I don't scream. I move. I step inside his guard. I grab his wrist with my left hand, pivoting my hips. I use his own weight against him. I drive my knee into his groin.Hard.
He grunts, doubling over, the air rushing out of him. I draw the SIG from my back. I whip it around. I smash the heavy pistol grip into his temple.CRACK.
Matteo stumbles back, crashing into a shelf of books. Dust flies everywhere. He tries to regain his balance, reaching for a knife on his belt. I level the gun at his face. "Sit down!"
He freezes. He sees the gun. He sees the black hole of the muzzle. He sits. Heavily. On the floor. Blood trickles down his temple.
"You crazy bitch," he wheezes. "You hit me?"
"I'll shoot you next," I promise. "Right in the knee. Then the other knee. Then the stomach. It takes a long time to die from a stomach wound, Matteo. Plenty of time to think about your poor customer service."
I kick the diamond necklace back toward him. "The diamonds pay for the passports," I say. "The gun ensures the delivery time. I want them now."
Matteo looks at the gun. Then at the diamonds. He starts to laugh. A low, appreciative chuckle. "Okay," he says, wiping the blood from his eye. "Okay. The Director... he always had good taste in women. Violent women."
He struggles to his feet, keeping his hands where I can see them. "Come to the back," he says. "I have the blanks. I just need the photos."
The back room is a high-tech lab disguised as a storage closet. Matteo works fast. He takes my photo against a white wall. "And the man?" he asks. "I need his face."
I pull out the photo strip I took from the photo booth in the train station yesterday. It was grainy, but Matteo scans it, enhances it, cleans it up. "Name?" he asks.
"Make them French," I decide. "Jean-Luc and... Marie. Last name... Dubois. Boring."
"Boring is safe," Matteo agrees. He programs the chips. He prints the pages. He laminates the covers. Twenty minutes later, he hands me two European Union passports. French. They look perfect.
"You have a way out of the city?" he asks, handing them over.
"We'll find one."
"There is a train," he says, rubbing his bruised temple. "To Zurich. Leaves in an hour. But the station is watched. TheCarabinieriare looking for two Americans."
He reaches under the counter. I tense, raising the gun. He pulls out a key. "My scooter," he says, tossing it to me. "Parked in the alley. A Vespa. Old, but fast. Take the coast road. Don't go to the main station. Pick up the train in Savona."
I catch the key. "Why help me?"
Matteo picks up the diamond necklace. He holds it to the light. "Because you paid," he says. "And because you didn't kill me. In my line of work, mercy is rare."
He looks at me. "Go. Before I change my mind."
I back out of the room. "The ink is dry," I say.
"The book is closed," he replies.
I leave the shop. I find the Vespa in the alley. It’s battered, red paint peeling, but the engine starts with a roar. I tuck the gun away. I put the passports in my pocket next to the USB drive. I have the keys to the kingdom.
Now I just have to get the King.
I ride the Vespa back up the hill, weaving through the pedestrians. I park a block away from thepensione. I walk the rest of the way. Something feels wrong. The street is too quiet. The old woman who runs the place is sitting outside on a chair. She isn't knitting. She is staring at the ground. Her hands are shaking.
I stop. I scan the windows. Second floor. Our room. The curtains are moving. We left them closed.
They found us.
I don't panic. Panic is a luxury. I slide into the alleyway next to the building. There is a fire escape. Rusted iron. I climb. My boots make no sound on the metal. I reach the second-floor window. I peek inside.
The room is tossed. The mattress is overturned. The pillows are ripped open. Two men are in the room. One is standing by the bathroom door, gun drawn. The other is kneeling on the floor, holding something. Alaric’s coat.
But Alaric isn't there.
