If he was going to have any chance of fighting, he needed his hands.
Maneuvering as much as he could in the small space, he struggled to pull a hand free. But his wrists were bound too tightly, fingers swollen and numb. By the time he gave up, his skin was raw, hands slippery with sweat. He wondered if there might be something in the trunk with him, something sharp to cut the thick plastic zip tie. But he was facing the back of the trunk, and it was too dark to see what was here. He hunted behind him with his fingertips, feeling the surface of the trunk door. There wasn’t much here—just the door and latch. This wasn’t useful if he couldn’t work it open. Then his fingers found a small edge of jutting ragged metal: a broken piece of trim. It wasn’t much—certainly not sharp enough to cut the plastic on his wrists. Valerio squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. He traced the ridged contours of the zip tie up and around the jagged piece until it hit the locking mechanism. Carefully, fighting the motion of the car, he worked the pointed end of the metal into the small square hole. It was painstaking, frustrating—like threading a needle—every jostle and shudder causing him to slip and reorient. His arms were fatigued and shaking when, suddenly, the locking mechanism was released, loosening the zip tie by a few centimeters! He wriggled his left hand free, and then his right.
The success of his improbable attempt gave Valerio a rush of exhilaration, and relief so overwhelming tears and snot streamed down his face. Pain flooded his body as he pulled his arms around front, flexing his fingers and rubbing his wrists to bring the circulation back. It took him a minute before he could use his hands again.
Now, for the next priority: He needed a weapon.
Valerio scrabbled at the back of the trunk, hoping to locate the tire iron but finding only more of the drenched foam liner. He peeled this back with his fingernails, and found the edge of the floor panel. Beneath it, he might find the spare tire and tire iron. But his weight was on the panel, and he couldn’t negotiate the space well enough to remove the pressure of his own body.
He continued running his hands along the edges, pulling back the liner—finding a roll of duct tape and a plastic sheet. Then his fingers gripped a hard piece of Styrofoam. He picked away chunks of this until he touched something cold and metal. Frantically he dug, until he could run his fingers around its dimensions. Rotating himself slowly with gritted effort gave him just enough angle to pull it out sideways. Heaving and grunting, he wrenched it free: the hard metal of a car jack. The cold heft was the first comfort he’d felt all day.
The vehicle was beginning to slow. He had only seconds to decide how to use his small advantage.
As the car parked, he shifted position—facing the lid, and arranging his hands behind his back as though they were still tethered, the metal car jack tucked beneath him, gripped in his fists.
—
The trunk opened, letting in the cold and rain, blinding Valerio with the sudden wash of light.
He breathed fresh air, then grunted as two sets of rough hands yanked him out by his elbows, dragging him to his feet. Two men.
This was exactly what he’d needed. Standing on his good leg and using the momentum of the upward movement, he swung the heavy metal tool up and around, smashing it into the face of the man on his right with a sickening thwack—before ramming the full force of his weight into the other man, knocking him to the ground. They crashed down together into the mud and rocks, and the man grunted as the air left him. Valerio piled on top. Punching. Grappling. Slamming the man’s head onto the ground.
A painful explosion close to his head set Valerio’s ears ringing. He didn’t know if he’d been hit, but it didn’t matter. If he stopped now, hewould die. He wrestled, punching blindly and taking punches. Rain blurred the world, the thick and slimy mud making it difficult to maneuver. There was no way he could stand—not with his leg like this. So, he dragged his enemy down every time he tried to rise, and they rolled through the mud like pigs. Then, suddenly, there was a black gun in the man’s grip. Valerio grabbed for it, fingers closing around the barrel and shoving it aside, sending the shot wide.
They struggled for the weapon. His opponent was young and strong and muscular, while injury and terror had weakened Valerio. But Valerio’s heart surged with fury, and the desperate need to return home to his children. When he managed to get the weapon in his hand, he didn’t hesitate before shooting the other man in the head.
No sooner had he done this than a bullet smashed into the bumper of the car, narrowly missing him. Valerio glanced up to see Ivan taking aim again.
No. Not Ivan. Yasen Lazarov was shooting at him.
Valerio hit the ground and rolled to the side of the vehicle, putting the tire between himself and his attacker as another bullet crashed into the car. His hands, slick with mud and rain, were shaking. He tried anyway, turning and aiming the gun and pulling the trigger.
Nothing.
Fuck.
He tried again. The gun was jammed. Two more bullets crashed, one of them hitting the car and causing it to judder.
Fuck. Fuck.
“You and I need to talk, Lazarov!” he called out in English. Another bullet hit the ground nearby. Then, to his surprise, there was a pause.
“Lazarov!” he called out again, trying to remember what Nikki’s message had said about the man. “Yasen Lazarov, we need to talk!”
An eerie silence filled the air, broken only by the patter of rain.
Then Lazarov’s voice: “How do you know that name?”
“I know more than your name. I need to talk to you, Lazarov. Don’t shoot. We’re on the same side.”
Another pause, and Valerio’s mind worked furiously to fill in the lie. He glanced around, trying to work out where he was. They were in afield that looked as if it had once been a factory dumping ground. Enormous rusted machine parts rose up on all sides, hulking and bare like the fossilized skeletons of monsters.
Valerio calculated. There had been five men in Silvestri’s house, and two vehicles at the property. But he’d only seen three men here: Lazarov and his two buddies. He’d killed one of the men, and badly injured—or killed—the other. He hoped this was all—that the other vehicle wasn’t following close behind. The odds were better now than they had been. But he needed luck. He needed the gun to work.
“Who are you working for?” Yasen shouted.
There wasn’t a good way out of this.
