by Richard Bard
In shock and unable to move, Marshall stared at the leering face of death hovering over him. The executioner’s billowing black cape made him appear double his size. His black eyes burned with rage. He extended his arm and lunged toward Marshall like a fencer with a foil. The wicked blade of the knife bore straight toward Marshall’s heart.
There was a flash of movement to Marshall’s left.
Lacey screeched, “Keeai!” and flew through the air, landing a powerful side kick that smashed into the executioner’s temple. The man staggered sideways, his blade missing Marshall completely.
The stunned executioner turned to face this new threat. Too late. Lacey was already in position to snap a front kick at the man’s chin. The force of the blow lifted Carlo clear off the ground. His back hit the balustrade. With arms flailing, one hand still gripped around the hilt of his knife, he flipped over the edge.
A collective gasp from the crowd was followed by a loud crash from below. The music stopped, and Marshall turned his head to look down through the balustrade. The executioner lay on his back atop a collapsed eight-foot-long food table, his body sprawled amidst a splattered circle of dessert pastries.
***
10:59 p.m.
Hassan’s palms felt moist around the cool ridges of the grenades in the pockets of his sport coat. Looking down from the second-floor balcony, he spotted the costumed American in the middle of the crowd. He was dancing with a woman dressed in white.
He backed into a shadowed archway, turning his back to the crowd to mask the movement of his hands. He dipped both hands into his left pocket and jerked the first grenade’s detonator pin loose, taking care to keep a firm grip around the spring-loaded strike lever with his left hand.
The first grenade was now armed.
He needed only to relax his grip, and four seconds later this party would come to an abrupt end.
The second grenade would be more difficult to arm, since he must perform the same task with a single hand. He pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and dipped it into his right pocket, wrapping it around the unarmed grenade. Then, checking to be sure that no one was nearby, he feigned a sneeze, lifted the cloth-covered device to his mouth, pulled the pin with his teeth, and returned both the grenade and pin to his pocket.
A bead of sweat trickled into his eye, and he ignored the impulse to rub it dry, grinning inwardly at the realization that both hands were unavailable to him now, reserved for the final act that would open the doors to revenge, martyrdom, and paradise.
He hesitated when he approached the head of the grand staircase. He spotted Signor Battista stepping back from an altercation between his man, Carlo, and a scantily clad gypsy at the top of the stairs. The girl slapped Carlo across the face, crying out, “How dare you!”
To Hassan, this was a sign that Allah was guiding him, for with the crowd’s attention diverted, he had been granted the opportunity to act.
He took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his ears, his fists clenched around the grenades. He locked his gaze on the American dancing below and dashed down the stairs past the gypsy and her musketeer escort.
There were screams at the top of the stairs behind him. Hassan risked a glance over his shoulder. The musketeer was on the floor, bleeding.
Allah be praised!
Hassan turned back and relocated the American. The man and his woman were less than ten meters away.
Shouldering his way through the crowd, Hassan pulled both grenades out of his pockets.
Chapter 27
Venice, Italy - 10:58 p.m.
JAKE HELD FRANCESCA CLOSE, flowing with the music in the middle of the ballroom. Under different circumstances it would have been a fantasy come true. But he couldn’t let go of the tension coiling through his body or keep his eyes from darting away to look for the guards she said were waiting for him. His mind churned to come up with an alternative way out of this mess.
Francesca placed her gloved hand on his cheek and drew his attention back to her. “Jake, please don’t think about it for a moment. There is time. The ball will not end for hours, and they dare not disrupt the festivities to check every man in costume. We are safe for now.” Her eyes appealed to him from behind her mask. He knew she was trying to calm him down for his own sake before someone noticed his anxiety.
Her touch soothed him, but his mind continued to agitate over how the hell they could get out of there.
“Opening night of Carnevale has always been an important night for my family,” Francesca said. “Did I tell you my father is a gondolier?”
Jake shook his head while his eyes panned the room.
“Yes. Tenth generation, and so very proud of it. Carnevale is the most important season of the year for the gondoliers. But in spite of the crowds, my father always allowed me to go with him for the first hours of the evening on opening night. He told his patrons I was an important part of his crew, and they never seemed to mind. My mother dressed me as an angel with lace wings. I sat on the bow and sang with my father as we delivered our guests to balls like this one all around the old city. Everyone was always so happy and full of romance in their beautiful costumes.”
Francesca’s melodious voice was hard to ignore. Jake found himself drawn to her. In spite of their circumstance, her words worked their magic while another part of his mind studied the activity around the exits.
Jake saw Francesca’s bottom lip quiver and heard her voice soften. “I used to peek into the ballrooms to watch them dance and hold each other like we are right now. Sometimes I saw them kiss.” She tilted her chin up to him, inviting.
Jake couldn’t resist. He slowed their movements to a gentle sway and pulled her close. Their lips touched, and the taste of her, the closeness of her, was overpowering. They kissed softly, tenderly. He brushed his tongue along the inside of her lips, and she responded. She shuddered and melted into him, their tongues lingering, neither of them wanting it to end. The orchestra’s song had long since ended and a new one had just begun.
