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.
“How raw was the bomb?” she asked.
“Pretty basic,” Burke said. “Half a dozen sticks of low grade dynamite, coiled wires, and a weak timer. It would have been enough to knock the David off its pedestal. Raza figured the walls and the marble floors would do the rest of the damage.”
“You’ll get the one car for certain,” Weaver said. “Might smash out some windows and pop a couple of the tires on the second if it’s close enough.”
Burke stepped away from the van and walked into the middle of the street, the sedans less than two blocks away. He lifted his right hand, bunched it into a fist and raised his thumb. Inside the van, Weaver looked at the set-off device and pressed down on the red button in the center.
The explosion brought the first sedan to a halt. Its four doors, the hood, and the trunk flew off in different directions, shattering glass and landing hard against parked cars and doorways. A fireball hurtled toward the sky, and dozens of wooden shutters from the apartments above were blown off their hinges. The four passengers in the car were incinerated instantly.
In the trunk, Avrim’s body all but disappeared, a few scattered and charred remains amid the smoke and debris.
The second sedan also sustained damage. Rear tires were blown to shreds and the back window had shattered. Flames engulfed the front end, and the driver no longer had control of the wheel as it slowly weaved to a stop half a block from where Burke was standing.
Three Russian shooters stepped out of the car, guns in hand, their clothes covered in soot and dust. Burke pulled two guns from his waist and started to walk toward them. Kinder jumped out of the van and followed, Anderson right behind.
“Let’s see if there’s any fight left in them,” Burke said as they came up next to him. “Weaver, turn the van around and follow behind us. Keep it nice and slow.”
The Russian shooters, wiping the burn from their eyes, watched Burke and his team approach and held their ground, guns at the ready. “Seems like they’re giving it some thought,” Kinder said.
“Let’s give them something else to think about,” Burke said. “Soon as we reach the corner, start pouring bullets in their direction. If they shoot back, then we’ll know they’re in this until the last.”
The three Russians stepped away from the smoking sedan and moved into the center of the street, still dazed by the force of the explosion, not yet able to focus. Behind them, they could hear the approaching sirens and knew the police couldn’t be more than a few minutes away. The heavy smoke from the burning car covered the narrow street like a blanket, making it hard to see clearly, forcing them to aim more toward footsteps than actual targets.
Anderson and Kinder stopped at the corner and spread out, using stone walls as a shield, Burke holding steady in the center of the street, peering through the haze at the Russian shooters, his guns raised. Weaver eased the van forward, only a few feet behind.
“Say when,” Anderson said.
“When,” Burke said.
The three each fired off heavy rounds into the smoke that was starting to flow their way. The return fire was minimal and sporadic, shots hitting stone or bouncing off chipped pavement, and then it stopped.
Burke and his men held their fire and waited.
“They could all be down,” Kinder said. “We tossed a lot of ammo their way.”
“They might have had enough and cleared out,” Anderson said. “There are cops all over the place. Should be swooping down this street any second.”
“Turn on your headlights,” Burke said to Weaver. “The smoke’s too thick, might help us get a better look.”
Weaver was the first to spot them, the three Russians rising out of the smoke.
A bullet hit Kinder in the shoulder, forcing his weapon to the curb. Anderson turned and exchanged close fire with a second Russian, the two a foot apart, each bullet finding its target.
Burke was empty and reaching for fresh clips when he was hit on his left side, the blow forcing him down on one knee.
Weaver opened the door to the van and emptied a Glock in the direction of the gunman who had hit Burke. Four of the slugs found their mark and left the shooter flat on his back, dead.
Burke jammed in the two ammo clips, his movements slowed by the wound, and turned his guns toward the Russian looking to finish off Kinder.
“Stay down!” Burke shouted.
Kinder tossed himself onto the sidewalk, his face inches from an open sewer. The Russian standing above him, his body sideways, turned his aim toward Burke.
&
nbsp; Burke sent a flurry of bullets at the Russian. The force of the slugs caused the man’s arms to flail, his gun falling from his hand, his legs pushing him back into the dark smoke. He landed on the street with a hard thud.
