“My friends aren’t criminals, Mr. Morgan.” He held up his hands, palms facing me. “We’re peaceful people here.”
As he lowered his hands, he turned his wrists toward me and I saw the same tattoo that the assassin had worn: the Jerusalem Cross with fleur-de-lys inside it.
“Nice ink,” I said, gesturing to the mysterious pattern. “What does it mean?”
“It means this meeting is over,” he replied, nodding to his companions waiting nearby. “Take Mr. Morgan into the back and teach him Italian manners.”
“For a guy who owns a bar, you sure behave like a gangster,” I remarked, and he smiled darkly.
“Goodbye, Mr. Morgan.”
Large hands grabbed my arm and I was hauled out of my seat.
Chapter 37
What makes a good fighter? It’s a question I’ve often asked myself. I’ve seen one man defeat six, a small guy overcome someone twice his size, and I’ve come to the conclusion two things mark out a winner.
The first is spirit, an indefatigable sense that no matter how much punishment you take, you’re going to keep getting up. The second is the ability to create advantages for yourself through surprise, shock or savagery.
I combined all three by grabbing Milan’s beer bottle as I was hauled up. I smashed it over the head of the man to my right, shattering it with such force he staggered back, dazed. I turned and drove the jagged teeth of the remains of the bottle into the shoulder of the man to my left and he yelped and jumped clear.
I sensed movement behind me and heard a voice yell, “Basta! Stop!”
I wheeled round to see a grim-faced skinhead pulling a gun from beneath his T-shirt. I rushed him, clapped his ears, grabbed his wrist, twisted it until I felt something crunch, then pulled the gun from his limp fingers.
“Back!” I yelled, turning the weapon on the gangsters encircling me. “Get back!”
The crowd fell silent but bristled with menace. Milan looked at once enraged and humiliated, which made him doubly dangerous. I knew I didn’t have long.
The way to the front door was blocked by the crowd. It would be too risky for me to try and push my way through. I didn’t want to kill unless I absolutely had to, and I was pretty sure taking that way out would lead to someone’s death, mine or an attacker’s.
Instead, I moved toward the service door beside the bar, which led to the kitchen.
“Back!” I yelled, keeping those nearest me at bay.
Thrash metal blared from the speakers but there was no other sound. The roar of fast-paced music only added to the tension that gripped my stomach.
I pushed open the service door and saw a corridor lined with offices and restrooms that ended at a kitchen. On the other side of a long stainless-steel preparation counter was a fire exit.
I hurried down the corridor, aware that Milan was on his feet now, following me.
I moved faster. In the gloomy kitchen there was a smell of grease and stale fat that turned my stomach. I ran forward and sensed movement from close by my left side. I ducked just in time to avoid one of Milan’s thugs, who slashed at me with a carving knife.
He overbalanced, and I sent him flying with a swing of the hand that was holding the gun. The weighty pistol cracked the man’s skull and I saw his hate-filled eyes go blank as he fell.
The attack broke my rhythm and slowed me, allowing Milan and the others to close the gap between us.
I burst into the kitchen, leapt onto the preparation counter and slid to the other side. As I rolled off, I fired a couple of high and wide shots into the wall above the doorway.
Milan and his squad of thugs paused, and that gave me the space and time I needed to reach the fire door safely.
I pushed the bar. Nothing happened. The door remained firmly shut. I noticed a padlock and chain holding it in place and fired a brace of shots at the lock, which shattered.
Milan and his people were almost on me now.
I unwound the chain, pushed open the door and slammed it shut a second before Milan reached it. I wrapped the chain around the stem of the outer handle and threaded it through an old eyelet that would once have housed a bolt. I pulled the chain tight as the door was forced opened a crack and looped the links on themselves to hold it fast.
I turned to find myself in an alleyway behind the bar. There were footsteps approaching from left and right.
A fire ladder hung down to my left. With no desire to fight my way through Milan’s people, I hauled myself onto the bottom rung. I clambered up the rusty old fire escape to the roof of the building. Once safely behind the balustrade, I craned over the edge to see one of Milan’s men run down the alleyway and unwind the chain. He opened the fire door for his boss and the crew, who stormed out.
I watched them for a moment as Milan barked instructions. Satisfied they hadn’t cottoned on to my escape route, I backed away from the balustrade and made my way across the rooftop to safety.
Chapter 38
After crossing a city block over the rooftops, I found a safe place to climb down: a fire escape on Via Alfredo Cappellini. I jogged toward Termini station, went through the busy concourse and hurried east to Via Marsala on the other side of the grand terminus, where I caught a cab.
There was no sign of Milan or his people, but I sat low in the back and obscured my face with my hand until we were out of Esquilino. I was grateful to put the run-down neighborhood behind me, and if the cab driver thought there was anything unusual about my behavior, he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. People didn’t work poorer neighborhoods like Esquilino without learning to take the rough with the smooth.
I instructed the driver to head to Ostia. We passed through the heart of Rome before reaching the colorful coastal neighborhood a little over an hour later. I asked the driver to drop me a couple blocks from the cell-phone store, and after checking I hadn’t been followed, I hurried into the apartment where I showered and changed into a dark gray suit of lightweight cotton. I wore it with a white shirt, open at the collar.
Once I’d washed off the sweat and grime from my encounter with Milan Verde and his people, I called Justine.
She answered immediately, her face filling my phone screen.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Was she really that perceptive?
“Nothing. Why?” I tried, chancing my luck.
“I know where you were going, and you’ve just cleaned yourself up, which means you probably ran into trouble,” she replied.
Never try to outfox a profiler.
“It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”
“I don’t like the thought of you being out there alone. I want to come to Rome. Mo-bot and Sci too,” Justine said. “You need an experienced team around you. You shouldn’t be facing this alone.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but you all have work to do in LA and I’m okay,” I replied. “I really am. You’re giving me everything I need from there. You’re reacting to perceived danger, but I’m fine.”
“Don’t try to psych me, Jack Morgan,” she replied. “You’d be more effective with us at your side.”
Justine was probably right. I would benefit from having my team around me, and I wanted to be with her, to feel her in my arms... but Private was already devoting resources in the form of my time and energy to this unexpected situation. I didn’t want to divert more unless absolutely necessary.
“Let’s see how things go,” I suggested.
“Okay,” she conceded.
“Milan Verde is definitely the leader of the Dark Fates,” I revealed. “He reacted super aggressively when I remarked on the Jerusalem Cross tattoo. Can you ask Mo-bot to focus on that image? See if she can find out anything about its meaning.”