The Wolf (31 page)

“Get out of there now,”
Angela said, her voice coming through clearly in my earpiece.

I reached into the man’s jacket pocket and felt for the timing mechanism, pushed his limp hand aside and pulled it out. I looked into his eyes and saw he was close to gone. I let him slowly slip from my grasp. He fell to the floor like a deflated balloon as I moved toward the Sistine Chapel exit, the frightened and stunned crowd parting to give me space.

I walked until I made it past the small entryway leading out of the chapel and then began to run.
“I’m going for Raza,”
I said into my body mike.

Behind me I could hear gunfire, people shouting and screaming, police whistles echoing, alarms going off in every corner of the chapel. I knew Brunello and Manzo were in a firefight with the Russians, giving Angela as much cover as they could as she made her way toward the exit to join up with me.

“John?”
I said into the mike.
“You have a location on Raza?”

I was racing through the halls, not certain which direction to go, losing time. John’s response came across garbled and then silent.

“He’s heading for the bridge leading to Castel Sant’Angelo.”
It was a male voice coming in through my earpiece, speaking English with an Italian accent.
“The ancient route the Popes used to escape any Vatican attacks.”

“Frantoni?”

“Yes,”
he said.

“You on our frequency or a police intercept?”

“He’s on ours,
” Angela said.
“He’ll get you to where you need to go.”

I leaned against a wall to catch my breath, timing device still in my hand and closed my eyes for a brief moment.
“Okay,”
I said into my body mike.
“How do I get to the bridge?”

Chapter 56

Florence, Italy

Two of the Russian hitters were down, left for dead on separate benches in the Galleria, their backs against a wall. Malasson had killed the first, burying the blade in his stomach. The second had been taken down by Kinder, firing at close range.

Burke was leading Avrim toward the Galleria exit. Pierce walked in front of them, providing a shield against anyone looking their way.
“You got heavy company coming at you from both directions,”
Weaver said from inside the van.
“Russians on your back and waiting for you to come out.”

“Anderson, meet us by the exit,”
Burke said.
“I’m going to hand the target off to you.”

“Taking him where?”
Anderson asked.

“To where the Russians parked their cars,”
Burke said.
“Weaver will lead you there.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll tell you when you get there,”
Burke said.
“Everyone else, full loads out and secure your vests. Do your best to minimize collateral, civilian and police. Make your way to where the Russians left their cars. We’ll catch up with Weaver and Anderson there.”

“There’s six hitters left inside the Galleria and they’re moving fast to come out,”
Malasson said.

“Four, maybe five more on the street heading toward you,”
Anderson said.

“How many guards out there, Weaver?”
Burke asked.

“Four that I see on the screen,”
Weaver said.
“There’s a blue car parked farther up, three at least sitting in there.”

Avrim, his upper body coated in sweat, his hands numb from the grip Burke had on them, was dragging his feet as he walked, trying to hold his ground. “You cannot make it out of here,” he said to Burke. “You might as well have been the one to plan a suicide mission, not me.”

“What do you care?” Burke said. “You were planning to die today anyway.”

They were less than twenty feet from the Galleria exit.

Burke nodded at Anderson. “He’s yours now. He tries to free himself from your grip, snap his neck and use him as a shield when the Russians start firing. That bomb can only go off if the button is pushed down. “

“How much time before set-off and explosion?” Anderson asked, grabbing hold of Avrim’s hands.

“It’s a crude device, hard to give an accurate read,” Burke said. “But I would guess fifteen, maybe twenty seconds tops before it blows.”

They stepped into the afternoon sunlight, Anderson and Avrim out ahead, Burke trailing, Russian hitters rushing down the corridor behind them, Malasson and Kinder somewhere nearby.

“Here we go,”
Burke said into his mike.
“Treat every bullet as if it’s your last and I’ll see all of you on the other end.”

Chapter 57

Vatican City, Italy

I was running down the Passetto di Borgo, a narrow and exposed red brick corridor that led out of the Vatican and toward Castel Sant’Angelo.

