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Donatella remembered looking up at the cleaver, suddenly mesmerized by its polished surface. She kept it razor-sharp, as she had always done with her blades. Was that the answer?
She didn’t know how long she’d pondered that question, but, like so many times before, her rage had saved her. It wouldn’t end like this. Not after everything she’d been through in her life.
She’d survived Mitch Rapp abandoning her to the FBI’s witness protection program. She’d survived being imprisoned in bland suburban hellhole after bland suburban hellhole. She’d even survived a few brief experiments with honest work. Hell if she’d let a petty thief break her.
After another quick scan of her operating environment, Donatella stepped from the alcove and started through the rain toward the center of the alley. It wouldn’t be long before the drugs being prepared would go from spoon to vein, and she wanted to make sure that Gatton experienced what was to come with perfect clarity.
The two men glanced up as she appeared from the mist, confused at first and then intrigued. Gatton was the first to stand, moving to block her path. His hair was matted but his features were immediately recognizable from his mug shot.
The police had been largely uninterested in the break-in and she certainly couldn’t go to her FBI handlers. They would be furious to discover that she’d been clinging to mementos from a past that they’d worked so hard to eradicate. So Donatella resorted to the power she’d always had over men to get a local detective to admit that he knew who had done the job. Over drinks in an intimate little restaurant, he’d been eminently understanding—sympathizing with her sense of violation but explaining that he didn’t have evidence that would stand up in court. In the end, his advice was to take the insurance payout and move on.
“You’re a pretty lady,” Gatto
n said. The rain swallowed the sound to the point that no one outside of the alley would hear him even if he shouted. Even if he screamed.
She angled to get around him but he sidestepped and once again blocked her path. His companion was still crouched behind the dumpster, paying only partial attention. The drugs were what he cared about.
“What have you got in your hand?” he said, pointing to the eight-inch cylinder clutched between perfectly manicured nails. “Maybe something I want?”
Gatton had obviously made the same calculation that she had. What happened in this alley would stay in this alley.
He took a step toward her. “I bet you got a lot of things I want.”
Donatella pressed the button on the spring-loaded baton, extending it to its full length. Gatton didn’t even flinch. People were typically slow to process things that were utterly unexpected, and he was slower than most. She swung the weapon, slamming it into his ribs instead of going for the more obvious head shot. His grunt was audible through the roar of the rain, as was the satisfying snap of collapsing bone.
He staggered right and she spun, swinging the baton hard enough into the back of his legs to take his feet out from under him. His face twisted in pain when he hit the wet asphalt, but he couldn’t take in enough air to make a sound.
In her peripheral vision she saw Gatton’s companion pull a knife from his pocket. She turned and met his wide-eyed gaze with a dead one of her own. His confusion was even deeper than Gatton’s had been. The fact that she had a weapon and had used it to defend herself would be comprehensible, but her refusal to run for the safety of the street would be completely unfamiliar.
“Do we have business together?” she said, just loud enough for him to hear.
Apparently, they didn’t because he just gathered up his drug paraphernalia and fled.
* * *
Donatella shook off her umbrella and entered the parking garage. Her heart rate was still slightly elevated, but that was all that remained of what had happened. Her hair was still perfectly arranged, her makeup was unblemished, and her clothes were free of both wrinkles and blood.
She slipped into the gray Ford Focus the FBI had given her—out of spite, she assumed—and inserted the key in the ignition. She started to turn it, but then froze when a gun was pressed to her ear by someone in the backseat.
A cop? Could she have been seen? If that was the case, what should she do? Killing the man would be a trivial matter, but it wouldn’t play well with her FBI handlers.
No. What was she thinking? Police didn’t hide in backseats waiting for a suspect to get in their car. A former enemy? Doubtful. As odious an organization as the FBI was, it had hidden her identity quite competently. A mugger? A rapist? That would be interesting. After all this time, two men in one day.
“What the fuck was that all about?”
Despite the years, the voice was immediately recognizable.
“Mitch?” she said, turning slowly.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“He stole from me,” Donatella said. The anger that had faded long ago erupted again. “Like you did.”
She pushed the gun aside and lunged over the seat, wrapping her hands around his neck and squeezing with everything she had. “You did this to me, you bastard! I had beautiful men. Beautiful women! A beautiful flat in Milan! I am what you made me!”
He dislodged her hands and shoved her back against the dashboard hard enough to knock the wind out of her.
“You did this to yourself, Donatella. How many times has the Bureau had to relocate you? Twice now? And from what I just saw, you’re going for a hat trick.”
