We cut across the grounds of a school, hopped a fence, and saw the number 31 bus heading south along the Via Anastasio II.
“That will take us west out of the city,” Faduma said, flagging down the vehicle as she ran toward the stop.
We climbed aboard, paid the fare, and settled into seats near the back as the bus rolled on. We saw heightened police activity everywhere, patrol cars speeding in the opposite direction, beat officers being mustered to checkpoints, and a helicopter in the sky.
We had just driven through an underpass when Faduma’s cell phone rang. She pulled it from her purse.
“Unknown number,” she said, before answering.
She listened for a moment.
“Police,” she whispered. “They want to know if I’m okay.”
I reached over and took her phone.
“Faduma Salah is my hostage. I will only release her when my demands are met. I will be in contact soon,” I said before hanging up.
I slid the phone down the side of my seat and stood.
“Come on,” I said.
“My phone,” she protested.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
I pressed the bell and walked to the exit as the bus slowed. Faduma followed grudgingly.
“Did you really have to do that?” she asked.
“Which bit? The hostage? Or leaving your phone?”
“Both,” she said as the doors lurched open with a pneumatic hiss.
“You gave me the idea,” I said. “It absolves you of any wrongdoing. And you know I couldn’t let you keep your phone. No matter how secure it’s supposed to be.”
She nodded and sighed as we left the bus.
“What now?” she asked while the vehicle rumbled away.
“I need to get the surveillance gear from the apartment,” I said. “No one is watching Milan Verde and the Dark Fates. We have no idea what they’re doing. If I can review the footage, I might be able to see who sent that man to kill us at Baggio’s apartment.”
“I’m guessing the cops followed your friends after Justine wasreleased from custody,” Faduma remarked. “So, the apartment is probably being watched.”
I nodded. “We’ll just have to be careful. And maybe a little cunning.”
“You’re dangerous, Jack Morgan.”
“Hold that thought,” I responded, hurrying toward a pay phone beside a petrol station.
I stepped into the booth, swiped a credit card through the slot, and dialed the operator.
An automated announcement played in Italian and I handed Faduma the receiver. She listened and then spoke in Italian.
“Who do you want?” she asked me.
“Gianna Bianchi,” I replied. “The attorney.”
I heard Faduma repeat the name along with some instructions in Italian. After a short pause she handed the receiver back to me.