The structure had once functioned as a jail and a refuge, but was now a tourist attraction approached by crossing the Bridge of Angels that led to its front gates.

I was halfway across the corridor when I heard what had to be Raza’s footsteps ahead of me. Luca Frantoni had navigated me out of the Vatican and onto the corridor, moving me from one corner to the next, one stairwell to another, before I finally broke through and caught some daylight.

Inside the halls of the Vatican behind me, I could still hear heavy fire and knew the battle between Angela and her men against the Russians raged on.

“Anyone have eyes in there?”
I asked.

I heard Frantoni’s voice.
“Don’t worry,”
he said.
“Angela’s got plenty of backup. I have a dozen men inside and another twenty making sure the crowd gets out in one piece.”

I picked up my pace and made my move to close in on Raza. I heard footsteps coming up behind me and turned and saw Angela heading toward me. Just seeing her, jacket open, a gun in each hand, sneakers kicking up dust on the stone and sand pavement, brought a smile to my face. I continued my run toward the Castel and did not notice the three Russian shooters bearing down on her. Not until I heard the shots and her painful moan as she took a hard fall, her face scraping against the side of the red brick wall.

I turned toward her, catching a glimpse of the three Russian shooters. Angela was on the ground, on her side, her back to the wall, her guns out of reach. I jammed the bomb device into my pocket and pulled out a second gun, another Glock from my left hip holster, aimed them and fired off rounds in the Russians’ direction. They returned fire, bullets whizzing past me, chipping at the wall and kicking up dust from shattered stones.

“Angela”s down,”
I said into my body mike.
“Three Russians are coming my way, and they’ll get her. Raza is on the run and should have reached the Castel by now.”

I could barely make out Brunello’s voice amid all the shooting going on across both ends.
“The three coming your way and the two we’ve got cornered down here are the last of the Russians. The cops have either rounded up or killed the rest.”

“You’re on your own up there,”
Manzo said.
“We won’t be able to get to you in time.”

I was twenty feet from Angela when I stopped running. I dropped out my empty clips, jammed in two new ones and took aim at the Russians. I was working off adrenaline and anger, afraid to look straight. Afraid to know.

I felt a burning sensation in my right leg and knew a bullet had found its mark. I kept my ground and held my aim steady. I hit one of the Russians just below his jawline, sending him sprawling on his back.

I heard him before I saw him, his words coming across my earpiece.
“Make your way to Angela,”
Frantoni said.
“Leave the last two to me.”

Frantoni was a dozen feet behind the Russians and taking aim at his two targets, one falling quickly to his knees before a final bullet to the head laid him down.

I limped over toward Angela and cradled her head in my arms. Her right arm was drenched in blood, thin red lines flowing past her fingers and onto the pavement. I stared down at her, holding her close to me, the blood from the wound in my leg dripping onto her jacket. She opened her eyes. There was a long gash on her forehead and some of the blood had streaked down onto her shirt and neck.

“You think you can stand?” I asked.

“I know I can,” she said, “but I’m not too sure about you.”

We both struggled to our feet and then stopped when we heard the footsteps coming at us from behind. I kept my arms around Angela and whirled with the two guns still in my hands.

The man coming toward us was in his mid-thirties, dark hair, muscular build, two guns in his hands, blood staining the white T-shirt he wore under his jacket.

“Relax,” Angela told me. “It’s Luca Frantoni.”

I looked at him and gave him an appreciative nod. “We’ve met,” I said to her. “Sort of.”

I scanned the terrain behind Frantoni, glancing at the bodies of the three fallen Russian shooters.

I gripped his shoulder. “I owe you,” I said.

“It will even out soon,” Frantoni said.

Angela pointed to the Castel over my shoulder. “Raza’s holed up in there,” she said.

“He could have made it out by now,” I said.

“We would have heard,” Angela said. “I have half a dozen of my crew by the exits and Frantoni has his team in place as well, both eager to take him down. No, he’s in there, waiting.”

I took the bombing device out of my pocket and handed it to Frantoni. “You probably could make better use of this than I can,” I said.

