Havoc (10 page)

CHAPTER 29

“It looks like we’re gonna have a meet-and-greet with our friends back there after all,” said Alton, trying to catch his breath as he and Mallory rounded the corner of the Pompeii museum and entered its gloomy depths. “We need to split up.”

“What? No way,” replied Mallory, breathing a little harder herself.

“It’s the right strategic decision. I’m slower, but I’m armed. You can run ahead and bring back any local policemen Rossi was able to drum up.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“Nor I you,” said Alton, “but in this spot, you’re just an unarmed sitting duck. Bring back help. I’ll hold them off.”

Mallory nodded, then leaned into a quick kiss. “Be careful.” She took off in a sprint, and Alton concealed himself behind a stone column lining the museum wall.

As Alton watched Mallory’s form recede, a pair of shots rang out. The wail of ricocheting rounds pierced the air, and two puffs of impact dust appeared on an ancient wall within inches of Mallory’s left shoulder. Alton’s heart jumped into his throat. His protected position rendered him helpless to assist Mallory as the attackers remained well beyond his line of sight.

At the first sound of the shots, Mallory had rolled to her right. Another volley of shots erupted from a second gunman, pummeling the spot she had occupied moments earlier. Mallory veered into a side street and disappeared. She seemed unhurt but had been forced to head away from the city’s entrance—and away from any policemen Rossi had been able to summon.

As the rumble from the gunshots subsided, Alton observed the few remaining tourists dash away from the noise, leaving the vicinity of the museum deserted within seconds.

One of the suited men, the one sporting a short beard, shouted to the others in Italian. A second man yelled in reply and bolted down the alley into which Mallory had retreated. Alton prayed Mallory’s Army instincts would serve to keep her safe.

The two other gunmen fanned out in the area of the museum, scanning each building and crevice in turn, presumably looking for him.

Alton considered his assailants. They were clever and deadly. Earlier, the men had concealed themselves out of sight somewhere along the bakery road, waiting for him and Mallory to emerge from their hiding place. He had underestimated them once, but he wouldn’t repeat that mistake.

Alton removed the Beretta from his rear waistband. The magazine was full, but not really expecting trouble, Alton hadn’t carried any additional ammo with him to Pompeii. He’d have to make every one of the fifteen rounds count.

The bearded man, who seemed to be the leader of the three, veered away from the museum, looking behind the wall of each house in the street Mallory had just exited.

Meanwhile, the third suited man, the short one, moved closer to the museum and Alton’s hiding spot. Alton realized he’d have to take the man down. Perhaps he could try to keep the trio’s leader alive for questioning, but Alton knew he wouldn’t last long against a two-to-one disadvantage. It was time to even the odds.

In the foyer of the museum lay the glass case holding the plaster cast of a victim killed in the ancient eruption. From his spot in the shadows, Alton cast no reflection in the glass, yet he could observe quite clearly the reflection of the bright courtyard in which the short man searched. If Alton could lure the assailant to the left a little, just inside the museum’s foyer entrance, he would have a bead on the man.

Alton picked up a fist-sized stone and tossed it over the glass case. It impacted the opposite wall with a resounding crash. As expected, the short assailant moved towards the origin of the noise, holding his weapon at the ready and scanning the area for movement.

The man entered the museum’s foyer close to the stone’s impact spot. The glass case shielded most of the man’s body, leaving only his head protruding above it. Alton picked up a second, larger stone. After launching the stone with all his might back towards the courtyard, he raised the Beretta. He lined up a kill shot and squeezed off a round. The assailant’s head whiplashed to the side, and an ejecta of blood trailed out of the wound just as Alton’s stone landed in the middle of the street.

Knowing the bearded man would move toward both noises, Alton headed away from them, retreating toward a small, unmarked entrance located on the museum’s rear wall. His damaged leg protested the strain he was placing upon it, sending pulses of pain up his thigh in rhythm with his heartbeat.

As he reached the doorway, Alton glanced back at the short assailant. The man lay motionless on the dusty floor, a pool of blood forming around his head.

“One down,” murmured Alton to himself. Knowing he had to find the bearded assailant, he exited through the rear door and limped along the museum’s exterior wall until he reached the corner.

“Why don’t you come out?” called a voice from the courtyard. “If you give yourself up, I promise I won’t have my way with your girlfriend before I kill her. And believe me, my friend, is big concession this. She is so
bella
!”

Alton second-guessed his decision to keep the man alive. If the two remaining thugs planned on tracking down Mallory, he’d have to kill them when he had the chance. He couldn’t afford to let them continue their deadly hunt.

Lowering himself to the ground, Alton peered around the corner of the museum in the direction of the man’s voice. Waist-high walls of stone—ancient fences—obstructed his view. Alton raised himself until he could see the thug, who paced around the courtyard near the museum’s main entrance. Looks of fury darted across the assailant’s countenance as he raced to examine the structures in the vicinity of Alton’s second stone.

Alton wiped sweat from his firing hand onto his shirt and tried to ignore the throbbing pain shooting from his femur down the length of his thigh. He studied the assailant. Bringing him down would be tricky. Although the thug wasn’t looking in Alton’s direction, his erratic movements would render the shot difficult, especially from fifty yards away.

Alton raised his Beretta and took aim. He exhaled and squeezed off a shot. The round penetrated the assailant’s left arm, causing him to scream in agony. It wasn’t center mass, as the Army taught, but it would have to do.

Turning in Alton’s direction, the bearded man began to fire blindly. Ignoring the hail of bullets whistling around him, Alton returned fire with two more shots. The second round hit the man squarely in the chest. He fell backwards onto the paver stones in an unmoving heap as the echoes of the fusillade died away.

Only one thug remained—the one pursuing Mallory. Alton scanned the area but saw neither Mallory nor her stalker. He heard the distant wail of sirens but doubted the police would arrive in time to influence the course of events.

