Midnight Angels (33 page)

Kate stopped and rested her duffel bag next to her leg. “It does matter,” she said, “if not to you, then certainly to me and Marco. We need to know who it is you’re taking us to see. And until we find out, neither one of us is taking another step.”

“That would be a mistake,” the man said, unable to hide the fact that this flustered him.

“Take a look around,” Kate said. “There are far too many people on this street for you to do anything that would cause attention. There’s a police car parked one street away, just past the gelato store. I’m sure they
would respond if they heard me scream, which would leave you in a bit of a bind.”

“What is it you want?” the man asked.

“Who are you taking us to see?” Kate asked. “No more games. I want the truth and I want to hear it now, or I’ll stand here, the rest of the night if I must.”

“He is taking you to see me,” Clare Johnson said, standing in front of Kate, a light, cream-colored raincoat flung across her shoulders.

“Who are you?” Kate asked.

“Someone you need to talk to,” Clare said, “your friend there, as well. And the sooner that happens, the better for all parties concerned.”

“Talk to you about what?” Kate asked.

“I can be a big help to both of you,” Clare said. “Help you to navigate your way through your current problem. I mean, let’s be honest, shall we? If the two of you don’t get some help fast—and I mean the
right
kind of help—then the reward for all the trouble you went to will end up in someone else’s hands.”

“What do you mean by the right kind of help?” Kate asked.

Clare turned and started to walk down the street. A dark sedan, engine running, was parked close to the corner, the man in the leather jacket within several feet of the driver’s side door. She stopped and glanced at Kate over her shoulder. “That is something you’ll have to discover for yourself.”

CHAPTER
9

E
DWARDS STRADDLED THE DUCATI 999, THE ENGINE COUGHING
out a thin line of white smoke from its silver exhaust pipe. One foot resting on the wet pavement, the other balanced against the curb just outside Harry’s Bar, he glanced in the right side mirror. There, he saw the two men sitting in a black Mercedes sedan, their faces shielded by thick clouds of misty white cigarette smoke.

He carefully slid his black helmet over his head, careful not to dislodge an earpiece and wire attachment. “You still with me?” he said into a small microphone latched to the inside of the helmet.

“I can’t leave you now,” Banyon said in response. “You still owe me for that job in Tokyo, three years ago.”

Edwards smiled at the memory. “Forget it, my friend,” he said. “That’s one check I’ll never live to cut. You weren’t supposed to be there, remember?”

“And if I hadn’t been, then you wouldn’t be here,” Banyon said.

“They’re three cars behind me,” Edwards said, “two in the front, possibly one laying low in the back.”

“You want them tailed or nailed?” Banyon asked.

“I’ve played enough games,” Edwards said. “He went hard after Russell, and it’s time we did the same to his crew.”

“Let’s take them out for a ride, then,” Banyon said. “Head for the autostrada going south toward Rome. I’ll be close enough on their tail to stop them if they get too close to you.”

“There’s a rest stop about ten, maybe fifteen kilometers up,” Edwards
said. “I’ll swing into that and stop for a coffee and the men’s room. If he follows me in, I’ll deal with him there.”

“In that case, I’ll do my best to keep one of them alive for you,” Banyon said.

“If it’s only to be one, then I would suggest it be the driver,” Edwards said. “But who am I to tell a man such as you his business?”

“Keep an eye out for a second car,” Banyon warned, “either on the streets or up on the big road. It would make sense for them to have a lead car in place. If they don’t, then it’s a simple tail and report.”

“It might still be that, even with two cars,” Edwards said. “The Raven can’t afford to go all-in on Kate telling him where the Angels are. I’m his safety net. He has to figure if she tells anyone else, it will be me.”

“Or he might have guessed that you already have the Angels,” Banyon said, “which would make you his primary.”

“There’s really only one way to ever know anything for sure,” Edwards said, kicking the Ducati into gear and venturing into the light traffic.

He checked his mirrors and saw the Mercedes pull out of its spot and ease into the lane, a small plumbing truck the only vehicle separating them. He passed Banyon’s black Ferrari and watched as Banyon made a fast U-turn, neatly dodging an oncoming metro bus to fall in line behind the trail car.

