The Cleaver lifts a hand into the air: a metallic object he’s holding glints as it catches a ray of sunlight.
A knife.
“Cover me!” I immediately leave my position, not caring that I’m running straight into the line of fire. I have to get to her. Now!
Bullets whiz past all around me. Some ricochet from the cobblestone at my feet. Branches and bark break away from the trees next to me. I hardly notice. I keep focused on my target.
I raise my arms while I sprint and try to train my handgun on The Cleaver.
This is the most important shot of my life. I don’t intend to miss.
That means I have to stop running, if only for a moment, because my aim is all over the place at this speed.
I’ll be exposed, though.
I’ll just have to hope my brothers, and the Amatos, cover me with suppressive fire like I asked.
I slow to a walk. Bullets continue to whiz past.
The Cleaver is firmly in my iron sights now. He still hasn’t plunged the knife into Angela. He wants to prolong the process, drag out her terror.
I shoot. Repeatedly.
The Cleaver drops the knife as blood fountains from several holes in his torso. He collapses.
I break into a run once more.
The Cleaver has fallen onto Angela, and she’s struggling to slide out from under his body. When she looks up, she freezes in shock, like she’s looking at a ghost.
Which she is.
I quickly shove my handgun into the back of my pants so she doesn’t have to be distracted by it, and then wrench The Cleaver’s dead body off of her. Her dress is covered in blood.
I crouch down behind the altar, dragging her into cover behind it.
“Are you all right?” I ask her, staring at the blood.
“Massimo,” she says. She suddenly breaks into tears. “Massimo. I thought you were dead.”
I wrap my arms around her and hug her tight. Blood smears my clothing. I don’t care.
“Sorry it took so long for me to get here.” I stroke her back reassuringly. “Are you all right?” I repeat. “The blood on your dress…”
I pull away for a moment.
“What?” She looks down at her dress. “Oh. It’s not mine.”
I’m not sure I believe her, so I perform a quick inspection, but can find no holes in the fabric. There are some knife tears along the edges of the bodice, and a missing strap, but that seems to be the extent of the damage.
I study her face. One of her cheeks is a bright red, as if The Cleaver slapped her.
I gently touch the area and she flinches. “Did he hurt you?”
“It’s just a slap,” she tells me.
I hug her again.
I notice she flinches every time a gun fires nearby. I have to take her away from all this.