Frantoni took it from me and jammed it in the rear pocket of his jeans. “Bomb’s already been dismantled,” he said. “My guys stripped it off the body while the fireworks were still going on.”

Frantoni then reached down, picked up Angela’s guns and handed them to her. She took each one, holding them in her bloody hands.

“Let’s finish this,” I said.

I turned and limped toward the Castel, walking between the boss of the Neapolitan mob and the head of the Rome Antiterror Squad, each of us bloodied but ready for one more fight.

Chapter 58

Florence, Italy

Anderson slammed Avrim against the trunk of one of the two Russian sedans parked on a side street, two up from the Galleria. Behind them, the area had turned into a hot zone. Smoke from gunfire and tear gas canisters filled the street. Bodies were strewn on the road, the sidewalk, hoods of parked cars. Store windows and apartment doors were riddled with bullet holes. Three uniform officers were down, two wounded and one dead. Four of the Russian gunmen lay sprawled on the pavement, two with guns still in hand.

Burke’s Silent Six had not gone untouched. Pierce was sitting against a wall, around the corner from the parked sedans, his right arm lacerated. Malasson lay facedown on the street across from him and wasn’t moving. Burke had taken a bullet to the shoulder and one that grazed the side of his head. Even Avrim had been shot in the leg and was losing blood at a rapid rate.

Anderson had taken the device from Avrim’s jacket during the skirmish and waited as Burke turned the corner and approached them.

“There are still seven, maybe eight Russians heading our way,” Burke said to Anderson. “Check on Pierce and Malasson and get ready to help load them on the van. Weaver should be here soon.”

“I’m coming toward you,”
Weaver said into their earpieces.
“Less than a minute away.”

“Are we taking him, too?” Anderson asked, tilting his head toward Avrim.

Burke shook his head. “He rides with the Russians,” he said, taking Avrim from Anderson. “And give the set-off device to Weaver soon as you get in the van.”

Anderson walked toward the corner to retrieve his two fallen comrades.

Avrim turned to Burke, bleeding, frightened, and tired. “You can’t leave me with the Russians,” he pleaded. “They’ll kill me as soon as they make eye contact.”

“You’re going to surprise them,” Burke said. “You’re going to kill them before they have a chance to kill you.”

Burke pulled a Swiss Army knife from the front pocket of his jeans and slid the small blade into the trunk’s key slot. “They didn’t lock their car,” Burke said with a smile. “Russians never lock their cars.”

He had the trunk popped in less than thirty seconds and then turned to Avrim. “This is where we part company,” he said to the terrorist. “Get in.”

“Why?”

Burke stared at him for a moment and then slammed the butt end of his gun against the side of Avrim’s head. The first blow stunned, the next two made him wobbly, the fourth put him out. Burke caught Avrim’s limp body just as it was curling toward the street, held him in both arms and slid him into the trunk, resting his head against a brown duffel bag. He unbuttoned Avrim’s Yankees jacket and checked on the bomb strapped to his chest, then slammed the lid down on the trunk.

He waited as the van with Weaver at the wheel turned the corner at a sharp angle and came to a stop right next to the two sedans. A side door slid open, and as Burke jumped in, the van pulled away. “How bad?” he asked, looking over at Pierce and Malasson.

“They both lost a lot of blood,” Kinder said. “Pierce has a clean wound, just needs the bullet removed, the sooner the better.”

“And Jennifer?”

“Stomach wound,” Kinder said, “Her vest took one of the bullets, other snaked in just below. She needs a hospital and a doctor who knows what he’s doing.”

Burke turned to Weaver. “How close do we need to be to set off the device?” he asked.

They were three streets away from the Russian sedans and could see the remaining shooters making their way to their cars. Weaver slid the van toward a curb and brought it to a fast stop. “Right about here ought to get it done,” she said, holding the set-off device in her right hand.

Burke slid open the panel door and stepped out of the van. He looked down the narrow streets and waited until the Russians had all piled in and started the cars and put them in gear, the lead sedan moving at a much faster speed. “Can we get them both?” he asked Weaver.