A single shot from Lupo's position cracked the air. Then another. Aimed high, toward the rise where the sniper lurked.Bang. Bang. Pause.Bang.
Not trying to hit, just to provoke. Lupo moved cautiously, using the overturned Audi's bulk as cover, drawing fire away from Rodrigo.
The response was immediate. The sniper's rifle cracked again, the round pinging off the Audi's undercarriage near where Lupo must have been. The two remaining ground team members opened up from behind their cover, peppering Lupo's position.
Lupo returned fire sporadically, forcing the ground team to keep their heads down. He was buying time. Precious seconds.
Rodrigo crawled faster, ignoring the tearing sensation in his side, the way his vision blurred at the edges. The dense brambles were close now. Ten meters. Five.
He reached the thicker vegetation and slipped into it, the tangled branches snagging his jacket but offering blessed concealment. He paused for a second, gulping air, listening.
Rodrigo pushed forward, using the trees and thicker brush now as cover, moving parallel to the road but angling steadily uphill.
Rodrigo crested the rise, staying low behind a gnarled, ancient olive tree. The twisted oak was twenty meters ahead, standing sentinel on a slightly higher knoll.
A lean figure in nondescript camo gear was under it and behind a low stone wall that offered perfect cover and a commanding view of the road and ditch below. The man was focused entirely through the scope of his rifle, tracking Lupo near the wrecked cars.
Charging across twenty meters of open ground under the gaze of that rifle was suicide. He needed to get closer. He scanned the terrain between him and the stone wall.
A depression, maybe an old animal track, ran diagonally toward the wall, offering slightly deeper cover. It was a gamble against a trained marksman's reaction time, and Rodrigo wasn't at his best.
No choice.
He dropped into the shallow gully, crawling again, his breath loud in his own ears, every rustle of dry grass sounding like a thunderclap. He focused on the sniper's back, the curve of his spine as he lay prone, utterly absorbed in his scope.
Rodrigo gathered himself, every muscle coiled. He exhaled and ran, fast and silent. He scooped up a fist-sized chunk of weathered sandstone lying near the base of the wall without breaking stride.
The sniper looked over his shoulder, eyes wide with shock. Rodrigo swung the rock in a short, vicious arc, putting all his weight and momentum behind it. It connected with the sniper'sskull with a sickening, wetthud.The man's eyes rolled back before he collapsed face-first onto the stock of his rifle.
Rodrigo stood over him, breathing hard, the rock still clutched in his hand, dripping a dark smear. The sudden silence from the ridge was deafening. Below, the sporadic pistol fire had also stopped. He looked down toward the road.
Lupo stood near the ditch, breathing heavily, smoke curling from the barrel of one Glock. The other pistol was trained warily on the two remaining ground team members.
One lay sprawled near the truck, unmoving. The other was on his knees, hands clasped behind his head, a dark stain spreading across his thigh. Lupo met Rodrigo's gaze across the distance and gave a small, grim nod. It was over.
Rodrigo dropped the bloody rock. He knelt, quickly checking the sniper's pulse. Weak, but still there.
He swiftly stripped the man of the rifle, a sidearm, several spare magazines, and a wicked-looking knife. He bound the unconscious man's wrists tightly behind his back with the man's own belt, then his ankles with a length of paracord from a pouch on the sniper's vest.
He straightened, looking down at his captive, then back toward Lupo guarding the other survivor near the wrecks. The Audi was totaled, but they were alive, and he had prisoners.
Whoever the 'Old Man' was, he had made a fatal error. He had attacked Rodrigo on his way back to the woman he loved, and he was very, very good at making people regret their bad decisions.
33
Giana's hands were still smeared with paint when she left the studio and headed back to the villa. It was getting dark, her stomach was rumbling, but her head was clearer than it had been in years.
For a few precious hours, the coiled tension in her chest had eased, replaced by the familiar, grounding rhythm of charcoal on paper, the tentative exploration of color on canvas.
She had been wrestling with the lines of Rodrigo's face, trying to capture the contradiction: the cold, calculating predator and the man whose eyes held a terrifying vulnerability when he looked at her.
Which one was real? Which one was she more afraid of losing?
The moment she stepped into the main corridor, the peaceful feeling shattered. Gone was the usual low hum of conversation, the distant clatter from the kitchens. Instead, tense energy crackled through the grand hallway.
Something was wrong.
At the main entrance, Athena checked the load on a compact submachine gun, her face a mask of icy concentration. Kon stoodbeside her, his posture relaxed but his black eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
