In the Wind (Out of the Box Book 2)

by Robert J. Crane

  “So he’s gonna kill someone,” I say. “With a bomb?”

  She shakes her head. “He did not get specific. He is mad with power, thinks he is a god or something.”

  I tilt my head as I think it over. “He kinda is. He’s got invulnerable skin, can’t be cut, can’t be hurt with bullets or swords or fists.” I clench my jaw. “And he’s sitting at the head of a crime family of some sort.”

  She gets a flash of wariness at this. “He has a meeting planned. Something big. Tomorrow.”

  “Big?” I ask. “Like what? And who’s he meeting with?”

  “Other picciotti, probably,” she says and spits on the sidewalk. “He is up to something. A nasty little schemer.”

  “Okay, so maybe he’s meeting with other mobsters,” I say, my mind racing, trying to figure things out. “Or maybe somebody else? Someone related to this kill he’s planning?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “He is a pig, a lech, a violent man who has no recognition of others or his own limits.” She shudders slightly, and it stops her in the middle of the sidewalk. “He thought I was interested in him, the fool!”

  I freeze. “But … you’re not, right?” She gives me a narrow-eyed glare, and I feel like I should take a step back. “Uh, right. Of course not.”

  “He killed his woman in front of me,” she says, and it’s the closest I’ve seen to her being truly vulnerable. “Hit her so hard it broke her neck. She fell back into the pool and sank to the bottom.” She brings a hand up and covers her eyes. “I knew she was dead, and I had to stand there, act like nothing happened, to maintain the charade. I should have been checking her, trying to resuscitate on the chance it was just a bad head injury.” She shakes her head, like she’s trying to get the image out of her skull. “He just … killed her, right there.” She doesn’t even tear up, just stands there, looking utterly stricken.

  I reach out first, I think, but she quickly pulls tight to me as soon as I do. She squeezes me like it’s going to get the hatred out, like she can hug it out of me. I don’t mind, and I damned sure don’t complain, even if it’s a little tight. I can take it.

  She’s almost got it out of her system, I think, when my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and press it to my ear, still looking her in the eyes. They’re a little moist, but she’s doing better than I would have in her shoes. “Hello?” I ask the open line.

  “Dude, you made it back to Rome!” J.J. says with a clear sense of relief.

  “Safe and sound,” I say, and then a thought occurs to me. “Though I don’t know what I’m going to do now that I’m here.”

  “I’ve got that covered for you, bro,” J.J. says. “The agency is in full mobilization to try and help you out.”

  “What?” I ask. “How’d that happen?”

  “I talked to Ariadne,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “She retasked everything—analysis units, Homeland Security liaisons, everything. The American embassy printed you a new set of passports with cover names on them, and I’ve got a CIA courier on his way to your position now to drop them off. He’ll be there in two minutes. You’ll also have new credit cards, some cash, new burner phones and a few other toys that the station there could spare.”

  I stand there, stunned, but not quite speechless. “Thank you, J.J.”

  “We’re behind you one hundred and ninety percent, bro,” he says. “I’m sure Sienna would be, too, if she were here.”

  I nod, even though he can’t see me, and feel a little choked up. “Where is she?”

  “Northern Canuckistan,” he says. It takes me a second to realize he means Canada. “She went up there on a State Department thing, trying to help out our neighbors to the north with a potential meta issue. Pretty far out of contact at the moment. We’ve got messages in for her, though. You need her help when she gets back?”

  I swallow that last vestige of pride. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” he says. “Ariadne is working all the angles, but no promises.”

  Ariadne. I’ve always gotten along well with her. Probably because in spite of anything else, I’ve always believed she has Sienna’s best interests at heart. Few do. Still, this is a huge thing, retasking a domestic U.S. agency’s resources to something a lone guy is doing in a foreign country. Even if it’s me, and I’m facing something as nasty as Anselmo.

  “So, bro,” J.J.’s voice comes back again, “what now?”

