For more than a man named John O’Neill had died in Rome that night. Half the hopes of Ireland had expired with him.
Harry sighed, glad to have saved Owen-anyone-out of all this mess. He had just started thumbing fresh rounds into his empty rifle when the figure of a dark-cloaked man-not much more than a speck, since Lefferts was not using the scope-emerged from the ranks of the of the Spanish foot and walked up behind Juliet. For a moment, he stood very still, watching her drag her broken body away. Then, looking first toward George, who had been tackled by the rest of the Wrecking Crew, and next, vaguely in the direction of Harry himself, he took a step forward. The man drew a revolver, large enough to be the one that Lefferts had seen in Frank’s bar, and shot Juliet in the back of the head.
Then the dark-cloaked man stepped back into the ranks of his soldiers. For they were clearly his soldiers; they parted before, and then closed around, him like a sable tide making way for whatever power had conjured it in the first place.
Even as George screamed wordlessly at the now-steadily approaching Spanish infantry, Sherrilyn grabbed both his cheeks, hard, and pulled his face down to look at her. “We need you,” she shouted.
If it wasn’t for the two Hibernians with the lever actions, she was pretty sure they’d all be dead by now. But those long-range rounds had struck down so many of the foot soldiers’ lead rank that they had scattered into the lee of the buildings for cover. Facing this fire immediately after watching their cavalry cut apart by the revolvers of the Wild Geese, the renowned Spanish infantry had apparently decided against making any headlong rushes. Yet.
“George, listen. You have to carry Felix,” she lied. “You’re the only one strong enough. He needs you.”
“Juliet needs me, she-”
“No. She doesn’t. Not anymore. Here’s Felix: carry him.”
Harry stared at the ruin of the plan that he thought, at first, had come together. But instead, it had come apart. The Wild Geese were leap-frogging to the rear in fire teams of three. Sherrilyn had hoisted Felix onto George’s back, who seemed bowed, like a tired draft horse about to drop in its traces. Piero was keeping what was left of the lefferti moving together along the streets that lay between the Spanish and the Crew’s main line of retreat, thereby serving as a flanking screen.
The boy that Harry had sent with Benito to spread the withdrawal orders came pounding back up the stairs. “Signor Lefferts?”
“Yes?”
“You must go.”
“Yeah, I was just about to stroll on home. Where’s Benito?”
The boy made a face. “He got shot. Not killed, though. Not yet, anyway.”
Harry’s jaws tightened.
“Any orders?” the boy asked.
“Orders? For who?”
“Why, for me, sir.”
“Yes. Here are my orders: run like hell. Then get lost. And don’t get found.”
Thomas North looked over at Sean Connal for the fourth time in as many minutes. “That’s too much gunfire,” he opined. “Too much, for too long.”
“So you’ve said. And so I’ve agreed.”
North stood. “Then I’m retasking this force to provide a base of covering fire for a retreat.”
“We need a diversion. If Borja has any forces waiting here in the Trastevere, we’ll need to draw them away from the Crew’s path of retreat. We’ll also need to keep them busy long enough so that they miss detecting and following these boats-or we will never get out of Italy alive.”
“Excellent points. I hope you have an equally excellent plan.”
“It just so happens I do.” North turned to the one lefferto who had been left with them. “You. Are there abandoned houses in the north side of Trastevere?”
“ Si. Many. I know of one near the Via Aurelia-”
“Fine. Now take this. It is an explosive. You understand that? No? Hmm, let’s try a new approach: this box goes BOOM! Now do you understand? Excellent. Take this to the house you mentioned. Light this fuse, like so. And then run away as fast as you can. Do not stop until you hear the boom. Then find a hiding spot, get rid of all your lefferto rubbish, and walk away.”
“Why? I am proud to be a lefferto and I will not-”
“You will be dead if you do not do as I tell you. The attack has failed. The Spanish will find many dead lefferti. They will search very hard for the rest. Do not be stupid. Get rid of the lefferti clothes and doo-dads and do not look back. Go into hiding for a week, at least. Can you do this?”
“ Si. I-”
“Excellent. Go. Now. Dr. Connal?”
“Yes?”
“You stay here with the boats.” North held up a hand. “No complaints. Someone has to guard our ride home.” He turned to his own men. “You two come with me. I suspect our rifles will be needed to help Captain Lefferts with his fighting withdrawal. Which, if my ears don’t deceive me, is rapidly approaching.” He scooped up one of his favorite up-time toys-an SKS semiautomatic carbine-and ran toward the Ponte Cestia at a crouch.
For one terrifying moment, as new gunfire crackled out over the Tiber behind him, Harry Lefferts feared that the Spanish had boxed him in. That they had somehow known he planned to withdraw by boat after traversing the Isola Tiberina and had therefore put a blocking force at the bridge.
But the steady fire was coming from Thomas North’s anchor watch. The Limey had apparently pulled his team forward. As Harry reached the Ponte Fabricia, he dropped to a knee and reloaded his Remington for the third time. He looked up intermittently to wave the rest of the Wrecking Crew past him, then the Hibernians, and then the Wild Geese. By the time Owen Roe came along, bringing up the rear, having expended the last of his ready pepperbox cylinders, the Spanish had started closing the distance. They were getting bold again.
Despite the fading light, the early moon showed Harry a good target at just over fifty yards: a foot soldier whose slightly heavier and more weapon-festooned outline suggested a senior sergeant, marshalling the advancing troops. Harry raised his rifle, ignored the incendiary throbbing in his shoulder, let the crosshairs float down to settle on the silhouette and squeezed the trigger. He did not wait to see the result; he simply turned and ran.
As he passed North and his men, there was a loud explosion in the distance, somewhere in the north of Trastevere, from the sound of it.
Harry continued to run until he reached the boats. Thomas North and his two Hibernians were already close behind him by the time he got there. They jumped over the sides together. Waiting hands grabbed them while others-white with clutching poles and oars-pushed the shallow-bottomed punts off and out into the swifter current. As the oars started to creak in the locks and the boats picked up speed, Harry looked back over his boats and the city.
In his own boat, Owen Roe O’Neill sat in the thwarts, empty-eyed, clutching the bullet-tattered cloak that had belonged to the earl of Tyrone. George Sutherland was alternately weeping and laughing. Matija, the bleeding from his arm wound staunched, watched with dull eyes as Dr. Connal moved away from Felix and sat next to Harry.
“Let me look at that shoulder, Captain Lefferts.”
“I’m just Harry, Doc. And I can wait. Finish up with Felix, first.”
“I have finished. He’s dead, Harry.”
The pain as the doctor started cleaning the shoulder wound was welcome. Resisting that pain made it easier to resist the deeper, sharper agonies that were cutting down into his soul. Gerd. Juliet. Felix. John O’Neill. Several of the Wild Geese. Most of the survivors wounded. And scores of rioters and lefferti littering the streets of Rome. Their jaunty hats trampled. Their faux sunglasses shattered.
Harry reached into his chest pocket and drew out his own sunglasses. They were the ones that had given birth to, and had become the trademark of, the myth of Harry Lefferts: commando, ne’er do well, adventurer. And above all, a man who could not be beaten. He looked at his own, distorted reflection in the glasses, ghostly in the fading light. Unbeatable. Uber cool. Yeah, right.