Page 40 of Beautiful Evidence

I'm being watched, maybe since I got out of my car, and my stomach twists into a knot as I realize I should've brought backup with me. But I can't shy away from this job now.

I open the container door with my non-dominant hand, keeping my Beretta trained on the dark interior. The thick metal of the door shields my body as I take a few hesitant steps backward. I can't see into the container, but the flash of a muzzle has me jumping backward.

Gunfire erupts.

The bright flash blinds me for a second before my instincts take over. I dive behind the crate, rounds slamming into the metal just above my head. Shards of rust and paint splinter around me. The concussive pop of gunfire echoes off the container walls, deafening me, but I don't need my sense of hearing to fight back.

I roll and fire to lay cover as I try to retreat toward my car. A round connects with something—a scream follows, high and raw. One down. I get my bearings and pivot around the corner of the container with my gun high and aimed at them. With more than one shooter out here after me, I don't stand a chance. I have to get back to my car to safety before they close in and surround me.

A second shooter pops up from behind a stack of pallets as I shove the envelope with the key into my inner suit jacket pocket. I fire and hit the wood, splinters flying into his face. He flinches and tries to take cover, so I advance three steps, then drop as bullets slice through the air where my head just was.

Another shooter is above—perched on the scaffolding, maybe twenty feet up. He’s got a scoped rifle and elevation. I fire twice in his direction. One round grazes his arm, sends him ducking behind the rusted rail. He returns fire, shattering a crate beside me. Wood flies up, peppering my chest and torso.

Then the flanker comes. I hear his boots crunch gravel from the right with fast, aggressive steps. He fires low and close, trying to pin me down before I can shift positions, but I manage to duck behind a drum and return fire, aiming for his center mass. The shot connects and he collapses, rifle clattering to the ground. His boots twitch once before going still.

Sweat rolls down my spine. My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my teeth. My position is better than it was but still vulnerable. I've killed at least three of them, but I've counted at least half a dozen more guns trained on me. I have no choice but to run.

The one on the scaffolding is reloading as I break cover and sprint left, zigzagging through the shipping yard, ducking behind walls of steel. Another shooter shouts—maybe the one I clipped earlier—and tries to circle me.

"We got him! He's bleeding hard!" the man screeches, but I stop for nothing. He doesn’t know I’m hunting him now.

I climb one of the containers, boots scraping on the rusted ladder, and come up behind him. He doesn’t hear me until I’m there. One clean shot to the back drops him, and his weapon falls as he screams. I jump down, landing on him, and drive my elbow into his jaw hard. One point-blank shot to his temple and he stops screaming.

Grabbing his weapon, I sling its strap over my shoulder and keep moving. Gunfire erupts again from the left. At least four more shooters are closing in, cutting off my retreat to the car. I crouch and fire into the direction of the muzzle flashes, forcing them to scatter, but they're getting bolder now. They're not just holding the perimeter. They're hunting me through the yard.

A round tears into my upper arm as I pivot behind a stack of crates. The pain stuns me for a second. It's so hot, I feel like someone drove a fire poker through my bicep and I know I won't be able to lift a gun to shoot. I grit my teeth and keep moving, breaths shallow, legs pumping. I can't get cornered. If I slow down, they'll finish it.

I break into a sprint again, still zigzagging through the open stretch toward the fencing. Bullets hit metal behind me, but I see my car. It’s my only shot. I dive for it, shoulder screaming as I crash against the door.

Hands slick with blood, I yank it open and throw myself behind the wheel. A round pings off the fender as I start the car and gun it. Gravel sprays behind me as the tires lurch forward, the car tearing through the fence. The chain link screams as it gives way and claws its steel fingers down both sides of my ride, but at least I'm safe.

As I hit the embankment, I spot movement in the mirror. A black sedan pulls into view in my rearview mirror—the same one I passed on the way in. That confirms that they weren't just lying in wait. They planned for a chase too.

I slam my foot to the gas pedal. The car jolts forward, the frame rattling as it hits a pothole and bucks onto the main road. Metal groans under the stress. The sedan cuts in fast behind me, its engine whining as it tries to gain ground.

My car isn’t built for speed, but it has weight behind it. If it comes down to contact, I'll win. I speed onto a side road, hoping the tighter turns will force them into a mistake. The engine roars as I push it harder than it wants to go.

I spot a narrow lane and cut the wheel sharply to the right, rounding an old stone wall at speed. The sedan follows, but its turn is too wide. I brake hard and swerve, and my car slams into the rear quarter of the sedan, sending it spinning across the road wildly.

It hits a lamppost with a shriek of twisting metal. I don't stop to check whether the driver gets out. I push forward, eyes on the road, already scanning for the next threat.

My shoulder is throbbing, blood pouring from my arm, but I manage to speed off into the darkness and escape the would-be ambush the Bianchis clearly staged for me. When I finally reach the outer rim of Trastevere, my shirt is soaked and my side is on fire. I ditch the car behind a market, noting its location so I can send a cleaner to retrieve it. My legs feel detached, floating as I stagger down a side alley. The buildings blur, color bleeding into color.

I find a hole-in-the-wall bar to sit down for a second and limp in. A teenager wipes glasses at the counter. He sees the blood, the limp, the gun half-concealed in my waistband—and says nothing. But as I collapse into a booth near the back, he brings me a glass of some amber liquid I'm assuming is a stiff Scotch and a few towels with nothing more than a nod.

I pull my phone out with blood-slicked fingers and type:

Stay inside and don't text anyone. The Bianchis have started their strikes. I think they think you're taking everyone down.

When I hitSend, knowing Alessia will understand my message even though it's sent from a burner she doesn't recognize, I finally take a breath of relief. That was a setup, plain and simple. They're taking no prisoners now.

I pocket the phone, lean back against the wall, and breathe through the pulsing ache in my shoulder. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a scare tactic. It wasn’t about stopping a weapons pickup. This was an attempt on my life because I got close tosomeone who is dangerous to all criminal organizations in this city.

And someone sent kids to do it.

25

ALESSIA

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