  I think about what I’ve just told him, about needing all the help I can get, and a thought occurs to me. “I need to go back to the scene of the crime,” I say, and raise my hand to try and flag a cab. I don’t want to be walking around Rome, not right now.

  “Courier is almost there,” J.J. says. A black car pulls up in front of me and a guy pops out of the passenger side with a brown paper package. He nods at me, hands it over without a word, then steps back into the car. As it drives off, I’m left without any impression of him whatsoever; he’s a true grey man.

  “Thank you, J.J.,” I say and flag a cab as it goes past. It slides to the curb, and I open the door for Perugini and follow her in, telling the driver where we’re going.

  “No problem, man,” he says, and I’m about to tear open the package when he stops me. “Don’t open that where people can see you. There’s stuff in there you’ll want to take a look at in private.”

  I frown. “What is it?”

  “Just a little something extra,” he says, and the glee is unmistakable. “After all, you can’t be James Bond without the gadgets.” He pauses, and thinks it over for a second. “Unless you’re Daniel Craig, I guess. But, still … hopefully it’s something that’ll help you out if you’re gonna fight these guys.”

  61.

  Anselmo

  There is blood all over the concrete, and Anselmo still does not care. He stares down at Firenze—his town, his home. He takes in the larger part of the view in a widening sweep.

  This is his land, his country.

  “Capo?” Niccolo’s soft voice asks permission to interrupt his thoughts. Anselmo’s thoughts are all dark and clouded in any case, like the night that falls around him, obscuring in the shadows what he has done.

  “What?” Anselmo says. He looks at the wine glass clenched in his hand. It is empty, and his fingers drip with blood.

  “Our men at the train station have seen nothing,” Niccolo says. “Nothing at the airport, either. No reservations for Americans fitting this Treston’s description.” He pauses, and Anselmo can hear him licking his lips. “We have also canvassed the hotels in the area, and … nothing. No one has seen them. They are not in Firenze.”

  Anselmo clenches his fist and hears the glass shatter in his grasp. It tinkles and cracks as the fragments fall from between his fingers. “They have eluded us, you mean. Escaped.” He turns his head slowly to look at Niccolo. “Made a fool of me.”

  “No, Capo,” Niccolo says just a little too quickly to be reassuring. “No one is thinking of you as a fool.”

  “Yes, they are,” Anselmo says, and the tinge of red in the sunset catches his eye. “They are all of them thinking me a fool. Every one of them is in town, every one of them will hear.” He looks over his house, knows there are men within that gossip as women. “The men will talk, the other capos will hear.”

  Niccolo looks at the house, the wheels turning in his mind. “Capo … are you thinking …?”

  “Of killing them all?” Anselmo grins. “I am thinking of it. Is there a reason why I should not?”

  Niccolo swallows heavily. “That is … a great many bodies to dispose of …”

  “It is a great many lackeys to replace,” Anselmo says, and he feels himself grow more bitter at the thought. Good help is hard to find, and killing all his help—while immediately satisfying—would be more annoying in the long run. He looks down at the shattered glass, and realizes that it proves his point perfectly. Who will bring him wine when all the others are dead? “
Bring me a brandy, Niccolo,” he says instead, and sits back down upon the chair, ignoring the glass, the blood, the bodies that all lie within a few feet of him.

  “Si, Capo,” Niccolo says, and beats a hasty retreat. “I will … bring you an update when there is something new to tell—”

  “Keep your updates,” Anselmo says, waving him off coldly. “Dispose of this trash and scrub the concrete clean. We have a meeting to consider. Call the other capos; get them over here right now.”

  “Right now?” Niccolo asks, as though he is deaf.

  “Now,” Anselmo says, not deigning to explain his thinking. “At this very moment. Then make certain Lorenzo is tended to; there are other plans coming to fruition that will require his assistance.” He swings his head around to look at Niccolo, who now stands on the other side of the pool from him. He doesn’t quite quake, but there is a certain weakness evident in his knees. The boy would collapse right now were he not trying to portray his strength. “Now get me my brandy and begin calling the capos.”

