White Heat (12 page)

She couldn’t be near him, she really couldn’t. She was coming unraveled, and the last person she wanted to see her vulnerable was Max Aries. If he was sympathetic, if he held her, if he tried to comfort her, she wasn’t going to be able to hold herself together.

And she couldn’t fall apart now. She just couldn’t. Not with everything that was going on. She needed to pull herself together and help him with this, not hinder him by being a weeping, fragile female incapable of thinking on her feet.

In other words, her mother.

She wouldn’t lead the killer to her friends or family. But there was nothing that said she couldn’t hide in a hotel until . . . Until
what?
Until
when?
her mind screamed.

She wanted to get away. Out of the too-close confines of the car. Away from Max. Because she wanted his arms around her right now more than anything she could think of, other than complete oblivion, or going back in time to warn Franco and his family. She rubbed a cold hand over her eyes. Confused. Frightened. And sad.

Her escape fantasy was foolish, and she’d be the first one to acknowledge that. She hated admitting that Max was the only person who could keep her safe. Wasn’t he?

They hadn’t made it two blocks when four unmarked Lamborghini Gallardos, the vehicles typically driven by the
Polizia di Stato
surrounded them in a screech of tires and flashing lights, sirens blaring. Suddenly there wasn’t another vehicle on the road.

“Shit,” Max muttered. Someone had called in the cops.

“Go through, or wait?” Niigata asked, as a quartet of men emerged from each car. They weren’t in uniform, but they were well armed. The headlights from the Lamborghinis pinned them in a circle of bright light, leaving the street around them in rain-drenched darkness. Something about them made the back of Max’s neck itch.

There was a chance they’d make it through the blockade. A chance. The airport, and the waiting jet, were less than twenty minutes away. He’d bet a T-FLAC vehicle against anything on the road. But was he willing to bet Emily’s safety to prove they could outrun and outsmart the local cops? Sixteen men, dark silhouettes against the light, fanned out around their vehicle.

“Lock the doors and keep the engine running, I’ll talk to them,” Max sprung his door, then shot Emily a quick look. “Stay put, I’ll be right back.”

Niigata and Mauro Zampieri, a local, more seasoned operative, had subtly unholstered their weapons, placing them within easy reach, but out of sight. Max’s custom Glock was in his shoulder holster in view. He’d get out, hands in plain sight to show he wasn’t a threat, but no one was getting their hands on his Glock. It was practically a part of his body.

“They’ll want to talk to me, too,” Emily told him, still shaken. “In fact their timing is perfect. When we’re done here, I’ll have one of them take me back to my car and follow me to a hotel.”

Max had one foot out in the rain. “Your car’s been impounded for an investigation. Do
not
get out.”

Several men closed in on the car, guns drawn. They motioned with their weapons for everyone to get out of the vehicle. Hands up.
Pronto.
Shit.

Max complied, but paused before getting out. He didn’t want one of these low-level cops suddenly getting trigger-happy. If she exited behind him at least he could keep her between himself and the heavy vehicle until he sorted this out. “Come out on my side—”

His words were cut off as Emily’s door was yanked open, and one of the men grabbed her arm, practically dragging her out of the car.

“Get your hands off her.
Now.”
Max snarled, incensed that the man would grab her when it was obvious she was in no condition . . . Fuck. They didn’t know her. All they were seeing was a woman in bloodstained clothing, with glassy eyes.

All the police saw were four people fleeing the scene of a grisly murder.

No wonder they all had their weapons drawn. Max needed to defuse this possibly volatile situation ASAP. He glanced over the roof of the car at Emily. It was obvious she was still very much in shock, so much so that he wasn’t even sure if she was aware of the activity surrounding her.

“I’ll have this sorted out in a minute and we can be on our way.”

“It’s okay.
I’m
okay. I’ll just—” she waved her free hand vaguely toward the surrounding police vehicles, her bloodstained face drawn and stark in the flashing blue lights as she looked at him with dark haunted eyes. “I . . . I’m okay,” she repeated, a small frown pleating her brow.

Two men flanked her, leading her across the street to an overhang to get out of the rain. Out of the rain and also out of the light. He could barely make out her pink sweater and bright socks beyond the bright aura of the headlights. He’d forgotten she hadn’t been wearing shoes when she’d run out on him this afternoon.

