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… Then, tapping at the pre-stored number in my phone, “Armando, get a fucking car to La Dolce Vita. Right now!”
Behind his voice, an engine roars. “Already on my way, Hickman. Hang in there.”
“What are we going to do?” Katya’s eyes are wide, her pupils pin-pricked and she’s panting.
Glock in hand, I lay a hand on her shoulder, pressing her back around the shelter of the side-alley. “We stay put. Try not to panic. Help’s on the way.”
She peers back along the narrow passageway. “Can’t we escape that way?”
“Dead end. We go down there, we’re sitting ducks.” I scan the row of buildings across the street: stores, take-aways, apartments…
Where the hell are they shooting from?
Then, the squeal of wheels and Armando roars up from the end of the road, tires screeching as he pulls up alongside, the passenger door flinging open. Ducking behind the cover of the car, I shove Katya inside headfirst, yelling, “Get her the hell out of here.”
Slamming the door closed behind her, I slap on the roof and as Armando revs away, I break for the next vehicle. Another shot rings out, slamming into tarmac where a tire burned rubber half a second ago.
But this time, my attention freed, I saw where the round came from. An open door to one of the balconies across the street. Two floors up, the sniper has a clear view of La Dolce Vita and the adjacent two or three stores.
Weapon at the ready, I keep running, now for the triangle of greenery, ducking behind the shelter of shrubs and hedgerow, looping around the edge of the island. Another shot sounds, this time ricocheting from the fountain. But the sniper’ll get no more on me. He’s lost the angle and I’m out of his line of fire.
Dodging traffic, I dash across the road then, pressed against the wall of the building under the shadow of the overhanging balconies…
Front or rear?
Never going to come to the front…
I toe-sprint for the back of the block, pausing to peer around the corner.
The shots have died.
Gone to ground?
Probably getting the hell out…
And there, I see him. Stepping out from a roller-shutter exit, strolling, carrying a bag, trying to look casual.
And I’m running, Glock in my outstretched hands, charging forward. As he sees me coming, he gawks, reversing back into the building, banging the door in my face. But my foot in the gap, I kick inward, cheap timber bouncing back on the hinges.
Barging through, I’m right behind him as he hammers up the stairs. At the top of the first flight, swinging around, the bag swings with him, snags on the handrail and yanks him back.
A mere heartbeat, but that’s all it needs. I’m on him, my fist in his face as he twists, trying to face me.
Too late. He’s down, on his hands and knees. My weapon against the back of his head, yanking the bag away, “Flat on the ground, face down. Hands behind your head.”
Silent but trembling, he obeys. I pat him down, finding no more than a cell phone. “Who sent you?”
He trembles but doesn’t speak.
“Easy or hard. Your call. My magazine’s full and there’s a spare in my pocket. That’s thirty rounds I can pump into you one at a time. I’ll start with your feet so you can’t run. Now, who sent you?”
Mouth and throat working, he licks his lips.
“Right foot first, then left. Your hands go next.”
His eyes dart one way and the other, shoulders hunching. “It was Mancini.”
“Mancini? The man himself? Not one of his men? He spoke to you?”