  Anselmo looks back to the darkening horizon and considers Treston again. He looks down at his stolen shirt, his symbol of triumph. It is stained with red, and the jacket is torn in several places. He imagines Treston still wearing it, his girlish screams, the thought of his hands around that boy’s throat, and it soothes him. The moment will come, and this time—this time—he will not hesitate. Mercy is for the weak, after all.

  And Anselmo has no mercy left for anyone.

  62.

  Reed

  We get out of the cab at the end of the alley next to Giuseppe’s shop and hike in quickly. The cab driver takes off after I’ve paid, clearly not willing to wait around. I imagine the crime scene tape might have something to do with his reluctance; who wants to be an accessory to breaking and entering, after all? Especially for less than twenty euros.

  I walk down the alleyway, ignoring the yellow tape and steering around bloodstains. Isabella stays at my side as we navigate through, eventually coming to the sealed door of the shop. It’s got a metal shutter down the front to prevent stealing, but I rip it open in about two seconds. There’s a stack of newspapers bundled out front; apparently the paper company did not get the memo about this being a crime scene. Either that, or circulation is so low that they’re desperate to sell to anyone they can. I step around the stack and enter Giuseppe’s shop.

  The place is still a mess, and I linger in the darkness of the entryway for a moment longer than necessary. Isabella hesitates, and I catch her reluctance. “Why don’t you wait here?” I ask. “Keep an eye out, let me know if anyone comes this way?”

  “Sure,” she says, and sits down at one of the café tables across from the shattered deli display. The sandwiches inside are moldering, the funghi clearly growing a fungus. I leave her with that and step toward the back of the shop, treading slowly into Giuseppe’s office. I’m not sure what to expect when I get inside, but it’s not this.

  The whole place is empty. Gone. Boxed up and taken, nothing left but the desk, the cot and the lamps. Every personal item, every scrap of paper, even his damned Rolodex is all gone. I can’t decide whether the police were exceptionally thorough or whether Lorenzo had people come through and clean the dead man out.

  I stare at what’s left; even the desk drawers are pulled out to display empty bottoms. I gingerly pick up the phone and hear a dial tone. Using my knuckle so as not to leave fingerprints, I dial J.J.’s number and wait for him to pick up. “Hello?” he asks.

  “J.J., I need the call history for this phone,” I say.

  “Uh, okay,” he says. “I’m on it. Give me five minutes.”

  I hang up and step out of the office to see the bathroom door open opposite his. Realizing I need to take a leak, I step across the hall and do my business. It smells in here. Bad. Astute person that I am, I’m halfway done when I notice the sign over the toilet. It asks me to leave this bathroom as I’d like to find it, but since I’m fresh out of scourging fire to clean it properly, I just take a deep breath and hurry.

  My phone rings as I step back out, and I answer it as I pass back toward Giuseppe’s office. I catch a glimpse of Isabella, who is wandering around at the front of the store, looking things over. I step into the empty office, and J.J. starts talking before I even greet him.

  “Okay, I’ve got the records for the phone,” he says. “No incoming calls in the last few days, but there was a flurry of them on the night of the—”

  “Just send me the numbers, okay?” I ask. There’s nothing I can do with them right this second anyway. I hear a beep on my phone that signals a new text message.

  “That’s the basics of the last day of calls,” he says. “Only a handful of numbers, so it should be a quick sift.”

  “Thanks, J.J.,” I say and hang up. I look around the near-empty room, at the vast emptiness. Giuseppe’s life was carted out in hours, maybe less. An entire existence wiped clean in no time. I didn’t know the guy that well, but it feels like he deserves more than this. Some acknowledgment, some hint that there was purpose behind his passing.

  Something that would mean he didn’t die in vain.

  “Reed!” I hear Isabella call, and I’m out the door of the office in seconds. I come around the corner to see her standing at the entry to the shop, staring at the ground.

  “What?” I ask, hurrying toward her. She doesn’t sound normal. She sounds a little rattled, like there’s a reason she’s calling me.