When they pulled apart, Francesca opened her eyes, her cheeks rosy. “Jake, I don’t want to lose you.”
Jake struggled between his need to get moving and the swell of ecstatic emotions that raced through him toward this amazing woman.
And then the brooding specter of his illness broke into his consciousness.
“Francesca, there’s something I have to tell you.”
She pulled closer. “Yes?”
“There’s something wrong with me. I’ve been sick—”
Francesca interrupted him, relief in her voice. “Oh, Jake, I know all about it. I pulled your medical results from the tests upstairs. There’s something I have to tell—”
She was cut short by a loud scream and a crash from the staircase. Jake’s confusion over her lighthearted response vanished beneath a surge of adrenaline. A man had fallen from the floor above and was sprawled across a collapsed dessert table. The music stopped, and the crowd stilled in shock at the body.
Before Jake could digest what had happened, there was a flash of movement to his right. He turned and saw the bruised and battered terrorist, Hassan, shouldering his way toward him. He clenched something in his hands.
There was a maniacal darkness in the man’s eyes that left no doubt about his intentions.
***
10:59 p.m.
Still in his feminine costume and mask, Vincenzo finally spotted his niece. He was stunned to see Francesca’s graceful dance transition to a lingering kiss with the man who held her.
Grazie a Dio! She is well.
He moved toward her, twisting through the throng of dancers. He hated being the one to shatter her world with news of the horrors that surrounded her, but he was not willing to risk waiting even a second longer.
Vincenzo’s attention was wrenched away by a loud crash to his left. Someone had fallen from the balcony onto a food table. The music stopped, and everyone on the dance floor froze—except for a man out of costume who was
pushing through the crowd toward Francesca, his hands holding two…grenades!
Vincenzo ripped off his mask as he ran at the man, launching himself into the air. The momentum of the tackle sent the two of them tumbling across the floor. Vincenzo scrambled to wrap his strong arms around the man in a fierce bear hug that locked the man’s arms at his sides.
***
11:00 p.m.
Seeing Hassan, Jake took a step forward and maneuvered Francesca protectively behind him. He dropped into a defensive crouch just as a man dressed in a woman’s costume flew through the air from Jake’s left to blindside the terrorist in a devastating tackle.
Someone screamed, “Bomba!” That’s when Jake saw the grenades.
Pandemonium broke out on the dance floor. People scattered in panic to get clear of the melee. One terrorized couple nearly bowled Jake over in their haste. Jake extended his arms behind him, corralling Francesca to keep her shielded as he edged backward.
The two struggling men on the floor rocked back and forth as though they were glued together. Hassan fought to free his arms, but the man who held him from behind had locked his thick fingers together at Hassan’s chest and refused to let go. Hassan craned his neck until his wild eyes found Jake.
The jihadist gave a mighty heave with his hips, twisting under the grasp of his captor, freeing one forearm just enough to flick one of the grenades toward Jake.
There was a sharp click as the grenade’s handle snapped open and the explosive device skidded across the dance floor.
Jake’s head filled with the familiar and welcome tingling sensation that told him his brain had kicked into overdrive. He allowed his body to respond instinctively. A part of his consciousness separated itself from what was happening as the world around him slowed.
The grenade completed its wobbling slide toward Jake’s feet, every ridge and crevasse of its pineapple pattern revealed to him in slow-motion detail. Jake watched in rapt detachment as his hand reached out and grabbed the grenade before it came to rest. It felt cold, dirty, heavier than he expected. It smelled of oil.
In one fluid motion Jake raised his fist over and behind his shoulder, and like a major league pitcher on the mound, he threw the grenade at one of the leaded windows overlooking the canal. It smashed through the glass and disappeared into the darkness, leaving a spider-webbed hole in its wake.
There was a muffled explosion and a spray of water splattered the broken window pane.
The second grenade tumbled from Hassan’s hand. It rested on the floor in front of the terrorist as he lay on his side, the older man still holding him from behind.
Jake knew he couldn’t get to the grenade before it exploded.
Hassan leered at Jake in triumph. His shout echoed through the ballroom. “Allahu Akbar!”
The man holding Hassan peered over the assassin’s shoulder, his eyes wide at the sight of the grenade wobbling in front of them. He looked desperately at Jake and Francesca.
With a furious effort, the old man flung his arm out, pulled the grenade into the terrorist’s gut, and rolled both of their bodies directly over it.
Francesca rushed forward from behind Jake, her hand stretched out toward the two men on the floor. A wailing scream emanated from deep within her. “Zio Vincenzo!”
Jake threw his arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet. He leaped away from the two men and twisted to take the brunt of the fall on his shoulder. He wrapped his body around Francesca to shield her as the blast shook the floor and pelted Jake’s back with a spray of burning stings. His ears rang.
He held Francesca’s shaking body close, making sure she continued to face in the opposite direction from the blast. As his head slowly cleared, he sat them up, removed his mask, and risked a look at the carnage.
