Midnight Angels (39 page)

They ate in silence for several moments, relishing the food. Rumore broke off another piece of bread and signaled the waiter for three more glasses of wine. “If I agree to what you propose,” he said, “it means I’ll be letting both of you out of my sight for any number of hours. A lot can happen in that time, most of it bad. Don’t forget, the Raven’s chasing you, you’re the key to everything he wants, and I just won’t let anything happen to you.”

Kate gave Rumore a warm smile and a nod. “I’m ready for this, Detective,” she said.

“Why do you care so much?” Marco asked Rumore, not even making an attempt to hide his jealousy.

“It’s my job,” he said, his voice cop hard. “I don’t have to like you, which, by the way, I’m starting not to. But I usually prefer it to be the bad guys who get taken down, not some kid in over his head.”

“Is that what you think?” Marco asked. “You don’t think I can be of help?”

“You’re a good kid and you care for Kate,” Rumore said. “But these are professionals waiting out there, willing to do whatever needs to be done to get what they came to Florence to get. As little as three weeks ago your biggest concern was the condition of your crappy bike.”

“I’m not leaving her side,” Marco said. “No matter how much you want me to.”

“You want to ask her out on a date, be my guest,” Rumore said. “Once this is over, I’m back in Rome and you’ll be back in class with plenty of time to decide which movie you want to take her to see. All of that can happen, but only if you get out of this now. If not, I can’t guarantee you’ll live long enough to see the inside of another classroom.”

Kate reached for Marco’s good hand and held it. “I don’t want that to happen,” she said. “The detective is right. He’s where he belongs, this is what he does. And I belong here as well. This is my life. You’re the only one here who didn’t ask for any of this.”

Marco stared at Rumore and reached for his wineglass. “You’re right,” he said after a brief pause. “I didn’t ask to be put in the middle of this. But I went with Kate because I am her friend. And it is for that same reason I will stay in the middle of this, no matter how it might turn out for me.”

Rumore finished his wine, wiped his pasta plate clean with a sliver of bread, and then brushed aside a handful of crumbs from his side of the table. “It’s your call,” he said to Marco, “and I don’t have to like it or agree with it. But I will tell you this—if I even think your involvement is putting Kate, me, or any other cop out there at risk, then I will pull you out of the scene faster than you can tell time. You’ll be invisible in a matter of seconds.”

Marco stiffened and moved his hand away from Kate. “I might surprise you, Detective,” he said.

“You might at that,” Rumore said.

Mama was heading back toward the table, minus the smile, a concerned look spread across her thin, handsome face. Rumore pushed back his chair and met her halfway down the narrow aisle. “What is it?” he asked.

“It has begun,” she said, glancing over his shoulder at Kate and Marco.

Rumore wrapped his arms around Mama and gave her a warm hug. He then turned, walked back to his table and stood over Kate and Marco. “I think,” he said, “the wise move would be to skip dessert.”

CHAPTER
17

E
DWARDS MADE THE LEAP FROM ONE RED BRICK ROOFTOP TO
another, a gun in each hand, firing at the two men in pursuit behind him. He landed with a soft thud, rolled across the hard tar and came up on both knees, waiting for the men to get closer. Two bullets came at him from behind, off an adjacent rooftop, the shooter crouched behind a small, soot-stained chimney. He bent down and searched for cover, firing in both directions as he moved toward a rusty tin door swaying in the breeze. He checked his ammo clip and then took a quick look down at the bridge four stories below. There, he spotted a group of gunmen going at each other from both sides of the street.

Edwards reached the door and heard the approaching footsteps. He whirled, fired, and then ducked down into the stairwell, hearing the grunt and hard fall of a wounded man. He turned the corner of the stairwell, gazed down the rail opening and saw three men approach from the steps below. He knew others from above would soon follow and that he could ill afford to allow himself to be cornered. There were four apartment doors on the floor, and he tried turning the knobs on two of them, to no avail, before hearing a third, in the far corner closest to the next flight of stairs, slowly creak open. An elderly woman, in a nightgown and robe, peered out and nodded for him to come forward. He rushed to her door and watched as she swung it open, offering him entry.

