How was I asking that question?Because you work with a crew who say one thing and mean another for a fucking living.
She’d said she loved me. And she’d mouthed it to me while she left withhim.
“Percy?” I said.
“We’re on foot, but we’re still five minutes out,” he said. “She’s buying us time.”
I glanced at my phone, still attached to my forearm. It had been thirty minutes since we’d entered the castle and had heard they were launching the fireworks in precisely that much time. No fireworks were flying yet, so she’d managed to slow them down.
How could I have doubted her?
A cry cut through the night air, from somewhere above us. Sharp. Pained. Beyond the stairs.
Brooke.
Every other thought evaporated. Whatever game she might be playing, whatever history she had with Owen, she was in trouble.
My woman was in danger.
Nothing else mattered.
“I’m going up,” I said, already moving. “Get to the Castel dell’Ovo rooftop as fast as you can.”
“Wait for us!” Bobcat said. “We’ll be there in five, maybe four if?—”
“Brooke may not have four minutes.”
The two guards at the stairs hadn’t moved and still blocked the narrow passage. They were watching the terrace, not me—big mistake.
I crossed the distance at a run. The first guard started to turn as I reached him, his mouth opening to challenge me. My fist connected with his solar plexus, folding him forward. As his head came down, my knee came up, catching him below the chin. The crack was audible. He went down hard.
The second guard was faster, his hand already moving to his weapon. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, yanking him off balance while driving my right elbow into his jaw. He stumbled but didn’t drop. I swept his legs, putting him on the stone, then brought my boot down on his closest arm. It cracked as loudly as Enzo’s had.
And this time, he stayed down.
“Mio dio,” someone gasped behind me.
I shot a look over my shoulder, ensuring no one was coming for me, and acted fast. The guards both had zip-ties on their belts, and after another kick to the first guard, I had them secure in seconds. Their weapons—Glock 19s—went to me. I press-checked both chambers. Loaded. Magazines full.
One went into my waistband at the small of my back. The other stayed in my hand.
The stupid polyester cape came off, the silk mask too. No point in disguises now.
Another cry from above, muffled but unmistakable. Brooke’s voice was threaded with pain.
I took the stairs three at a time until my eyes crested the terrace and muscle memory took over, slowing me. Work lights illuminated the scene, casting shadows for me to work in.
Eight operatives spread around the perimeter. A massive golden phoenix sat on a short central platform—solid gold from the way it caught the light. Mortar tubes were arranged around it, all wired to a control box where someone stood by a laptop. And at the center, in front of the phoenix, was Brooke.
She’d been forced to her knees by two men who twisted her arms behind her back, and her incursion suit was unzipped to her mid-chest. What had they done to her? Had they touched her?
Rage burned hot in my chest, and I could have taken every one of them apart with my bare hands. First would be the silver-haired man in the suit, who was obviously Stefano Martinelli. Next would come Owen, who stared at her as though he were in love.
Martinelli held what looked like a firing switch, a thin tube with a single red button, connected by a long wire.
They were all inside the circle of light, and they hadn’t even heard me.
I raised the Glock smoothly, years of training guiding my aim. I squeezed the trigger twice, sending two rounds into the phoenix’s right wing. Solid gold or not, 9mm rounds packed enough punch to matter. The wing flew off the statue, ringing as it hit the stone.