Most of the grenade’s deadly projectiles had been absorbed by the flesh and bone barrier of the two men. The explosion blasted the bodies apart. Hassan’s bloody and smoking torso had been hollowed out, as if a great white shark had taken a bite out of the man from his clavicle to his groin. The other man’s body was not quite as bad, but it was just as devoid of life. Flesh and bone spread in a circle around the pair like the splatter of a Jackson Pollock painting. The foul smell of offal and blood permeated the air. There were a number of people dazed and staggering on the floor, several of them covered in a scarlet porridge.
Francesca’s body shuddered as she sobbed. “Mio zio, mio zio.”
Jake slid around on the floor so he could face her, his hands still cradling her shoulders to keep the ghastly scene at her back. Her head rocked from side to side, and her tiara was missing. A tangle of hair spilled over her forehead. He slid the white eye mask from her face. “Are you hurt?”
She blinked several times, trying to fight through the shock. Then her face twisted in fear and she strained to look behind her. “My uncle!”
Jake held her shoulders to prevent her from turning around. “No, Francesca. Please, don’t look. He’s gone. He saved our lives, many lives. I’m so sorry.”
She pulled back and stared at Jake, an expression of disbelief stretching the lines of her face. She fought to get free of him, hammering at his chest with the bottom of her fists over and over, unable to accept what had happened. Jake wouldn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms. After several moments, she stopped struggling and buried her face in his chest. She wept uncontrollably.
Jake stood and lifted her in his arms like a child, ignoring the jeweled slipper that fell from her foot. He hurried after a bustle of people rushing toward the east exit.
Chapter 28
Venice, Italy - 11:00 p.m.
IN THE SHADOWS of the first-floor balcony, Battista fought to control the rage twisting in his stomach as events spiraled out of control in front of him. It had taken years of meticulous work to create this ideal cover. It was all lost, without warning, all because of the cursed American. First, Carlo was flung over the rail, surely dead. Then Hassan martyred himself in the middle of the ball. What had happened? Hassan had obviously been trying to take out the American, but to do it in such a way was lunacy.
And still the American lived.
Battista’s attention was broken when Mineo bounded through the hallway doors onto the landing. Sarafina was suspended red-faced under one huge arm, and Ahmed stood beside him, his small wrist gripped in Mineo’s meaty fist. Both children still wore their pajamas. They stared wide-eyed at the bleeding musketeer on the floor and the gypsy girl tending to him. Mineo appraised the scene but seemed to dismiss the couple as no immediate threat. He nodded to Battista like an obedient guard dog, awaiting his master’s command.
Battista considered the squirming children. Maybe all was not lost. He held the communicator to his lips. “Bring the boat to the garden entrance, and have the pilot prepare the plane for departure. We are evacuating immediately.”
He switched to a different channel on the comm unit. “The American is attempting to escape through the east exit. Full weapons release. Kill him. Kill him now!”
Battista moved quickly down the grand staircase, motioning to Mineo. “Bring the children and follow me.”
***
Jake cradled Francesca in his arms and ran behind the panicked mob that had converged on the east exit. Over the ocean of bobbing heads, Jake spotted a disruption in the doorway. Three of Battista’s angry guards had broken from their posts and were shouldering their way against the tide.
A woman toward the front of the crowd shrieked. In front of Jake, the pulsing mass of bodies split in two, scattering from the guards’ path like waves before a charging warship. The three men each held short submachine guns, searching for a target—and Jake was the bull’s-eye.
Jake switched directions faster than an NFL running back.
With Francesca curled into a ball in his arms, he raced across the floor toward the south wall, sliding to his knees behind one of the thick stone pillars that supported the extended balcony. Heaving for breath
, he pressed his back hard against the cold marble and pulled Francesca tight against his chest.
A thunder of gunfire erupted behind him, echoing through the emptying ballroom. Bullets thumped into the pillar at his back. The overspray stitched a line of pockmarked craters across the floor and shredded the collapsed food table beside him. Exploding pastries splattered the rear wall. A part of Jake’s mind wondered where the body that had fallen from the balcony had gone.
There was a small doorway beneath the staircase, only seven or eight paces away. It might as well be a mile. Jake shook his head in desperation. The next support pillar was closer.
Only seconds left. He had to move before the gunmen rounded the corner or Francesca would get hit in the crossfire.
As he set her down at the base of the pillar, he shouted, “Stay put!”
Jake ignored the fear in Francesca’s eyes. Intent on putting distance between them, he dug his shoes into the floor and launched himself toward the next pillar.
All three gunmen opened fire, hot lead riddling the floor at his heels.
Before Jake had taken his third stride, there was a deep, resonating shotgun blast from the other side of the pillar in front of him. Jake glanced over his shoulder at the guards in time to see the one on the right lifted backward off his feet, the chest of his striped tunic shredded with scarlet holes.
The two remaining guards were sweeping their weapons toward the unexpected threat when the staccato coughs of a silenced submachine gun from Jake’s left sewed a diagonal line of crimson holes across their torsos. They crumpled to the floor as short whiffs of smoke drifted from their entry wounds.
Jake skidded to stop, staring unbelievingly at the death-dealing musketeer aiming a gun at the two downed men. “Tony?”