“Are you sure?” he asked her. “The men following me will shoot anyone who gets in their way.”

“All the more reason for you to come in,” the old woman said, waiting until he was in her foyer before she quietly closed the door behind him.

Edwards glanced around the small apartment and ran to the kitchen window, which overlooked the street below. He saw three men down on the pavement, pools of blood forming around them under the misty overhead lights, and two others badly wounded, resting against the rear doors of parked cars. He turned to look at the old woman. “Is there a place in here for you to hide?”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“It’s too high to jump and I’m too tired to run,” he said, “so that means I’ll have to let them in.”

“Let me do that,” the old woman said. “They won’t be expecting me and that will give you a better chance.”

“I told you I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he said.

“In that case, let me have one of your guns,” the old woman said, reaching out her right hand. “Don’t worry. It won’t be the first time I shot a gun. My husband was a municipal policeman and would often take me with him on hunting trips. My aim might be a bit off, but I have surprise on my side.”

Edwards stared at the old woman and then leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek. He handed her one of his guns and walked toward the front door. “There’s a round in the chamber,” he said over his shoulder. “Fire off your rounds fast and then move even faster to that closet next to the sofa. Get in there and stay down and don’t come out until you know it’s safe.”

“And what about you?” she asked.

“Signora,” Edwards said, with a hint of weariness, “I’m afraid my night has just begun. But if I make it through, I promise to come back one day and show you my gratitude.”

“I’ll hold onto the gun until you do,” the old woman said.

Edwards stepped to the far side of the door. The old woman buried her hand and gun in the right sleeve of an ill-fitting bathrobe and opened the door. There were four men in the hallway—two on the landing and two positioned near her apartment. “It’s the middle of the night,” she said, giving an angry touch to her words. “What are you doing in here?”

“Never mind that,” the one closest to her said. “Are you in there alone?”

“Look at me,” the old woman said, “and guess the answer.”

“Did you see anyone else come down the hallway?” he asked. “Maybe somebody who woke you from a sound sleep?”

“That would have been you,” the old woman said.

“She’s lying,” a second man—the one standing on the top step of the far landing—said. “You can see it in her face.”

The man closest to the old woman moved several steps nearer to her, the gun in his left hand held down and loose. “Is my friend correct?” he asked her. “Are you hiding something from us?”

The old lady looked up at the man and turned away, stepping back into her apartment. Edwards jumped from behind the door, legs spread wide in the open doorway, and began to fire, spraying his bullets from one end of the hall to the other, sending the men scurrying for what cover they could find. He dumped an empty clip to the ground and slammed in a fresh one. Bending down, he grabbed the wounded man’s discarded gun, then lifted him to his feet, turned him face out to the hallway and started to move forward, firing his weapons as he did.

He reached the stairwell and headed down, turned and carefully maneuvered from step to step, one eye on the targets around him. The wounded man was weighing him down, and had taken several slugs to the chest and legs in the mad assault to get at Edwards. He was on his last breaths and his upper body was starting to spasm. Edwards released him, fired three bullets up the landing and then ran down the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.

He made it back out to the street, his hair matted to the sides of his head and his left shoulder bleeding from a flesh wound. He rested against a stone wall for a few moments, taking deep breaths and relishing the calm and coolness of the street. He sprinted to the corner and turned right, staying close to the shelter of the walls as he moved down a deserted street lined with shuttered shops. He could hear the rush of the Arno on the other side of the low buildings and knew he was getting close to where he needed to be. He had less than an hour before the sun would begin to rise, costing him the cover of darkness. It was then that he spotted the dark blue car, a BMW, parked tail first between a private home and a shuttered trattoria. The side windows were blackened and the lights off, but he could make out the rumble of an idling engine.

Edwards didn’t need to check his ammo clip to know he was running low. He also knew that if the car had come for him, there was nothing he
could do to avoid it. His shoulder wound was now gushing blood and his right leg ached from a blow it had suffered in the hallway battle. He felt this left him with only one option.

He decided to take it.

