Page 63 of Theta

He nods, points at me. "Sì, this thing. To know where am I. I should know better. Pugli, he does not take chances."

"But he thinks we got away?" Story asks. "He doesn't suspect the truth?"

"That I am helping you? No, no. I think no. Or already my daughter would be killed."

"So…" I prompt. "What now? The ferry to Rome doesn't leave for three hours yet."

"We must go. Salvatore says he is sending some backup for me." He frowns. "What he means is to make certain I am not lying to him. Which, of course, I am." He listens, frowning, and goes to the window, peering out of it from the side, and then curses again in Italian. "We are fucked."

"Why?" I ask, going to the other side and looking out. "Oh." Story just waits, and I look at her. "Two SUVs, four men each. I don't see long guns."

The one firearm between the three of us is on the coffee table where I set it when we arrived. Story takes it now and ejects the magazine, checks the loads, taps it home, and racks the slide. "Are there any other guns in this place, Enzo?" she asks.

Enzo frowns. "No, no. My friend Tomas, he is not that kind of a friend."

"So three of us, eight of them, and one Colt between us with four rounds left."

I grab the backpack off the floor and paw through it, coming up with the box of shells and the spare mags. "Bullets we have, at least."

Enzo is still watching out the window. "They are speaking together. One of them speaks on the mobile. Whatever we do, we must do quickly."

Story and I make swift work of thumbing shells into two magazines, and then she hands me the weapon and the mags, fishing the box cutter out of the backpack. “You have any ideas?" She asks me.

I shrug, shake my head. "Kill 'em all or die trying?"

"Killy," Story says, her tone droll. "This isn't the time for levity."

"It's not. What else is there? No time to rig explosives, even if we had any, and I doubt there are the right kind of cleaning products in this bachelor pad to improvise them. Maybe a Molotov or two, but we don't want to set the whole building on fire. So…yeah. I dunno what plan there is but try to kill ‘em and hope for the best.”

"They are coming, now," Enzo says.

"Wait," I say, snapping my fingers. "I actually do have an idea."

I grab a chair from the two-person table in between the kitchen and living room and plop it in the middle of the room. I point at it. "Story, sit. Enzo, grab one of those knives from the kitchen."

Story, already picking up on my plan, sits and puts her hands behind her back, clutching the box cutter in both hands to hide it while pretending to be bound.

"Distract them until they're all inside," I say. "When I pop out and start shooting, it's fuckin' on. Enzo, I hope you're good in a fight."

Enzo shrugs. "I will do my best." He flashes the big carving knife. "The pointy end pokes the bad guys, okay? I know this much." The flash of mirth in his eyes isn't entirely jocular, and I wonder how much he's hedging his real capabilities.

Guess we'll find out.

I trot toward the bedroom and close the door to a crack big enough to peer through—from this angle I have a clean line of sight at the front door; Story and the chair are in the kitchen, just out of the line of fire.

My nerves jangle, but my hands are steady.

I have a fresh mag in the pistol and two more in my pockets. It's not much of a plan, but it's better than sitting around and waiting to be kidnapped again; the thought of being trapped in another container is enough to make my blood boil and my stomach pitch violently.

"They are coming," Enzo says, his voice pitched low. "Be ready."

"Killy?” Story says, her voice quiet and small.

“Yeah."

"Don't fucking miss."

Yes—the plan is to use Story as bait. It's all I can come up with on such short notice. There's a lot that can go wrong.