He placed the portrait at a 45-degree angle at the top of the staircase and leapt atop the makeshift sled. The edges of the stone steps had been worn down from centuries of use, making for a surprisingly fast descent toward the basement. He managed to hold his balance for approximately two seconds. Then he brought his legs under him and pushed off the sled from the ball of his right foot, exploding forward.
His shooting hand, head and shoulders were the first to enter the room. Time seemed to slow down. His form mimicked the fleche technique he had used to win countless fencing bouts over the years — pushing off from the ball of the front foot and flying forward unexpectedly in mid-air for a surprise attack. When facing lefties, Carver used the move to slip behind his opponents and score from behind.
Now in mid-flight, Carver’s body cleared the threshold, floating not two feet from the assassin. He was a white, balding European who was obviously stunned by Carver’s sudden presence.
Unlike Carver’s expert swordplay, his midair shot did not find its mark. The round struck the wall over the man’s shoulder. Carver braced his fall by tumbling into a lightweight wooden table. His gun skittered into the shadows.
A set of long blades fell from the table surface, clanging against the stone floor. The blades were sharp and shiny with precious-looking stones along the handles. Ritual blades, Carver noted. Could these have been the same knives used on the others?
Two shots hit the wooden table, splintering the thick wood and missing Carver’s face by mere inches. Then Carver heard the chukka-chukka sound of an empty clip being discharged from the assailant’s weapon.
He grabbed the longest blade of the bunch — about 18 inches — and rose up as the chrome-domed thug reloaded. Wielding the heavy blade, he sprung forward into a flunge — a combination of the fleche and the traditional lunge — that ended in a chop to the side of the head.
A section of the assailant’s scalp flew overhead. He dropped his gun and tried to catch the severed flesh in mid-air. He then crawled toward the place where it landed, clutching it for a moment before the heavy loss of blood rendered him unconscious. Carver lingered over him for a moment, wielding the blood-drenched blade in a defensive stance, as the man’s body worked out its final electrical impulses.
“Nico?” he called out.
“I’m all right!” a quivering voice called from the other side of the room.
With Nico safe, Carver refocused on the dead man’s face. He couldn’t be certain, but the wide flared nostrils, glasses and complexion bore a strong resemblance to the man on the security camera footage they had seen at Legoland.
He took a photograph of the dead man’s face. Are you the one who killed Sir Gish? Carver wondered. Did you kill Kenyatta? How many more are there like you?
Now he heard Seven’s voice. He turned and noted the blue glow of a computer screen flickering in the middle of the darkened crypt. He picked up an LED lantern and went to the other side of the room, where its florescent bulbs illuminated Seven and Nico.
Nico wore a dazed stare. His arms were bruised and lacerated in several places. Blood ran down one side of his face from the top of his ear. Carver felt a pang of responsibility. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d extracted Nico from his home. Not even close.
He could tell by the look in Seven’s moist eyes that something was very wrong.
“Where?” Carver said.
She pointed to the second staircase. At the bottom, the other Black Order assassin lay dead. His head had been bashed in by a blunt object.
A rivulet of blood snaked its way down the staircase. About halfway up, Prichard was sprawled face-down, his right arm twisted unnaturally behind him. He had been shot once in the chest.
A siren sounded in the distance.
Carver turned back toward Seven. “We have to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving Sam,” Seven said.
He looked around. “This is going to be hard to explain to the police.”
He went up the steps, removing Prichard’s visa and other identification from his pockets. Nico collected both assailants’ phones and began sweeping several other items that had spilled from the overturned table into a manila folder.
Seven was frozen in place.
“We’re going,” Carver said, taking her hand. “All of us.”
Piazza di Spagna
Rome
Carver checked them into a luxury hotel near the Spanish Steps that was large enough to feel anonymous. To mask the powder burns and bloodstains on their clothes, they had bought three knockoff designer hoodies from a sidewalk vendor, zipping them as high as they would go. Nico tightened the hood around his head to mask the lacerations on his neck and ear.
Everyone managed to keep it together at the front desk. They did not speak in the elevator. There was a collective exhale as they finally reached the suite, which was larger than Carver’s apartment back in D.C. He stood in the living room and watched as Seven went to the minibar and downed six tiny bottles of vodka. She also made fast work of the gin and rum samplers. As if it would help stop the ringing in her ears from the gunfire. As if it would help her stop thinking about Sam Prichard’s body, which they had left in the old deconsecrated church crypt.
She went to the second bedroom and, without closing the door, stripped to her undergarments and fell into bed, weeping.
“Why don’t you say something?” Nico said.
Carver turned. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Tell her it’s going to be all right. Give her a hug. Something.”
Carver shook his head. He knew better. His words of comfort would only seem hollow. He couldn’t tell her it was going to be all right, because it wasn’t going to be all right. At least not for Prichard.
A week ago, he had been sipping tea in his cushy MI6 office. He had never even heard of the Black Order. And tonight the Black Order had killed him.
Carver really knew nothing about him. Was he married? Were his parents alive? Did he have children? It was been obvious that he wasn’t battle tested, though. Carver had sensed that before launching the attack, and deemed it an acceptable risk.
Nico was their greatest asset right now. His life was simply more valuable than any of theirs. That was the cold, hard reality.
“You know what it’s like to lose somebody,” Nico reminded him.
The intensity of his glare startled Nico. “I told you,” he said. “I don’t discuss Agent O’Keefe with anyone.”
“Meagan. Her name was Meagan. And you don’t have to talk about her. Just tell Seven you understand.”
He hated himself at times like this. He wanted to feel more. He didn’t want to be so practical. But he could not force himself to think about O’Keefe. He couldn’t say her name. If he did, then he would lose all focus. He would become the emotional one. Unable to think strategically. Unable to maintain his edge.
It was the downside of hyperthymesia. He did not relive painful memories with the same soft focus that others did. Time created no protective buffer for him. Every moment was relived in excruciating detail. He had learned to suppress effect over the years by denying such memories entry altogether. But once they were unleashed, it was difficult to bottle them up again.
Against his better judgment, he walked to the bedroom. He had not experienced fear during the gun battle tonight, but he felt afraid now. He found it remarkably difficult to put one foot in front of the other.
It wasn’t just the fear of uncorking his own emotions, he knew, or the fear of confronting his own suppressed grief. It was a fear of attraction. Seven was witty and brave. She knew how to hotwire a scooter. He could imagine her London flat, white-walled and airy. An expensive bike parked near the front door, to which she owed her round, muscular haunches. A closet was half-filled with biking gear, and the other half with sensible evening wear, as she was often invited to events that required little black dresses and strands of pearls and good shoes.