Lowering his head, Edwards took several steps deeper into the street, the BMW parked one hundred meters away and to his right. He picked up his pace as he drew closer, then turned toward the car, running at an angle and firing bullets into the driver’s window as he did. By the time he reached the front end of the idling car, he was out of breath and out of bullets. He stepped into the alley, swung open the driver’s door, and saw only shattered glass and torn leather. The motor was on but the interior was empty. He looked around to his left and right and saw or heard no one. He had no weapon and was leaking blood. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel his chest move, and for a brief moment Richard Edwards was as close to panic as he had ever been in his life.

“Thank the Lord I decided to head out for a smoke.” The low, raspy voice came from deeper in the alley.

Edwards smiled, took a breath, and turned to see MacNamera walking with slow and steady steps toward him, a thin line of smoke covering his head and face.

“I will never ask you to give up cigarettes again,” he said.

MacNamera peered into the car and noted all the bullet holes and glass fragments littering the front seat. “You drive,” he said, “since you’re already bleeding. And I’ll fill you in on what you should know on the way over.”

“You wouldn’t have any extra ammo clips?” Edwards asked, brushing some of the glass off the seat and onto the pavement. “I wasted them all blasting out the window of your new car.”

MacNamera slowly made his way to the passenger side and slid the door open. “It’s actually your car,” he said. “Or I should say the Society’s? I picked it up from a garage about ten kilometers outside the center. As to weapons and ammo, I wouldn’t concern myself. I packed the trunk with all manner of useful items.”

Edwards sat behind the wheel, slipped on the seat beat, and eased the BMW out of the alleyway. “You’re a gift from heaven, my friend,” he said. “I would be lost without you.”

“Gift from hell would be more fitting for our task,” MacNamera said. “But either way, I appreciate it.”

“We’re down as many as seven, maybe eight men,” Edwards said, “and that’s just what I could make out from the rooftops. There could be all sorts of hell breaking loose throughout the city.”

“That there certainly is,” MacNamera said. “It seems as if you’re not the only one who has decided to make this your final stand. The Raven seems equally insistent.”

“Are any of the outsiders getting into the mix?” Edwards asked, easily navigating the deserted streets.

“Not yet,” MacNamera said. “More than likely they’re waiting it out, watching to see who emerges less bloodied, and with the Angels in their possession.”

Edwards brought the car to a slow stop, shifted the gears into neutral and looked over at MacNamera. “He’s better at this end of it than I am,” he said, “always has been, and now here I am playing right into his hands.”

MacNamera gazed out the side window for several moments and then turned back to Edwards. “The Raven has had more experience,” he said, “but experience doesn’t always win. And playing into his hands does have its advantages.”

“Such as?”

“He wouldn’t be expecting that to be your move,” MacNamera said, “which might mean he’ll think it a ruse and hold back, waiting for your real plan to emerge. By then it could be too late for him to rebound.”

“He’ll be there already,” Edwards said, “expecting us.”

“Well, expecting
you,”
MacNamera said. “He’s been told that I’m out of commission. I have made it my business to be put off the Raven’s radar.”

“I have never gone into a job filled with such doubts,” Edwards said. “I worry about the choices I’ve made, the approach I’m taking. I’m not sure why, but these last few days have left me feeling adrift.”

“It means you’re getting better at what you do,” MacNamera said. “Face it, Richard, when you were first handed the reins of the Society, you were a much younger man and with that splendid age comes a carefree spirit and a sense of invulnerability.”

“I’m not
that
old to have those feelings suddenly vanish,” Edwards said.

“You’re old enough,” MacNamera said. “And much more aware of the
consequences of your actions. You’ve been in enough violent scraps to get a sense of your mortality. Plus, there’s the matter of Kate.”

“What about her?”

“She’s ready to step into your place,” MacNamera said. “That means no matter how this particular escapade turns out, the Society will be in capable hands. And that worries you. The fears you have, Richard, are for Kate. You’ve been through too many a battle to cower at the thought of the next one now. But this is her first taste of the action, her first glimpse of spilled blood, and you don’t know for certain if she can handle it.”