The question was an itch—something important close to the surface.
She closed her eyes, and tried to remember. But all she could think about were the fluorescent lights of the hospital passageway flickering past, and Valerio’s battered body on the gurney, and the doctor’s questions: “Blood type? Allergies?”
Suddenly, Nikki’s eyes flew open. She understood now—not anything she could speak aloud yet, but the larger picture was coming into focus: the reason for all the killings.
The dead took their secrets with them!That was the point, wasn’t it? A cold, efficient way to bury the truth. It was all connected.Everything!
The rats are running. See where they run.
She knew where to look for the shepherd.
—
Nikki raced to the SUV. Bullets had torn through the doors and fenders, punching through the leather upholstery. Blood and glass on the seats.
Starting the engine, she dialed the number for Jayston Lake. She was directed to voicemail. She called Audrey’s phone. Nothing.
As she sped towards Naples, she dialed Sonia, and then Maurizio. No answer.
—
In the city, along the waterfront, she passed cafés, maîtres in pressed white shirts and long aprons among thickets of tables and chairs. She pulled up illegally near the marina and jogged the rest of the way to the pier. The smells of coffee and fresh bread wrapped around her, the bracing sea air rushing against her.
—
The gate guard refused to listen. Refused to accept her Phoenix Seven ID card.
“It’s urgent,” she insisted. “I need to speak with Signor Lake immediately.”
“No,” he said firmly, staring with disdain at her bloodied and disheveled clothes, then speaking into his handheld radio.
She dodged around the barrier. He grabbed her arm.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” she yelled. Twisting, she broke free and, ignoring his shouts, sprinted.
—
The Prophetwas gone. She saw the gap before she was midway down the pier.
She was too late!
She thought about Audrey Lake, and was gripped by a sudden spasm of fear for the little girl.
“It departed about an hour ago,” called a voice behind her.
Nikki turned to see Vincente Di Pavola, near the tail of his yacht. For a moment, she nearly mistook him for his son, Enzo.
He strode towards her. “What’s this about?”
Nikki jogged to meet him.
“Can you track them?” she demanded. “How fast is your boat? Can you intercept?”
He seemed to consider.
“If their AIS is transmitting, I can track them,” he said. “A superyacht like that will manage a maximum of twenty to twenty-five knots. TheFidelisis arguably the fastest of her class. If we leave now, we could rendezvous in under an hour.”
He spoke these words with enthusiasm—then his expression shifted, shrewd businessman peering through his eyes.