“Mallory,” he called out. “I’m here at the museum.”

Doubling back through the museum’s rear door, Alton approached the glass case once more. Peering into the reflection, he could see that the courtyard remained unoccupied by the living. His attempt to divert the last assailant away from Mallory hadn’t worked—not yet, at least.

Alton emerged from the museum and headed for the alley Mallory had used to escape, all the while hugging the walls of the ancient abodes that lined the street. As he neared the crest of a hill, he heard approaching footsteps from a side street. Alton ducked into the closest building. Raising his Beretta, he peered out of a window, waiting.

To his surprise, Mallory bolted past the building. Before he could shout to her, the third assailant appeared, stopping just beyond Alton’s place of concealment. The assailant raised his handgun in Mallory’s direction, but she darted into another alley. The man fired a futile shot into the alley’s wall well after Mallory had disappeared.

Alton took the thug down with his first shot. The man twitched and jerked in the street, marring his once-pristine suit with streaks of blood and soil.

Breathing heavily, Alton approached the man. The thug’s macerated leg oozed a trail of blood into the cracks between the paver stones. Alton kicked away a pistol lying within inches of the man’s hand.

“Ay!” wailed the assailant as he continued to writhe on the ground. “Help me!”

“You’ll be all right,” said Alton, “which is more than I can say for your buddies back there.”

The man ceased his motions and locked Alton in a cold stare. “What do you mean?”

“They died the same violent death almost every assassin eventually meets.” Alton eyed the bleeding man in return. “You’re Mafia, right?”

The man remained silent.

Alton shrugged. “It’ll be easy enough to confirm. But I’m curious…how did you get mixed up in the murder of an American tourist? Why do you care?”

“We have the same reason every assassin has,” spat the assailant, “the money.”

“Who hired you?”

“I tell you that, nobody see my wife and kids again. I never tell you.”

“Fine. After you stand trial for all this, I doubt you’ll see your wife and kids again anyway. But look at the bright side. At least you’ll all be alive.”

Mallory emerged from a nearby alley. Running to Alton’s side, she fell into his arms, sweat and dust marring the clothes of both.

“Are you all right?” she asked, stepping back.

“Yeah, fine,” answered Alton. “How about you?”

“This was my favorite top. Now look at it. These stains will never come out.”

“Very funny,” said Alton. Growing serious, he added, “Just dirt, I hope.”

“Yeah. That’s all.”

They fell into another quiet embrace. As the adrenaline receded from Alton’s body, his breathing slowed, and fatigue washed through his frame in a wave. His leg continued to throb.

A detachment of policemen and medical personnel rounded the corner and rushed to the couple’s side. An EMT knelt beside the wounded criminal.

A man wearing an officer’s uniform approached Alton and Mallory. He eyed their attire before speaking. “I am Lieutenant Falcone. Are you Alton Blackwell and…let me see…Mallory Wilson?”

“Yes, that’s us,” replied Alton. “We’re glad you’re here.”

They gave detailed statements to Falcone and a police sergeant for over an hour, including a tour of the areas in which the battle had occurred. The police insisted on providing the couple with an escort, a proposal with which they readily agreed.

As the sun began to set, Alton and Mallory exited the historic city and walked towards their rental car. Their police escort trailed them by a dozen yards. They arrived at the rented Audi, and Alton opened the door for his companion, then entered the vehicle himself.

“So you heard my statement to Sergeant Manzella, right?” asked Mallory as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“Only part of it,” replied Alton.

“Well, to avoid the initial gunfire, I had to head away from the city entrance. I was cut off from heading in that direction, so I circled back to the museum instead. It was horrible watching the whole fight and not being able to do anything to help.”

“I can imagine.”

“But holy crap, Alton!” said Mallory. “You never told me you could handle a pistol like that.”

“You never asked.”

“Alton Blackwell: sidearms expert and marathon love maker. Now I’m wondering what other secret talents you’re hiding.”

“Hey, I have to keep a few surprises in store, don’t I?”

A few hours later, they dined at a restaurant down the street from their hotel, relaxing for the first time in hours. After ordering a pizza to share, they leaned back in their chairs. Alton twirled a splash of cabernet sauvignon in a slow circle around the bottom of his wine glass.

“Alton,” said Mallory, “I know this is our dream vacation, but neither of us expected the kind of danger we encountered today. Do you think we should leave Italy? Maybe come back in a few months when it’s safer?”

Alton pondered in silence for a moment. “That’s a fair question. I think there are two possible scenarios for today’s events. The first possibility, which I don’t consider likely, is that our attackers had nothing to do with the Duncan Wells investigation. If this is true, they’d have no reason to follow us either hundreds of miles north to Florence or all the way back to the US.

“The second and more likely possibility is that we
are
being pursued because of the Duncan Wells case.”

“I agree,” said Mallory. “Today’s attack has to be related to Duncan’s murder and the Silverstar files. I can’t imagine any other reason for it.”

“If that’s so,” said Alton, “the amount of money at stake would likely drive the people behind our attack to come after us no matter where we go, be it somewhere else in Italy or even back in the States.

“I don’t want us to live in fear. I’d rather confront the perpetrators here in Italy, while we have a police ally in Rossi who knows what’s going on and has our back—like he did today. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder at home for the rest of my life.”

Mallory took a moment to consider Alton’s words. “That makes sense. It’s too bad we can’t both be armed, though. I hope the rest of our trip will be uneventful, but today’s attack showed we can’t count on that.”

“Yeah—I asked Rossi about that a couple of days ago, and he didn’t have another pistol to give us. But perhaps I can ask him to spread a bit of misinformation about our whereabouts. That should throw our enemies off the scent, at least for a little while.”