Alarm bells rang in his head. Basic police training would dictate that the officers assess the situation, then focus on the biggest potential threat. Him. But almost all of the cops had their attention on Emily.

Max held his hands out away from his body as three guys approached him. The fourth was behind him at eleven o’ clock, hidden in the shadows. Zampieri and Niigata were instructed at gunpoint to exit the vehicle. Separated, they were each taken aside for questioning.

One guy stepped up, and grabbed Max’s arm. Wrong fucking move. With the least amount of drama, Max disengaged. He greeted them politely enough, then asked for and saw ID.
Emily appeared to be the only one not aware of just how precarious their position was.

They walked like ducks and talked like ducks, but the itch on Max’s neck persisted. He shot a glance across the street to where Emily stood, animatedly talking with her hands.

Max summed up the situation. His other men were still inside the Bozzato home several blocks away waiting for the T-FLAC forensic people to show Sixteen men against himself and the two operatives, one of whom was still a rookie. Sixteen to two? Three? Doable odds. Would Niigata be waiting for his signal? Max glanced her way. She gave him the subtle sign that she was ready. Zampieri, he knew, was poised and waiting for his order.

Max answered the rudimentary interrogation, keeping Emily in his peripheral vision. He frowned as she tried to pull away from the man gripping her upper arm.

This wasn’t an interrogation.

This, God damn it, was a
kidnapping.

THE SECOND EMILY GOT OUT OF THE CAR, ONE OF THE MEN GRABBED her arm, the other shoved a gun in her ribs. She gave a start of surprise, but before she could do more than gasp they herded her across the street toward one of the police vehicles.

Annoyance at their rough, inappropriate handling morphed into super awareness. Although the back passenger door was open, and the engine running, she noticed the interior light wasn’t on. She realized her grave error. She should have listened to Max and stayed put, damn it. She had been incredibly stupid to get out of the car.

“A few questions, Signorina Greene.” The officer’s fingers dug painfully into her arm as he drew her away from Max and the others.

“How do you know my name?”
Don’t be paranoid,
she told herself. But was it paranoia to now be convinced that someone really
did
want to kill her? Nausea churned in her stomach. Her heart started beating in a slow hard thud against her ribs and her mouth went dry. Knowing she was still in shock, since it had been mere minutes since they’d left Franco’s palazzo, she tamped down her suspicions.

The police must’ve seen the slaughter at the Bozzatos’. For all they knew, she, Max, and the others were the killers. She tried to relax. They were just doing their job. Weren’t they? God. Now she was seeing conspiracy behind every action.

The man with the gun was of medium height and medium build, even his hair was medium brown. Other than a small scar across one corner of his upper lip, his face was unremarkable. He smelled quite strongly of some kind of herb, marjoram? And wore a badly crumpled dark gray suit, with a dingy white, open-necked dress shirt.

“I repeat. How do you know my name? I didn’t give it to you.”

“Someone at the scene gave it to us.”

Nobody at Franco’s had known her name except Max, Emily thought, feeling sick. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said coolly to the second man as the barrel of the gun pressed against her ribs. “Please put the gun away.” He was a little taller, but as unremarkable as his friend. He, too, wore a dress shirt with an inexpensive dark suit.

It was pouring now, hard, cold drops. Her hair and clothing were already soaked, and her feet, clad only in socks, were freezing. She tasted watery blood in her mouth, and thought almost absently that Max had shot the man in the kitchen right behind her. Maybe an inch from her head. Her ears still rang.

Her stomach heaved and she felt dizzy with nausea as she realized that she had that man’s blood all over her. Black dots buzzed in her vision, but she forced herself to take deep steadying breaths. She needed to keep her wits about her if she was going to get away from these men. And go where? She glanced over her shoulder to search for Max, but the gunman pulled her forward hard enough to make her stumble.

