“Something’s wrong.” I don’t mean to say it out loud.
“Be quiet.”
“Tell me what’s happening?—”
The guard on my right grabs my arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “I said bequiet.”
The road narrows. Through the windshield, I see nothing but trees and shadows and a stretch of empty asphalt disappearing into the hills.
Then the world explodes.
The impact comes from the left, a massive force slamming into us, metal screaming against metal. My body is thrown sideways, seatbelt cutting into my ribs, my head cracking against the guard beside me.
Glass shatters.
The SUV spins twice and lurches to a stop at an angle, half in a ditch.
Before I can breathe, before I can think, gunfire erupts.
The driver’s head snaps forward. Blood sprays across the windshield in an arc of red mist.
“GET DOWN!”
Hands shove me to the floor. I curl into the space between the seats, knees to chest, hands over my head, making myself as small as possible.
The guards pile out, using the doors as cover. The sound of their return fire is deafening, sharp cracks that split the air, one after another after another.
I press my forehead to the floor and try not to scream.
Gunpowder burns my throat. Cordite, smoke, the copper tang of blood. Something warm and wet seeps across the floor toward me, touching my fingers. It’s sticky.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t?—
The wet thud of bullets hitting flesh. A choked cry. A body falling.
Then another.
Then silence.
The ringing in my ears is so loud it drowns out everything else. My heart hammers against my ribs. My breath comes in shallow gasps that fog against the floor beneath my face.
Move. You need to move.
I can’t.
Elio. Where is Elio? Does he know? Will he come?
Footsteps outside. Multiple sets. Boots crunching on gravel. Low voices conferring in Italian.
The guards are dead. I know it with a certainty that sits like ice in my stomach. I’m alone in a destroyed SUV with unknown attackers circling outside, and no one is coming to save me.
Move. Move. MOVE.
Slowly, I lift my head.
Through the shattered window, I see shapes. Armed men—four, five, more—moving among the bodies. They’re organized. Efficient. Not random attackers. Not desperate criminals.
Professionals.
