The landscapers’ tailgate slammed. The two cab doors closed one after the other and the truck pulled onto the road, slowly descending the hill toward the exit. I grabbed Ginny firmly by the upper arm; she quit humming midphrase.
“Ouch!”
“Ginny,” I said,“run to that truck right now and jump on the back.”
She looked at me, confused. “What?”
“Right now. Run as fast as you can.” I pushed her hard. She stumbled into a jog as the truck pulled away, her look of puzzlement morphing into fear. She lifted her skirt and began to run.
I crisscrossed my hands inside my jacket and drew out both guns, then moved across the lawn in the direction of the cottages, keeping one eye on Ginny.
She was hauling now, closing on the truck as it picked up speed. Twenty yards, fifteen. A few feet from the trailer, she took two big strides and jumped for it. Grabbing the top steel rail, she vaulted over it onto the springy tractor seat. The truck vanished around the bend.
I scrambled behind some high bushes, my pulse throbbing in my ears, fingers tingling against the curves of the triggers. I sucked in sea air, filling my lungs for the fight. How many in the cabin, I wondered. After the party in the lagoon, after Milan, there’d be more than two, for sure.
I was a few feet from the Jag when I heard Pop’s voice cry out from the cottage. “You peckers are in a heap of trouble!”
I couldn’t let them hurt Pop.
“Shaddap, old man!” a gravelly voice yelled in a German accent. Glass broke with that shrill sound it makes when it hits a fireplace.
“That lamp cost two hundred smackers in ’68, sonny!” Pop shrieked.
I heard an “ooofff,” followed by Pop’s muffled, “Ho boy.” Two male voices chuckled.
A dark figure passed in front of the open side window of the other cabin—a balding man with an Aloha shirt, sporting a scrawny yellow ponytail. I recognized him from Venice: the guy piloting the yacht. Was Tecci in there? I hoped so.
I ducked low and reached the side of the cabin, pressed my body against the shingles, and tried to listen to the voices over the crash of the surf.
Somebody spoke in German to someone named Rolf. Another voice, a high one, said something I didn’t understand.
I slinked around back and squatted by the deck. The sliding glass door was closed, the drapes drawn. I eyed my boots mournfully, slipped them off, wishing they were sneakers. I crept up the stairs, hoping Rolf and his buddy wouldn’t see my shadow through the curtain and open fire.
I plastered myself against the house between the edge of the sliding glass door and the deck rail. With my guns shoulder-high, I reached a stockinged foot out and gave an Adirondack chair a tiny shove, then waited.
One of the men approached the door, mumbling. I held my breath. He pulled back the drapes and slid the glass open. He wasn’t holding a gun.
Stepping out onto the deck, his eye immediately took in the view.
I stuck a Sig in his ear, whispered into it,
He stiffened. I spun him around and stepped behind him. Hans was kneeling on the far side of the bed, the mattress jacked up in front of him. All I saw were two hands with dirty fingernails. I aimed my other gun midway between them.
I thumbed the hammer. Hans exposed a pockmarked face.
“How do you say ‘bang’ in German?” I said.
Then a third guy—a real muscleman—stepped from the bathroom, an Uzi slung over his shoulder. He caught sight of me and retreated. A second later, a barrage of bullets cut through the bathroom wall, taking out Hans, two framed watercolors, the telephone on the nightstand, and just about everything along the front half of my cozy cottage.
I yanked Rolf back onto the deck. He stumbled and threw his hands up, knocking one of the Sigs from my grip. It scuttled along the wood floor onto the lawn.
Pivoting, he threw a good right hook that landed on my chest andknocked me against the deck rail. He followed it with a left, but I blocked it, smacking him with the other Sig on his nose. He cried out in agony, blood spurting from both nostrils.
Mr. Muscles emerged from the bathroom, letting loose another burst from the Uzi which splintered the Adirondack chairs and caught Rolf in the back. As his chest erupted, he plunged forward with a look of total surprise, smashing into me, sending me right off the deck.
Muscles ran toward me, a look of maniacal joy on his chiseled face. Rolling to my right, I heard Pop yell from inside Same Time, “ Goddamn you peckers!”
The big man fired another short burst, weeding the yard right next to me. I kept rolling. When the shots stopped, I aimed at his center and squeezed off three rounds. He fell back, crashing through the sliding glass door.
As I scrambled to my feet, I heard Pop’s assailants leave Ginny’s cottage and bang open the front door of mine. Before they could see me, I dashed up the steps to Ginny’s porch. Tucking the Sig into my pants, I hopped on the narrow wooden rail and boosted myself to the roof. Crawling like a lizard up the asphalt shingles, I crouched by the smoking chimney, assessing. Three down. Off in the distance, guests and employees were running in every