“Glad to see you still have all your reflexes,” Edwards said, “even at your advanced age.”

“Just wait till you see me drive and shoot,” Banyon said. “That’s when I’m at my very best.”

“I hope so,” Edwards said.

He stopped at a red light, released the handlebars of the Ducati, and checked to make sure his two handguns were still snug in place, easy to get to when the moment called. He tilted the bike slightly to the right, gripped the bars and brought his right foot down heavy on the accelerator as soon as the light turned green. He veered right, then swung a sharp left and was on the highway within seconds, the black sedan in pursuit.

He stayed in the right lane and shifted gears, going fast enough to keep ahead of the Mercedes, but not so fast as to suggest he knew he was being followed. Edwards now moved at too quick a pace to notice Banyon’s car, but he was confident his friend would be there when needed. The traffic
was light, the hour relatively early, and the weather still a few weeks away from the hint of fall. He moved the Ducati into the center lane and then made a quick tilt back to the right, smiling as he saw the Mercedes do the same, confirming for certain he was indeed their mark.

The rest stop was less than three miles away when a second car—this one a dark blue Audi SUV with tinted windows and chrome risers—inched up alongside the bike. He saw the rear passenger side window roll down and glimpsed the tip of a high-powered gun leaning against the door panel. Edwards quickly downshifted and let the Ducati slow as he moved back into the center lane, right behind the Audi. He saw frantic movement in the backseat as what appeared to be two gunmen rearranged their positions and shifted their weapons back in his direction.

Edwards took his right hand off the bar and reached for his handgun, pulled it and aimed at the back window of the Audi. He fired off three rounds, smashing glass and sending the car veering and screeching to the left and the right. He then kicked into higher gear and moved to the left lane, closing in on the driver’s side, gun in his right hand. He exchanged a look with the driver, a young, portly man in his midtwenties with the thin collar of a blue blazer hugging his neck and a Roma soccer team hat pulled low on his head, shielding his eyes. A light, misty rain had started to fall, making the smooth roads slick and harder to navigate.

Three shots rang out from the rear of the driver’s side, one of them nicking two of the spokes on the back wheel of the Ducati, momentarily causing the bike to veer, forcing Edwards to steady his grip and ease his foot off the throttle. He gave his mirrors a quick glance and saw the black Mercedes in the right lane, three car lengths in back of the action. There was no sign of Banyon in any of the lanes and there was less than a mile to go until the first rest stop.

The windows of the Audi were now lowered on all sides, guns at the ready, waiting for Edwards to venture closer into range. He slowed the Ducati down further and pulled out his second gun, cradling them as he steadied the bike down the center lane of the highway. The Audi slowed as well, the gunmen leaning farther out their windows, taking dead aim at him. The Mercedes held steady, a safe distance removed from what promised to be an all-out firefight.

The black Ferrari seemed to appear out of nowhere, zooming in on
the right-hand side of the Audi, cruising just a few yards ahead of it, Banyon behind the wheel, a .357 Magnum held firmly in his right hand, pointed at the front of the car packed with shooters. Banyon took dead aim at the engine block of the car and fired off five rounds into the right side of the hood. From the rear, Edwards let loose with a volley of bullets, all targeting the gas tank and the rear tires. He then switched gears, swung the bike around the back of the SUV, coming within inches of the chrome bumper—smoking tires, shouts, and misguided gunfire all erupting from the swerving vehicle.

Edwards leaned his bike hard right, his helmet mere inches from the pavement, and zoomed past the SUV to swing into the rest area. He downshifted and eased into a parking slot facing the road. Releasing the gears, he brought down the kickstand with the heel of his boot and shut off the engine. Lifting the helmet off his head, he cradled it across his chest and watched as the SUV bounced off the highway, careened against several trees, then flipped over into a ball of thick smoke and shooting flames. He waited as the black Ferrari followed the SUV off the road, idling to a stop a safe distance away, and saw Banyon get out of his car and walk toward the smoldering Audi, knowing he was not heading over to help but rather to finish off the kill.

