or nothing at all.” He chuckles in delight at his own suggestion. “Though perhaps that is not so appealing on a day such as today.”

  She looks over at him with thinly slitted eyes, and it is impossible to tell exactly what she is thinking. He assumes it is flattering things; after all, has he not just shown himself to be a man worthy of respect? Has he not just demonstrated both power and restraint? Her enigmatic eyes are a lovely brown, and he finds them alluring. She sees much with them, he knows, perhaps even to the truth of things. She would make a fine mistress, he thinks as he lets his own gaze wander over her. Perhaps she will even get that chance.

  The car makes a turn at the Piazza della Repubblica, and Anselmo can see the Termini station just ahead. It is a massive structure, high and tall and wide. An impressive bit of architecture, but plain. The car turns around to let them off, and a man in a suit opens the door. Behind him stands another fellow, this one dressed in expensive, tailored clothing, with red cheeks and slicked-back hair. His age is apparent, though Anselmo has known him as a colleague for most of his life.

  “Don Serafini,” the man says with a hint of a bow. Respect given is respect returned, and Anselmo steps out of the car and inclines his head to acknowledge and return the gesture.

  “Don George,” Anselmo says. “Your assistance is appreciated and shall not be forgotten.”

  “Indeed,” Don George says. He is a corpulent man, his belly sticking out from too much pasta and too little exercise. Anselmo imagines him unable to exert himself much at this point, but at least he is able to render assistance and pay due respect. He has connections, he has uses, and even if he lacks the vigor necessary to please a woman that Anselmo considers so important to his own life, Don George still has his purpose. “You have called the meeting, yes?”

  “Tomorrow,” Anselmo says, taking the hand of the woman and helping her out of the car. She accepts his assistance with all the grace a prisoner should. He extends his elbow and she threads an arm through it on cue, clutching her handbag in her other hand. In a proper dress—something slim and fitted—she would be the perfect consort. “In the noon hour. We shall … reshape the world.” He smiles at Don George. “Are you ready?”

  Don George bows again, just slightly, all his frame can manage. “But of course, Don Serafini.” He is one of the good ones, a loyal one. He has seen the direction of the changing wind and knows that it will blow hard on any who do not change with it. “Can I be of any other assistance to you?”

  “My men are waiting on the train,” Anselmo says with a shrug. “Your support will be needed at the meeting tomorrow, though, if you are willing to give it. Until then, I have need of your sources in the Carabinieri to keep an eye out for a man named Reed Treston.”

  “Reed Treston?” Don George asks. He shows a hint of skepticism with the arch of his heavy brows.

  “An American,” Anselmo says, almost dismissively. “A boy, only.” He smiles at the woman. What is her name? He should ask at some point, not that it matters. “Is that not right, my dear?”

  “Are you a man, then?” she asks, almost coyly. Anselmo sees Lorenzo step up toward her, hand raised to hit her, but Anselmo halts him with look.

  “I am the most manly man you shall ever meet, my dear,” Anselmo says with a smile. This is simply true, and he knows it to the core of him. He tugs her along as Don George’s men pay their respect and open the door to the Termini station for him. “Perhaps I will show you what I mean when we get home.”

  41.

  Reed

  I launch onto the same rooftop I’d been standing on with Diana only an hour or less before. I run the length of it, heading roughly southeast. The slant of the rooftops here is a pain in my ass, but it’s not so terrible that I can’t compensate. I tear along the long building that runs the southern edge of the square and follow it down the avenue. I can see the Termini station from where I’m standing, a few hundred yards away at most.

  Termini station has the most bizarre, wave-like portico thing for buses or taxis out front, so strange looking that I notice it even in my exhausted, adrenaline-fueled frenzy. There’s classical architecture mixed with modern, and then there’s this.

  I’m forced to make an unreasonably long diagonal jump to the next building, and my power gives out about three-quarters of the way through. My exhaustion is catching up to me. My arms are so weary I feel like they’re going to fall off. I feel a little nauseous, hungry because I haven’t eaten and I’ve exerted myself so much. I hit the side of the building and slide down, catching myself on a window and clawing through the plaster with aching fingers that refuse to surrender in spite of my deep desire to do so.

  I scale the building like Spider-Man, ripping at the superficial facade without care. I make it to the roof and heave myself up. I’m so tired I’m nearly drooling down my own chin. I realize I’m making grunting noises that expel saliva with each movement.

  If I have to fight my way through Lorenzo and Anselmo in the shape I’m in, this could be very bad.

  I realize that somewhere along the run, I must have hung up on J.J. He had told me they were stopped outside the train station, and I just … I dunno, put my phone away or something. I don’t even remember. I fish it out of my pocket with bloody, plaster covered hands and find it’s still on. Uncle Sam is not going to like the overage for this month.

  Hahah! I’m just kidding. No one pays attention to that sort of thing except Ariadne.

  “Where are they?” I ask as I try to catch my breath.

  “Oh, hey,” J.J. says, all cool and calm. “I was beginning to think you were dying there. All I could hear was you grunting like a caveman, you know, interspersed with the occasional loud WHOOSH of your powers at work.”

  “Where—” I start to say again. I’m stooped over, leaning on my own knees, trying to catch my breath. I’ve got no rescue plan, and I’m charging toward the enemy formation. I R smart, as they say on the internet.

  “So, I looked up this stuff you gave me, and I finally got an answer back from the powers that be at the NSA,” J.J. says. “This guy, Lorenzo, he’s working for someone named Anz-elmo? Sarahfeeny.” He mangles Anselmo’s name, sort of, but I let him get away with it. “Mobster guy. Big boss or something. The politics of how these organizations work is kind of muddled for us, but apparently we stole a primer on it from Italy’s Carabinieri through—”

  “I don’t care,” I say breathlessly. “I’ve met this Anselmo. I need to know anything you can tell me about him.”

  “Not a lot,” J.J. says. “He’s from … Fire-ends?”

  “Good God, it’s Firenze!” I say, finally losing it with his lack of ability to pronounce. I don’t even know Italian, but I know some phonics. “Florence, J.J.!”

  “Okay, so, he’s from Florence,” J.J. says. “Mea culpa. Wait, is that Italian? Never mind. I’ve
got an address—”

  “Save it,” I say, and take off at a run again, “give me an update on Perugini’s phone position.”

  “She’s in the train station,” he says. “Uhh … hold on, the map is focusing in … looks like she’s at the seventh platform from the left, and standing still for the moment.”

  I make a jump across a long roof gap only having to use a little wind to pull it off. “So, probably platform seven.”

  “Probably,” he says, still cool. “So you think the bad guys got the Doc?”

  “Pretty sure,” I say.

  “You think she’s all right?”

  “I damned well hope so,” I say, shoving the phone into my pocket and making another jump. This time I don’t have to use my powers at all.

  42.

  Anselmo

  “My estate is really quite impressive,” Anselmo says as she sits on the bench before him. They wait on the platform, the doors to the train not yet done disgorging their passengers. The platform number only appeared on the lighted signs around the station moments earlier, but Anselmo already knew. They stand at the far end of the platform, near the front of the train, waiting for the first-class car to open. Lorenzo has already bought the tickets.

  “Mmm,” the woman says. He has yet to catch her name, but in the scheme of things it’s not really important. “Tell me more.”

  “Capo,” Lorenzo says, and Anselmo looks over at him. The boy looks irritable, some blister in his shoe, perhaps. He nods his head at the train door, which is now clear of departing passengers.

  “My dear, it is time to show you a wondrous ride,” Anselmo says with just a hint of suggestion. No need to come on too strong.