Midnight Angels (31 page)

“That’s right,” Rumore said, “I didn’t.”

“Is there a reason?” he asked.

“Here’s all you and your friend need to know,” Rumore said. “Neither one of you is in leg irons on your way to jail. No one is putting a call in to the Raven and telling him you dropped the ball on a straightforward assignment. You’re both going to where you were supposed to be going—a safe house—and delivering the target you were asked to deliver. What that does is keep you alive and out of prison. That’s the best I can offer.”

“And if you land the Raven?” the first man asked.

“Then we’ll have something to talk about,” Rumore said.

The two men nodded, and Rumore gestured for two armed officers to step forward. “Get them their car back, unload their weapons, and then let them have their guns. Have them give you the exact location of the safe house and the time they were supposed to bring the girl there. Then have three units standing by, ready to move. Get as much detail as you can and then double-check it with as many trusted sources you can find. Also, run their names through the database. Let’s see how they’ve earned their keep these past few years.”

The officers grabbed the two henchmen and walked down the sloping hill and away from the tree coverage. Marco stood next to Rumore and watched as the group veered left and disappeared behind a statue. Kate was leaning against a tall pine tree, her arms folded across her chest, head down, alone with her thoughts.

“I know you won’t believe this, but you don’t have to worry about me once we’re in the house,” Marco said.

“You’re right,” Rumore said. “I don’t.”

“I might surprise you,” Marco said.

Rumore stared at him for a few moments. “What are you looking to get out of this?” he finally asked. “I mean, you don’t seem to be in it for the adventure. You have no connection to the Society. Yet, here you are, ready to put your life on the line for a girl you barely know.”

The question caught Marco off guard, even though after his conversation with Professor Edwards, he felt better prepared to answer it. “I like her,” he said. “Do I need more of a reason than that?”

“If you were going out on a date, no,” Rumore said. “But you’re going to be risking your life, and for that you might want to go with something stronger.”

“It’s reason enough,” Marco said.

“We’ll soon find out,” Rumore said, leading him over toward Kate.

“How much time before we need to go to the safe house?” Marco asked.

“Two days, minimum,” Rumore said. “We’ll try and get as much information as we can before we move. In the meantime, you and Kate will be free to go about your business.”

“Is there anything you need me to do once we’re in the house?” Marco asked, standing now next to Kate.

Rumore nodded. “Don’t get her killed,” he said.

CHAPTER
7

R
USSELL CODY WAS ROWING THE SCULL DOWN THE CENTER OF
the Arno, moving against the heavy tide, his upper body and legs straining with every pull on the thin wooden oars. It was the dawn of what promised to be another in a string of warm and pleasant days. Cody was only fifteen minutes into his journey and already the top half of his white Chicago Blackhawks T-shirt was drenched and his face and neck were coated with a thick sheen of sweat and he couldn’t have been any happier. He was as devoted to his ninety-minute daily workouts as he was to Professor Edwards and the Vittoria Society, an organization on whose behalf he had orchestrated many a murder—all of them, he truly believed, justified.

Russell plunged the oars deeper into the dark, choppy waters, the homes and buildings on both sides of the river silent and imposing, the city streets still free of tourists and congestion. As he rowed, he ran through the hurdles that currently faced the group as they closed in on adding the most valuable discovery in decades to their arsenal. He knew that if they could secure the Midnight Angels, it would forever seal the reputation of the Society, the goals of its founders finally achieved. The plan he and Edwards had begun to put in place was indeed a strong one, with one troubling unknown—this would be their first venture with Kate in the mix, and no one knew how she would respond to the dangers and the pressure. She had the proper pedigree, of that he was fairly certain, and she also had all the academic credentials required, but she had never been in a tussle of any magnitude, let alone one that pitted her against the Raven and his ruthless arsenal of mercenaries.

Russell had been through dozens of battles with Edwards by his side and never once questioned either his courage or his dedication to the cause. With this fight, however, he was worried about the professor’s close attachment to Kate and the dangers that could flare up and devour such a relationship. In all his time as one of the Society’s key security planners, he never had to concern himself with family considerations, even in the years Frank and Andrea ran the group. He had grown not to think of them as husband and wife but rather as two determined professionals. Russell did not know if Edwards and Kate, working together for the very first time, could bring that level of discipline to the job. And he knew where there was doubt, there was always increased risk.

On top of those inherent problems, there was the skill level of the opposition to consider. Russell knew the Raven and the Immortals were more than prepared to turn the quest for the Midnight Angels into their last great stand, their best shot to do irreparable damage to the Society and step into the spotlight of the art retrieval world. The word had spread rapidly throughout the art underground that the Society was in a weakened state—their two main enforcers, Russell and Banyon, talk had it, had left their best days behind them; the professor, while skilled and able, was never a fair match when pitted against the Raven; Andrew MacNamera, the most feared operative in the Society, had been reduced to a wisp, his battle with cancer consuming the bulk of his remaining days; and their heir apparent was a novice yet to be tested in the field.

Yet, despite it all, Russell felt confident and in control. The odds were heavily tilted toward the Society, especially in terms of manpower and money. Also, over these many years, they had built a more sustainable structure of street and boardroom connections on both sides of the art world, able to reach into galleries, private museums, art collectors, black market dealers, and police departments for valuable aid and information. And nowhere else were they better situated than in Florence, the city where the Society maintained its deepest network and greatest clout. Its members considered the city their home turf and believed that if they could not best the Raven on streets that so thoroughly favored them, then their entire quest would be doomed.

And Russell Cody did not expect to leave Florence with empty hands.