That left the Mercedes.

Edwards knew it would be parked somewhere in the rest area, its occupants waiting for him inside, either in one of the minimarts or possibly in the men’s room, betting that the odds inside closed confines favored them more than a shootout in an open-air lot. He rested his helmet on the seat of his Ducati and, still facing the road, put a fresh clip in each gun. He then took a deep breath, patted down his hair and jacket, and walked toward the minimart, in the mood for a double espresso and a hot panino.

He checked his watch, then took a quick look around the half-mile-long parking area, filled at this hour with minivans, motorcycles, hired sedans, and buses. He always liked the rest areas on European roads, especially those in northern Italy. The food was always fresh, tasty, and inexpensive—mostly sandwiches, freshly baked pastries, and small pies. He found it a refreshing and welcome break from the long string of gas stations and fast-food outlets that dotted the highway landscape when he traveled cross-country back in the States.

Edwards smiled at the dark-haired, middle-aged woman working the minimart counter just off the rest stop entrance, ordered Genoa salami and fresh mozzarella on a small toasted roll, and handed her his receipt. That was another European habit he found pleasure in: deciding what you wanted, paying for it, and then ordering it. He felt it made a line move faster by eliminating last minute indecision.

He scanned the small place, made up of six tall, circular tables, no stools, and a corner area filled with napkins and sugar packets next to a register where a pudgy young man stared up at a TV monitor above his head. Just off to Edwards’s right was the sliding door entrance to the market itself, where he spotted a half-dozen shoppers loading up on fresh milk, water, and snacks suitable for a lengthy road trip. To his left and down a wide corridor, past a string of coin-operated soda and juice machines, were the washrooms, the women’s on one side and the men’s just around a sharp corner.

The woman handed Edwards his toasted roll, nestled in a plastic napkin, and slid a small cup of coffee next to it. “Were you out there when that loud explosion went off?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Sounded to me like maybe a flat and the driver lost control of the car,” he said. “That’s why I stick with motorcycles.”

“I pray no one was hurt,” the woman said.

Edwards nodded in agreement, took his toasted bread and coffee and turned toward the sugar counter. He was stirring in three packets into what he knew would be an excessively strong cup of espresso when he spotted the two men walking in. They were both young and fit, moving with closed fists and hard looks, heading his way and not too concerned whether he was aware of their presence. The taller of the two—his thick dark hair heavily gelled and his face flushed—stepped in next to Edwards and rested an elbow on the sugar counter.

“We need to talk,” he said. “The men’s room would be the best place, but out here is just as good. And understand, if there’s any trouble, we’re on orders to shoot to kill. And if someone who came in here for a bathroom break gets in the way, so be it.”

Edwards sipped his coffee and took a thick bite out of his toasted sandwich. “Get yourself something,” he said, chewing his food slowly, “your friend, too. Whatever is going to happen here between us—talk or worse—it would be best if it took place with our stomachs full.”

“You were lucky out on the highway,” the tall man said. “The guys sitting in that SUV weren’t very good.”

“But that’s not the case with you and your silent friend,” Edwards said. “That’s why the Raven put you two in the lead car.”

“You’re the smart one in this group,” the man said. “So, if this goes the way it should, then maybe all three of us stand a good chance of leaving here alive.”

Edwards finished his sandwich and espresso and wiped at the corners of his mouth with the edges of a paper napkin. “Let’s take a walk,” he said, turning away from the two men and heading toward the bathrooms just beyond the snack machines.

He pushed open the men’s room door and stepped into a small puddle, water from the rim of a cast iron pipe directly over his head slowly dripping down. He walked to the middle of three sinks, cupped his hands under the faucet and waited for the water to flow. He didn’t look up when the two men followed him in, watching as an old man in a tattered brown traveling coat eased past them and made his way out.

“Is this the part where you rough me up?” Edwards asked.

“It doesn’t have to go there,” the tall man said. “You know what we want to know. Just tell us and we’ll let you get back on your bike and be on your way.”