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Sean positioned himself, drew his weapon. The candeliera’s swinging was slowing, but it creaked, and cast a moving shadow. Slower…slower. Swaying. Kev held his breath. The handle turned.
A gun barrel preceded the guy into the room—no. Not a guy. It
was a slender, brown female hand that held the rifle. An emaciated woman in combat gear, a drab green cap on her head.
She looked up to see what the shadow was. Sean opened fire,bam.She stumbled back, andrat-tat-tat-tat-tat, pumped more rounds into the living room. Kev prayed she hadn’t hit Sean, Zia or Petrie, but he was airborne now, heading for the killer like a sack of cement—
Thud,he hit her. They slammed to the ground together.
Kev had his Beretta 8000 under the woman’s jaw before she could recover. She was stunned. Sean scrambled in on his belly.
“That’s the one who came at us at the cabin,” he said, yanking cuffs out of his pack. “I saw her through the scope. Are there more?”
“Don’t know yet. Didn’t see any.”
Sean fastened the woman’s hands behind her back. Then her feet.
“One more look,” Kev said. “I take the door, you the window?”
Sean nodded. He crawled on his belly back to the living room while Kev edged closer to the gaping door. On his feet. Back to the wall.
He spun, Beretta at the ready…and a gust of damp air hit his face.
No one there, just the wind, sighing, whipping the trees. He took a step out onto the porch. A nondescript white Volvo sedan idled on the street. No back-up. She’d come alone?
Sean had come to the same conclusion in the living room. They met at the couch. Michael Ranieri was stretched out behind the couch, a hole in his forehead, blood fanned on the wall behind him. Don Gaetano was dead, too. His eyes stared up, blank.
They eased Petrie off of Zia Rosa, brushing the shards of glass off the white leather so they could slide the wounded man to lie full length on the couch cushions. Zia looked fine, underneath him. Wild-eyed, gulping for breath, but not hit. Petrie had taken the bullet for her.
Kev ripped open Petrie’s shirt, and hissed with dismay. Big hole, leaking fast. Sucking sound, at each labored breath. The bullet had punctured his lung. He was conscious, eyes open, teeth gritted. Sean was digging into his kit, yanking things out.
“I told you that habit of yours was dangerous,” Kev said.
Petrie flashed him an eloquent look.
“Zia, call the ambulance for him,” he told her.
Zia grabbed her purse, smeared with Petrie’s blood, and dug for her phone. She gabbled into it, giving shrill orders to the emergency dispatcher. He left her to it, and they worked over Petrie together.
The first flush of adrenaline was easing down, and under it was grief, fury, frustration. The only people who’d known the name and location of the fucker who held Bruno were all dead.
“Goddamnit,” he exploded. “Just a name, before that bitch started shooting. Just a goddamn name, that was all I asked!”
“Calm down,” Sean said quietly, his hands busy.
“Why? How can I? That’s it!” he snarled. “The last thread I had to grab onto. I have no other trace! None! What the fuck do I do now?”
“You’ve got her,” Sean said, jerking his chin over his shoulder, towards the bound woman lying in the foyer.
“The bitch is useless, Sean! These fucking nutcases self-destruct! She’ll rip her tongue out, or explode in my face if I start to lean on her!”
“Having hysterics will not help,” Sean said, taping the bandage into place. “We have her. We’ll use her. We’ll think of something, we’ll improvise. Christ, I hope that ambulance hurries up. I’ve done everything that I can.” He looked around. “Say, where’s your crazy Zia?”
“Oh, fuck. No.” Kev looked around the ravaged room. No Zia. “I’ll go track her down.”
He sprinted through the first floor. Formal dining room, enormous kitchen, breakfast nook. Teak paneled personal office. Huge game room, with pool and ping-pong tables. Swimming pool behind. No Zia Rosa.
Back through the foyer. He leaped over the bound female shooter, who panted on the floor, and sped up the curving staircase.