Burke turned toward Anderson and the last Russian. Both men were down and neither was moving. Kinder eased up off the pavement, picked up his weapon and walked toward Anderson. He gazed down at the Russian, kicked the weapon next to his hand farther up the street, and bent down to check on his friend.
“Still breathing,” he yelled out. “He’s got two holes in him, one serious.”
Burke came over and helped Kinder lift Anderson to his feet. Weaver moved the van to the corner, jumped out and slid the panel door open. One by one she put each of the wounded men into the van and slammed the panel door shut. She ran to the front, got back in behind the wheel and put it in gear.
“We’re all in,” Weaver said. “Snug as bugs.”
“Let’s go,” Burke said. “We’re done here.”
Chapter 59
Parco Adriano, Italy
I was on the second floor of the Castel, its walls as thick and fortified as any I’d seen. Angela was next to me, walking on the other end of the stairwell, Frantoni slightly ahead of both of us.
Raza was somewhere inside these ancient walls and needed to be found.
“How are you both on ammo?” Frantoni asked.
“I’ve got two full loads,” Angela said.
“I’m low,” I said.
“There’s a medieval weapons room one floor above,” Frantoni said. “If you don’t mind breaking the law, you can help yourself to a few pieces. Some of the things they have there could do a lot more damage than a gun.”
“If Raza is anywhere, he’ll be on the top floor,” Angela said. “It gives a vantage point, limits the ways we can come at him, and allows for plenty of open space to fight.”
“He might think I came in alone,” I said. “And that’s what I want him to believe.”
“You can’t take him alone,” Angela said. “Not in your current condition.”
“He could have eluded both the cops and your crew,” Frantoni said. “He’s been on the run for a long time. He knows how to get himself out of tight spots.”
“Not this time,” I said.
“What makes you so sure?” Frantoni asked.
“He must know by now that whatever he thought was going to happen back there didn’t,” I said. “That means he’s cost the Russians a lot of money, time, and manpower, with nothing to show for it.”
“So if he takes one of you down,” Frantoni said, “that might buy him another go-around with the Russians.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And if he’s lucky enough to take us both, even better. Now from his vantage point he must have seen me and Angela get hit, so he knows we’re bloody and figures that gives him some kind of edge.”
Frantoni glanced at me and at Angela as we struggled to navigate the stairs, our wounds leaving a blood trail. “He might be right,” he said.
“A wounded wolf is the most dangerous animal to take on,” I said.
“Maybe,” Frantoni said. “But he won’t be expecting to have a cop show up. So, I bring the element of surprise.”
“Just so we’re clear,” I said, “I don’t want to see Raza arrested.”
“I’m not looking to arrest him,” Frantoni said.
We had reached the weapons room on the third floor of the Castel. The large circular room was crammed with an assortment of guns, swords, shields, muskets, and torture devices displayed behind glass cases, place cards under each item detailing the gruesome ways the weapons could be utilized.
“Help yourself,” Frantoni said to us, scanning the deadly instruments just beyond the glass.
Angela stared down at three torture devices designed to rid a man of his most private possession and smiled. “These would come in very handy,” she said. “I don’t know of any man who wouldn’t talk with one of these strapped on.”
I used the butt ends of my Glocks to shatter a pane of glass and shoved the guns back into my waist. I reached inside, avoiding the shards, and picked up a sword and a knife.
Angela, using her guns the same way I had, chose a thick silver mallet with iron spikes spread across its head. “I always wanted one of these,” she said.
“How about you?” I asked Frantoni.
He held up a nine millimeter and a shuttered switchblade. “I have what I need,” he said.
“Roof is two flights up,” I said. “He’s expecting me, so I’ll take the lead. You cover Angela and come in behind me. But don’t move too quickly. Let it play out. I don’t want Raza down until I get some information out of him.”
“If he has any to give,” Frantoni said.
“I’ll know soon enough,” I said. “But if he’s on that roof, there’s no way he leaves here alive.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Frantoni said.