  “Anselmo has a man still in the Vatican, yes?” she asks, even though I think she knows the answer.

  “Yeah,” I say, “Fintan O’Niall.” I reach her shoulder and stare down with her at a newspaper. The headline is in Italian, and I have no clue what it says. “Why?”

  She tears her eyes away from it, looking as stricken as I’ve ever seen her—way more upset than when I helped rescue her from the clutches of a murderous gangster. She points at the newspaper. “Prime Minister to meet with Pope at Vatican the day after tomorrow,” she says, and I don’t even need a pen to connect the dots on that one. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, one followed by a sense of desperation, and I stare at the headline in hopes that somehow—just somehow—it doesn’t mean what she and I both think it means.

  63.

  We check into a hotel under our new names. Coincidentally, we’re playing a married couple, which suits me just fine. Isabella is still a little distant, but that’s to be expected, even as we settle in on the bed, her to her thoughts, and me to deciphering the phone numbers J.J. has sent me.

  I recognize one of them right off as Father Emmanuel’s. I know Giuseppe talked to him before he died, so this is not a huge shock. When I pop onto the hotel wifi, I get a half dozen emails from the agency, all manner of stuff from J.J. and others. I read it all at a skim—profile on Anselmo, a note from Ariadne that she’s reached out through the State Department to inform the Italians of some dealings going on in their country. The reply is attached, and it’s not a happy one. Basically a form letter telling us to keep our metahuman problems to ourselves, signed by a low-level functionary. I send her a quick note asking for clarification, already basically knowing what this means.

  We’re on our own over here. Big shock.

  Of course, if I had some evidence that their Prime Minister is about to be assassinated, it’s possible the response would be different. As it is, I’ve got Dr. Perugini’s word and a thin thread of suspicion that the two of us have wrangled into a working theory.

  Although, based on what Isabella has told me, certain corrupt elements in the Italian government would probably sell us out to Anselmo in about half a heartbeat. So maybe it’s just as well we’re going it alone.

  I skim J.J.’s next email, which is a slightly deeper evaluation of those phone numbers Giuseppe called before he died. Five of them are to guys whose names are absolutely unknown to me, and it’s a safe bet that one of them was what got him killed.

  The last is to a cell phone registered in Milan t
o a Diana Cristina Amatore.

  I think about her, not daring to show her face, and wish Anselmo was operating under the same fear. Then my mind flashes to Father Emmanuel, petrified by the thought that he’s doing the wrong thing but afraid to expose himself to—I dunno, criticism, ostracism, being wrong? Something.

  Then again, after everything I’ve been through in the last couple days, I can’t say I blame him. Whatever Anselmo is up to, he’s got an A-team backing his plays. He’s the invincible man, Lorenzo is like my dark mirror, only stronger, and Fintan is some sort of super-powered, undercover badass. Between the three of them, they can throw some pretty good hurt.

  Add in Anselmo’s mobster flunkies, and I’m staring down a threat that could crush me like a fly, rip my lungs out and stake them to a wall. Not that I think they would do that, but—actually, Anselmo would totally do that.

  And Sienna is not available. The most powerful fricking meta in the world, she’s on my team, she’s my sister, and I can’t reach her. She’s the weight that could tip the scales.

  Uh, never mind. Weight metaphors are not good for use with women. She’s the power that could balance things out, turn this fight into something a lot more trivial. But there’s no guarantee she’s going to get my message before Anselmo’s scheme comes to fruition. I’ve got like thirty-six hours. Assuming she got it right now and hopped a plane from Canada, she’s still nine or ten hours away. That leaves twenty-six hours. An hour from the airport leaves twenty-five. A day, at best.

  I know in my heart that I can’t wait on Sienna.

  I stare at my phone, at that list of numbers, and I wonder how the hell I’m supposed to take on more flunkies than I can count, in addition to three metas, each of whom could probably clean my clock on their own. I feel so far over my head that I might as well be at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Even J.J.’s gift isn’t going to keep me from getting pulled apart by the mafiosi.