He had never failed on a mission entrusted to him by the Society in the past, and he was not prepared to make the retrieval of the Midnight
Angels—his most important task to date—the first failure. In past years he had battled for precious prizes against a number of high-echelon members of the Immortals, but a matchup with the Raven had always been elusive. Now, with so much at stake, Russell felt this would be the truest test of his skills.

He pulled the oars from the water and held them aloft, content for the moment to allow the swirling tides to dictate his path. He slid one of the oars into the scull, reached down for a white hand towel and wiped a row of thick beads of sweat from his face and forehead. He took in a deep breath, his only regret in the world being that he had neglected to bring along a bottle of water. It was a peaceful and serene morning, the early sun slow to rise, the thick mist surrounding the banks and the lower end of the city just beginning to evaporate, giving the surroundings a nineteenth century feel. He peered out beyond the row of bridges and buildings and rooftops, and from where he sat Florence looked no different to him on this beauty of a morning than it might have several centuries earlier, when true masters walked across its cobblestone streets. He took in the truly magnificent scenery and smiled at the magical city spread out before him.

He lost the smile the second he caught the glare of the rifle scope.

It was coming at him on the flat end of an approaching bridge, and Russell knew he had little time to react. He dropped the hand towel and gripped the oar, sliding it back into the water and trying to maneuver his scull in a pattern that would help make him a less stationary target. He had committed the unpardonable sin of the professional—left himself vulnerable and without any viable escape options. He could toss himself into the river, but knew he would never be able to survive its strong and whirling currents or the dangers that lay beneath the churning waters. He could also drop down, lie flat and stretch out in the base of the thin boat and make himself harder to hit, except then he would be at the full mercy of the river. He also didn’t know if he was up against a lone gunman or a slew of them hidden at various points along the upper banks. Given the early hour, he had little hope that either a passing car or pedestrian would take notice of any gunman, shrouded as the shooter would be by both mist and secure location. Rowing upstream, as far away from the bridge as possible, was also not an option since the current would be much too strong for him to push against and only cause his boat to slow to a crawl, making him a sitting duck.

In the end, Russell Cody knew he was not the kind of man who ran from an adversary. He had been schooled in the hard ways of the cold professional, and the first and last rule of that education was to attack your opponent head on. He estimated he was at least half a mile away from the shooter, and given the time of day, weather conditions, and the stillness he presented as a target, it would be a difficult but not impossible shot to take. He glanced down at the small duffel bag resting against his right leg, the black grip of the semiautomatic handgun clearly visible and within quick reach. If the shooter was patient and waited until he was closer in range, then maybe he stood a chance of getting a kill shot off. It was a gamble, but one he was more than willing to take. “Well,” he said to himself, “time to find out if I have any kind of luck left.”

Russell pulled at the oars with all the strength he had, cutting through the waves with a hard stroke, moving the scull downriver as fast as it would go as the second bridge drew closer. He released one of the oars, allowing it to float on its own in midair as he bent down, grabbed his weapon and rested it under his right leg. He caught the oar and gave it yet one more violent tug against the harsh, dark brown water.

He was now within fifty feet of the shooter.

The slap of a choppy cross-current wave saved him from the first shot. The high caliber bullet nicked the left side of the boat, sending thick chips of polished wood into the morning breeze. He bore down hard on the oars one final time and then leaned back in the scull, the gun held firm in his right hand, his eyes on the approaching bridge. He waited a number of seconds, his breath coming out in an easy rhythm, his heart racing as much from the workout as from fear.

Then, as a line of shadows descended across the shoreline, Russell caught a glimpse of the shooter, crouched down, resting on one knee, the other leg steadied against a stone embankment. The gunman had reset his rifle, and Russell knew he was now within easy range. With one swift move worthy of a man twenty years younger, Russell let go of the oars and tilted the boat sideways with the weight of his body and a pull of his left hand against the punctured rail. He got off two quick rounds before the scull tilted over into the river, Russell floating above the polluted waves, shielded by the shell of the boat. He waited until he was sure the scull had safely passed the bridge, then released his grip and swam with mouth and eyes closed against a current eager to pull him deeper into its hold.

He swam with tired arms and weakened legs, the hard rowing having exhausted him. He cut through the water, aiming for the closest shoreline, swimming just below the surface in an attempt to make his movements smoother and to lessen any attention he might be getting from any number of gunmen waiting for him aboveground. He wasn’t sure if he had scored a hit on the shooter, but knew that his bullets caught the man off guard. If the shooter was a lone wolf sent to take him down, utilizing the element of surprise, then he might be in the clear once he made it to shore. But if there were more than one shooter and they were spread out across both sides of the river, then he was in for a long morning. Or, really, a short one.

Russell made it to the shoreline, hands and knees scraping against the harsh brown sand. He rolled over into a pile of wild shrubs, still moist with dew. There, he rested for several long minutes, catching his breath, the foul smell of the grass and wild roots strong enough to burn his nostrils. He saw a cluster of river rats scurry away, headed back to their nesting hole, annoyed by the unexpected disturbance.

Russell remained as still as possible, ignoring the horrible odor, wondering what terrible disease he risked getting simply by laying down in the slime and muck of the Arno. He was buried too deep in the shrubs to be warmed by the morning sun but was hidden from the view of any casual observers walking along the streets above.

For the moment this foul stretch of earth seemed to be the safest place in the city.

He closed his eyes when he heard the approaching footsteps, and knew then that his efforts had all been in vain. He rose slowly to his feet, wiped the thick, wet sand from the back of his pants and glanced over at the Raven.

“I didn’t think you cared much for the water,” he said. “You being so adverse to the sun, I mean.”

“Don’t let appearances deceive you,” the Raven said, staring down at a lone rat making its way through the brush. “It’s just that I prefer my beaches to be rodent free.”

“A tan’s a tan,” Russell said.