I looked at him for a moment and then at Angela, then turned and walked out of the room, heading for the roof. It was painful for me to move. Reaching each stone step sent a jolting pain into my leg, now bleeding heavier than before. I felt light-headed and weak. I figured Angela was in even worse shape than I was, leaving Frantoni as my one backup, putting me in a position to trust a cop I barely knew.
Angela seemed at ease around him, a sign the two of them had a solid history. Frantoni had mentioned he wanted something in return for his help, and I wondered what that could be. It wasn’t financial. He didn’t seem the type, and if he was being greased, Angela would be doling out enough to keep him content. There are few things a mob boss hates more than not knowing everyone’s angle, what someone wants in return. But for now I needed to leave it alone and stay focused on my target.
I knew with certainty Raza would be on the roof waiting for me, eager to confront the one he could blame for foiling his master plan. He was a terrorist and I was a gangster, but we both worked off our desires for money and revenge. I had cost him on the financial end, and he would be looking to cash out on the emotional.
We also shared a degree of arrogance. Raza would never entertain the notion he couldn’t take me down any more than I could fathom losing a battle to him. We were programmed to win, regardless of the cost, the idea of defeat of any kind never allowed to penetrate our thinking. We would rather die than surrender.
On this day, as the sun began its slow fade to dusk, one of us would get his wish.
Raza was standing with his back against a stone embankment, the city of Rome spread out below him, watching as I stepped through the narrow opening and onto the rooftop. The view from Castel Sant’Angelo is one of the most beautiful in Rome. At any other time I would have been taking in the spectacle around me, from the dome of St. Peter’s to the rushing river, the cascading hills, and the church steeples that pointed toward the sky, a vast and breathtaking eternal city that lives as much in the past as it does in the present.
But that needed to be left for another day.
I gazed up at the statue of the Angel Michael above me and walked over toward Raza. I held the knife in my left hand and the sword in my right, the guns still tucked in my waistband.
Raza had his hands spread out across the embankment, the right one holding an open switchblade.
“Tell me,” he asked as I drew closer, “how did you know I would be using a decoy? That I would not be the one setting off the device?”
“You’re not the one who shows up,” I said. “You’re a recruiter, not the trigger man. Guys like you never get their hands dirty.”
“But I’m here now,” Raza said. “Standing before the big bad Wolf himself.”
“Only because you need a scalp for Vladimir,” I said, “before he takes yours.”
“I have no fear of the Russian,” Raza said. “Just as I have no fear of you.”
“You should,” I said.
Raza moved from the wall and lowered his hands. I gripped the knife in my hand tig
hter and walked closer to him.
Raza looked at my leg, dripping blood onto the stones. “I could just stand here for an hour or so, relax and watch you bleed to death,” he said.
I turned the knife in my hand, switching casually from handle to blade and moved several steps closer to him. “You might be right,” I said. “And it would be a whole new experience for you. Usually you put in an order and wait to hear the outcome and the body count.”
Raza shook his head. “I know you think I had something to do with the attack that killed your wife and daughters,” he said. “And while it would have pleased me no end to have ordered that mission, I can’t take credit for it.”
“But you know who did,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Raza said. “But you never will find out. At least not from my lips.”
I eased my hand back a few inches, prepared to fling the blade toward Raza, my eyes on his, when the shot rang out behind me. Raza rocked back on his heels, looking down at his stomach and the gaping wound. He leaned against the embankment and pressed both his hands against his stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Frantoni walked past me and toward Raza and jammed an open hand against the terrorist’s throat. Angela stepped in next to me and put an arm under mine, helping to keep me on my feet.
Frantoni bore down on Raza with hard eyes and there was a harsh, angry tone to his voice. “Maybe you had nothing to do with the attack on the plane that killed his family,” he said. “But I know you had everything to do with the bombing that happened at the Rome airport. That killed a lot of people, too. One of them was my brother, Remi. He was a cop, just like me, only better.”
I looked at Angela and she gripped my arm tighter. “We should go,” she said to me. “Let Frantoni take it from here.”
“You said he wouldn’t be arrested,” I said to Frantoni.