Naomi knew this was bad.
The bastards must have broken Tag, tortured him into giving up the others.
The only bit of fortune was that the enemy had been forced to wait out the storm before attempting a mountain assault. The delay had allowed Naomi to make her own plans, to build her own army.
She turned to the woman seated next to her, who fingered a salt-filled charm. Despite her pounding heart, Naomi had to trust this woman, whose name she had learned was Chiara.
Last night, after exiting the internet café into the blizzard, Naomi had initially brushed off Antonio, then realized she needed his help if she had any hope of rescuing Tag. She confronted the man and asked him to take her to his boss.
They met in a coffeehouse at the edge of town. Naomi sought to lean on the good graces of the woman, sharing a tale of kidnapping and torture. She also showed Chiara her TikTok plea, the one she had posted to her WitchTok site, hoping the commonality of their shared interest in magic might sway the woman.
It did not—at least, not entirely.
What did convince Chiara was a trip this morning to an Italian bank. With the storm ended, the establishment was open. Inside, Naomi had drained her checking and savings account, drawing out fifteen thousand euros. She had handed it all to Chiara—along with a promise of more if they were successful in freeing Tag.
“Antonio comes now.” Chiara craned around and stared behind their SUV. “As I said.”
Naomi turned to look and grabbed the door handle, but the woman reached to Naomi’s knee and forced it to stop bobbing. Rather than urging patience again, Chiara passed her the necklace with its charm.
“Be safe,” the woman urged.
Naomi accepted this amulet of protection, touched by the gesture and generosity. Then again, fifteen thousand euros was a steep price to pay for a salt-filled trinket.
As she donned the charm, a group of ten young men appeared from around a corner—dressed in nothing but boxers, boots, and scarves. Chiara and Antonio must have been inspired by the antics from last night. The group sang and hung on one another, clutching beer bottles. They passed the SUV and continued down the block toward the hotel.
Behind them, Antonio appeared, still in his Moncler parka and Bogner cap. Only now he wore a pair of Oakley sunglasses, which mirrored the bright morning.
Naomi donned a matching pair and exited the SUV. She had also been lent a Moncler parka, currently zippered over her old clothes.
As she joined Antonio, he slipped her arm under his.
“Buongiorno,” he said, leaning close.
At the moment, she found nothinggoodabout this morning.
“Let us go visit your friend,” Antonio encouraged her.
Ahead of them, the rowdy bunch reached the hotel and swarmed boisterously around the lone guard, who struggled to make sense of this group of half-naked men. They bumped and cajoled him, offering a bottle. He rested his hand on his holstered pistol, but before he could do more, a knife appeared out of nowhere. The tip was pressed against the man’s carotid. Hands grabbed him roughly. The crowd, still smiling with good cheer, forced him from his post.
As he was dragged away, Naomi and Antonio ducked through the hotel doors and into the lobby. It was empty of patrons, with only a frightened-looking concierge at the front desk. It looked as if the marauders had cleared out most of the hotel.
Antonio laughed loudly at nothing, drawing the eye of another soldier standing at the base of the stairs. Arm in arm, they approached the gunman. Antonio shouted something in Italian to the man, whose face was unreadable behind the reflection of his helmet’s face shield.
The guard blocked them with a raised arm, but Antonio pretended to stumble and jabbed the Taser he had palmed at his side. He struck the man under his armpit, where there was no armor.
The jolt was strong enough to lift the man off his feet, sending him crashing to the stairs. Antonio hit him again with the Taser, leaving him limp, then grabbed his side-arm. He passed his Taser over to Naomi.
Together, they raced up the stairs, fearing the noise might have alerted others. Once at the top, they found the hallway empty. Clearly, the leader of this mercenary force had pulled away most of his men for the mountain assault, leaving only a skeleton crew behind to guard their prisoner, a captive with cerebral palsy who offered little threat.
Ahead, the battered door to their hotel room hung crooked on its hinges and had been left partially ajar. Voices carried to them. A man and a woman. It sounded like they were arguing, angry or frustrated.
“Try again!” the woman shouted.
Naomi could guess who that was. The Indian woman—the one called Burman. Naomi had never seen her leave the hotel.
Antonio stepped forward, taking the lead. “Let me.”
He peeked through a gap in the door jamb, took a breath, then shouldered into the room, his weapon leveled. A moment later, a blast made Naomi jump—only it hadn’t come from Antonio’s gun.