“Signorina Greene?” His Italian was pretty good. Swiss? Possibly German Swiss? “What was your relationship with the Bozzato family, hmm?” She saw the bodies and the blood, and blinked her wet lashes to clear the image. Her stomach roiled. “They were my friends. Ouch! You’re cutting off my circulation. Release my arm, I’m quite capable of crossing the street on my own. In fact I’d rather conduct this interview tomorrow at your—”

The other man shook her, his face contorted in anger. “Shut up.” His annoyance was disproportionate and she gave him a hard look. His face was oily with sweat, his eyes manic. He was scared. The fact that
he
was scared, scared
her
even more.

Emily’s brain finally managed to sound an alarm. Delayed, yes. But accurate. She should have listened to her own instincts the second these guys put their hands on her.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together. If she hadn’t been horrified, shocked, and sick about what had just happened, maybe she’d have trusted the faint alarm bells ringing in her head sooner.

Despite the cars they were driving and the guns they all carried, they weren’t police officers.
It didn’t occur to her to yell for Max. She wasn’t accustomed to relying on anyone else, and everything was happening so fast, she only had time to react. “What do you want? Who sent you?” she demanded. “What in God’s name could you
possibly
want from me?”

“Keep walking calmly, Signorina, and get into the car. There will be no trouble.”

“You see, that’s where you are dead wrong. There
will
be trouble.” She tried to yank her arm out of the man’s tight grip. If he pulled the trigger at this range she’d be nothing but splatter on the street. If she went with them her odds of survival were about the same. Zero.

She stopped in her tracks, her socks providing no traction at all. “I’m not going anywhere with y—”

Not deterred, they merely yanked her into motion by pulling her along. The open door of their car was less than six or eight feet away. Once she was in, there’d be no turning back.
Shooting another frantic glance across the street, Emily watched Max talking to three men, half turned away from her. Although traffic had been stopped by the four vehicles slewed all over the street, to reach him, she’d have to re—cross four lanes of road. A wide open space, with nowhere to hide.

Then she heard a loud pop and flinched, half-expecting to feel the searing pain of a bullet tearing through her flesh. Nothing. Except the frenetic pounding of her heart slamming against her ribs.
Just beyond their car was a narrow alley leading to several other narrow alleys and a popular, always crowded trattoria. There were lots of people, and dark corners, and deep doorways to conceal her until she could contact the real police. Or until she could exit on the other side, and make her way to a hotel, or ... or Max realized that things weren’t what they appeared to be.

If I’m fast and lucky,
she thought desperately,
I can reach the alley.
She had to take the risk that they wouldn’t walk into a crowded public place and open fire. No. She had to
pray
they wouldn’t. Because minutes had become seconds.

She had to call it. Or die.

SEVEN

WITHOUT WARNING EMILY WENT COMPLETELY LIMP, DROPPING
bonelessly to the sidewalk in mid-stride. She was no athlete and it was neither a graceful nor a painless drop. Her funny bone smacked on the curb, but she barely noticed the buzzing pain jarring all the way up her arm as she heard, over the pounding of her head, a staccato,
bang! bang! bang!
of gunfire. It sounded exactly like her automatic stapler.

Max and his team had realized what was happening. Thank God.

Her sudden deadweight dragged the two men down with her. One fell, the other staggered but caught his balance.

Rolling out of their reach she scrambled up on all fours. Something nearby made a reverberating
piiiiiing
sound.

Cursing, the man closest to her grabbed her by the hair, painfully yanking her head back. “You won’t get away, bitch.” Winding the wet strands around his fist, he tried to pull her to her feet using her long hair for leverage. “I’ll cap you here and be done with you!”

Tears of pain blurred her vision, and her scalp burned. But as hard as he pulled
she
resisted, using gravity to keep herself down on the ground, even though the force snapped her neck forward. If he was going to shoot her, wouldn’t he have done it by now?

He grunted and cursed as he continued to try and force her to her feet. By sheer will, Emily refused to stand, even though her hair felt as though it were being pulled out by the roots. If the son of a bitch wanted her in his car, he’d have to drag her kicking and screaming.

Over the thundering of her heart, she heard shouting and a loud
pop-pop-pop-poppopopopop.
Arms flailing, she finally found her attacker’s head and gouged her short nails into his cheeks and scalp hard enough to feel his skin split. He barked in pain, letting her go, but not before she got a booted foot in the ribs for her effort.