Page 53 of The Assassin's Captive
The streets are empty at this hour, Rome settling into the deep quiet that comes in the hours before dawn. I navigate the narrow alleys that will take me back to the parking structure.
I'm two blocks from the garage when I spot the tail.
A dark sedan, engine running, parked in the shadow of a closed restaurant. The silhouette behind the wheel could be anyone, but the way the car pulls away from the curb as I pass tells me it's professional surveillance. Patient, disciplined, probably armed. It's most likely someone who is interested in what I have, someone who would disrupt my plan to keep Serena safe and destroy the Costa empire with what's on this drive.
I turn left at the next intersection, taking a route that will lead me through Rome's oldest quarter. The sedan follows, maintaining distance but staying close enough to keep me in sight. When I turn again, it turns. When I stop to light a cigarette I don't smoke, it stops too.
My car is still a block away when I decide the game has gone on long enough.
The alley I choose is narrow, barely wide enough for a single vehicle. Ancient walls rise on either side, lined with doorways and windows that have watched over Rome for centuries. I walkcasually, hands in my pockets, until I reach a spot where the alley widens into a small courtyard.
Then I disappear.
The doorway I choose is recessed, hidden in shadow. I press myself against the stone and wait. The sedan appears at the mouth of the alley thirty seconds later, moving slowly as the driver searches for his lost target.
I let them get halfway down the alley before I make my move.
My Glock comes out of its holster smoothly as I step into the open and put three rounds through the sedan's rear window before the driver can react. Glass explodes inward, and the car swerves hard right, scraping against the ancient stone wall with a shriek of metal on rock.
But the driver doesn't stop. Instead, he floors the accelerator, the sedan's engine roaring as it rockets toward the far end of the alley. I dive sideways as the car clips the spot where I was standing, stone chips flying from the impact.
The chase begins in earnest.
I sprint back toward the main street, knowing the sedan will have to take the long way around to intercept me. My car is close now, just around the corner in the parking structure. But as I reach the street, I see a second vehicle—another sedan, this one blocking the entrance to the garage.
Two cars. Coordinated surveillance. This isn't random.
I change direction, heading deeper into the old quarter where the streets are too narrow for vehicles. Behind me, I hear car doors slamming and boots on pavement. At least three men, maybe more.
The pursuit winds through alleyways that haven't changed since the Renaissance, past churches and fountains that have stood for a thousand years. My pursuers are good—they know how to move quietly, how to anticipate my route through the maze of ancient streets.
But I know Rome better than they do.
I find a motorcycle parked behind a cluster of delivery trucks in a service area near the Pantheon. There's no key, so I use the tip of my pocket knife to pop the ignition out of its housing and my teeth to strip the wires. The engine turns over on the first try, and I'm moving before my pursuers round the corner.
The streets open up as I head toward the river, the motorcycle's engine noise bouncing off the buildings that line the Tiber. Behind me, headlights appear in my mirrors—the sedans, moving fast and closing distance.
The first shots come as I cross the Ponte Cavour, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness behind me. Bullets spark off the bridge's stone railings, sending chips flying into the black water below. I lean low over the handlebars and twist the throttle, the motorcycle surging forward with a roar.
The chase becomes a running gun battle through Rome's heart. My pursuers are relentless, taking corners at dangerous speeds and firing whenever they have a clear line of sight. I return fire when I can, one-handed shots that force them to take cover behind their windshields.
A bullet takes out my left mirror as I race past the Mausoleum of Augustus. Another punches through the motorcycle's rear fender, missing my leg by inches. I can hear sirens in the distance now—the Polizia, responding to reports of gunfire in the city center.
Time to disappear.
The turn I take is sharp enough to scrape my knee against the pavement, sparks flying as I tilt the motorcycle into a lean that should be impossible. The alley beyond is barely wide enough for the bike, walls rushing past on either side like a tunnel of stone. I emerge onto a parallel street and kill the engine, coasting into the shadow of a construction site. The motorcycle disappearsbehind a wall of scaffolding and concrete barriers, hidden from the street, and I take a deep breath.
The sedans roar past thirty seconds later, their occupants scanning doorways and side streets for any sign of their target. I wait until their taillights disappear before starting the engine again.
The rest of the journey takes me through Rome's industrial district, where abandoned factories and empty lots provide plenty of places to watch for pursuit. I ditch the motorcycle in a scrapyard near the airport and acquire a replacement vehicle—a delivery truck left running outside an all-night bakery.
By the time I reach my neighborhood, the eastern sky is beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. I park the truck six blocks from the house and complete the journey on foot, moving through back alleys and residential gardens to avoid the main streets.
The house appears undisturbed when I finally reach it. No signs of surveillance, no vehicles that don't belong. But the chase through Rome's streets has left me paranoid, every shadow suspect.
I'm three houses away when I hear a sound that doesn't belong—metal on metal. It could be anything. A cat knocking over a trash can. A neighbor's door swinging in the wind, or maybe that prowler came back to get what he wanted the first time.
I draw my Glock and melt back into the shadows, every instinct screaming that the night isn't over yet and that I should've taken Serena and gotten out of here a long time ago.
