he said, walking toward Palazzo dei Priori.
McCabe's mistake, he figured they'd do something, but didn't think they'd jump him in a public place, local police thirty yards away. But it wasn't over. The bag of money was right there and he was going to get it. Now a tour group, about thirty people, walked by them and stopped, crowding together in front of the arch that led to the courtyard behind Palazzo dei Priori, the mass of people separating them from Joey. McCabe lifted his heel and brought it down in the center of Noto's left foot. The big man grunted and let go of him, hobbling, trying to stay on his feet.
Sisto rushed him, and McCabe hit him with a straight right and he went down. Mazara came from behind, surprising him, almost knocking him off his feet. McCabe swung an elbow into his face and Mazara went to his knees. The strap slipped off his shoulder and the bag fell on the ground. McCabe went for it, picked it up, and took off running across the square, dodging people, trying to get through the crowd. He banged into a guy taking a photo and sent him flying.
He ran out of the piazza and down Via San Lorenzo to his car parked on the street, opened the door, threw the bag on the passenger seat and got in. He started the Fiat, put it in gear and saw Sisto and Mazara, coming toward him. He waited for an opening in traffic, pulled out and there was the little guy they called Psuz standing in front of the car, aiming a shotgun.
McCabe gunned it, engine winding, driving right at him. Psuz stepped out of the way, disappeared, and McCabe saw him in the rearview mirror. Saw him level the shotgun: firing and blowing out the rear window, firing and blowing off the passenger side mirror, firing and blowing out the passenger side windows, glass flying, glass all over him, all over the dash and front seats.
McCabe jerked the steering wheel left, then right, and floored it, speeding on a narrow one-way street toward Porta San Pietro, a straight shot out of the city. He drove through the arched exit, went left on Via Cassia, passed Porta Romana, cars lined up, bumper to bumper, waiting to enter Viterbo, the once holy residence of popes.
Joey was about to go in the building, looked back and saw McCabe take off with the soccer bag. He was gone five seconds and they'd lost the money. Now he was about thirty yards behind Mazara and Sisto, running, sucking air, trying to catch them. He heard a shotgun blast and then two more. Saw Mazara get in the front passenger seat of the Opel, and got there as they were pulling out. Joey was on the driver's side, aiming the Beretta at Sisto behind the wheel. Sisto stopped and Joey opened the rear door, jumped in and slid across the seat behind Mazara, pressing the barrel of the Beretta against the back of his head. 'The fuck you think you're going?'
'He take the money,' Mazara said.
'I know he take the money you fucking bozo.' Joey hit him on top of the head with the barrel.
'He was lucky,' Mazara said, turning in the seat, putting his hands up to protect himself.
'He was lucky? There were three of you, you can't handle a college kid. Jesus.' Joey drove his fist into the seatback. In Joey's mind it was a no-brainer, a slam-dunk. What were they doing? Standing there holding their dicks while McCabe got away with?437,000.
Sisto stopped and picked Psuz up down the street that was as wide as an alley, Psuz getting in next to him saying, 'He go this way, we catch him.'
'You better catch him,' Joey said.
Sisto gunned it, speeding along the narrow street, going through Porta San Pietro, stopping at the main road. Joey looked to the right and saw a gas station and beyond it a mirrored-glass building that looked out of place next to the old city.
'There,' Mazara said, pointing left.
Joey saw the blue Fiat in heavy traffic up ahead. 'What do you think Don Gennaro's going to say when I tell him what happened?' That got their attention. Mazara, still rubbing his head, glanced back at Joey.
'Why do you tell him?'
'Why do I tell him?' Joey shook his head. 'Dude, his little girl, my cousin's been kidnapped in case you forgot, and she could be in serious fucking trouble. Oh, and you lost his share of the money. That's why I tell him.' He leaned back in the seat, trying to get comfortable. There wasn't much legroom.
Psuz was next to him with the shotgun, barrel pointed at the floor, the stench of gunpowder filling the car. Psuz had bleached blond hair, a dark beard and dark eyebrows, and gave Joey the creeps. He grinned at him and Joey said, 'What's your problem?'
Mazara looked back and pointed straight through the windshield. 'You see? There, the blue Fiat?'
Joey saw it turn right up ahead, and they did too on Viale Fiume, a two-lane country road. They passed irrigation canals and flat dirt fields that had been harvested. They passed farmhouses in the distance and sheep grazing.
Mazara said something to Sisto in Italian and Sisto grinned, and looked at Joey in the rearview mirror.
'What'd you say?' Joey said.
'No more telling us what to do,' Mazara said it like he was trying out the line, waiting for a reaction.
'Is that right?' Joey said. 'Let me remind you, if it wasn't for you clowns we wouldn't be in this situation. We'd be on our way back to Rome with Angela and the money.' Joey decided to keep the Beretta handy, even the odds if they were thinking about a mutiny.
Psuz was grinning at him again. Joey brought the Beretta up and aimed it at him. 'You don't quit looking at me like that I'm going to put this in your mouth, let you suck on it like a big dick. You'll probably like it.'
Mazara looked over his shoulder and said, 'Be careful what you say. Psuz was in the Bersaglieri, a sniper in Italian army, can kill you from three hundred meters.'
'Yeah, right.' He didn't look like a sniper. He looked like a rump ranger.
'No, is the truth.'
They passed through a little village, La Quercia, and saw a sign that said Bagnaia 6 kilometers. Joey lowered the pistol and rested it on the seat next to him. Glanced at Psuz. A sniper, huh? Maybe he'd come in handy. They passed a truck and a couple of cars, and came up behind a dark-blue Fiat. The rear window was blown out and the sheet metal was puckered with buckshot.
Sisto pulled out in the oncoming lane, trying to drive next to the Fiat, but the Fiat sped up and they couldn't quite catch it, didn't have the power to pass it, and swung back and got on McCabe's tail again and rammed him. The impact jarred them, Joey jerking forward, the shoulder belt straining, but holding him. Sisto accelerated and rammed McCabe's car again, and then pulled out, gaining on the Fiat this time, almost next to it.
McCabe saw Joey leaning out the rear window of the Opel with a gun in his hand. He heard the blast and felt the left rear tire blow, and felt the back end slide out. He hit the brake, trying to slow down, get the Fiat under control but couldn't, and then lost it, the back end going all the way around, and he was spinning, doing a 360. He turned the wheel, trying to correct his course, trying to straighten out the car, and he went off the road and over the embankment, rolling now, hands squeezing the steering wheel, conscious of his body going head-over-heels twice as the car rolled, blowing out all the glass.
The Fiat landed right side up, but was still moving, slamming head-on into a tree with impact. McCabe was conscious of the airbag blowing in a split second, hitting him in the face, knocking him back against the headrest, nose and forehead stinging. Conscious, too, of the dull pain in his arms and shoulders from holding the steering wheel so tight.
McCabe was dazed from the collision. The windshield was gone, roof caved in, hood buckled, and he could hear a hissing sound from the radiator that must have been punctured, steam escaping under pressure. He looked out the driver's side window and saw the Opel on top of the embankment, backing up fast. He was woozy but knew he had to move. It was difficult with the airbag pressing against him. He pushed the seat back as far as it would go, unhooked his belt, brushed glass off the soccer bag, and pushed it out the passenger side window. He glanced back toward the road and saw the Opel in profile on top of the embankment, skidding to a stop in reverse seventy yards away.
He pulled the handle up but the door wouldn't open, wouldn't budge. He used his arms to pull himself up and slid over on the passenger seat. He went head first through the open window, holding on to the doorsill, flipping his body around, going down on his knees, looking through the empty window frames. They were out of the car, four
