If her last case in Venice taught her anything, it’s that churches aren’t at all sacred when it comes to criminals and killers.
The guy in the black trench coat forces her into a pew and sits tight alongside her. ‘Kneel and pray. Don’t do anything stupid.’
Valentina does as she’s told.
She intertwines her fingers, bows her head and looks as reflective as any of the devout visitors around her.
Her mind is certainly on different things, though.
By now, it’s going to be obvious that there’s no Punto parked near the piazza and no Anna sitting patiently in it. And Tom will have discovered whether or not Louisa and her captors are in a car just around the corner.
For a second Valentina does what everyone else around her is doing: she prays. Prays that Tom is all right and that Louisa is still alive.
It’s the first time she’s been on her knees in church since her cousin died.
The phone in Trench Coat’s pocket rings.
He catches it quickly.
Valentina knows that in doing so, he’s taken his hand off the gun.
It’s her cue to stop trusting in the good Lord and do what she’s been trained to do.
She cups her hand behind Trench Coat’s head and smashes his face into the edge of the wooden pew.
All eyes are now on Valentina.
She glances at the body slumped at her feet, shuffles forward and puts her foot across his neck. If he moves she’ll feel it.
‘I’m a police officer,’ she shouts down the aisle. ‘Please leave the church, immediately.’
No one moves.
Valentina stoops, fishes in the guy’s coat pocket and recovers his gun. It’s an old Glock with a Crimson Trace laser grip.
She holds it up high. ‘I said, I am a police officer. Now get out of here before someone gets shot!’
The church empties in a deafening rush for the doors.
Valentina ignores the last of the stragglers.
There’s blood all over the back of the pew, and for the first time she’s wondering whether the guy on the floor is just unconscious, or dead.
101
A woman passing by screams hysterically.
The man who’s just levelled a gun at Tom’s head glances to his left.
It’s all the American needs.
He plants a drop kick deep into the guy’s guts and follows with a hard right-hander into his mouth.
Amazingly, the guy’s still upright. And still holding the weapon.
Tom throws a left, then twin punches with his right.
Now he goes down.
Hits the floor like a TV dropped from the top of a tower block. The gun clatters from his open hand.
The four-by-four’s engine roars into life.
Seems the driver’s got his act together.
Tom spins round.
That’s his first mistake.
He clutches at the now closed driver’s door, but it won’t open. The central locking’s on.
He pulls again at the handle as the Land Rover lurches up on to the pavement.
That’s his second mistake.
He hasn’t noticed a man climb out of a similar vehicle parked a few metres away.
An agonising pain erupts in Tom’s right shoulder.
It’s followed by another behind his left knee. The combination of blows sends him sprawling into the road.
Instinctively, he rolls.
He learned at school that if you stay still in a street fight, then you’re as good as asking for a beating.
Now he sees the cause of the pain.
A baseball bat slaps into the brown water beside his head.
Tom grabs the club but feels a terrible burning in his right shoulder. Something’s busted.
He can’t hold on.
The wood slips from his fingers.
The guy takes a swing and slaps Tom on the side of his ribs.
Tom tries to roll again.
The bat man takes a stride to his left, raises the club and starts a swing that he’s sure will pop Tom’s head like a water-melon.
Only he never makes it.
Instead, he freezes midway during the draw-back.
A sharp pain erupts inside his chest. It feels like someone has stuck a knife in his heart.
And that’s because someone has.
The throwing hand of Guilio Brygus Angelis is still extended, his fingers pointing at exactly the spot at which the ancient dagger was aimed.
102
Rapid response units from the Carabinieri and the Polizia Municipale arrive within seconds of each other.
Both forces got panic calls from the public after Tom had fired the gun in the car. Both also had reports of a woman in the church brandishing a gun and claiming to be a cop.
Guilio is on his knees alongside Tom. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. Can you move?’
It takes Tom a second glance to realise that his Good Samar itan is the stranger he fought with inside Anna Fratelli’s apartment.
He’s got a dozen questions in his head and no time to ask any of them.
‘Help me up.’ He stretches out his left hand.
Guilio needs both his hands to pull Tom up. He glances at the body with the blade in it. If he pulls it out, he knows the guy will die, but if he leaves it, he will lose a dagger that’s two thousand years old and a set of his own fingerprints as well.
He leaves it.
He turns to Tom. ‘Follow me, or they’ll make you part of this.’
Tom lurches after the quick, slim figure disappearing down Via di San Michele.
Police sirens and whistles fill the air as he follows him into the shadows of a tributary of thin alleys trickling away from the church.
Pain is now starting to devour Tom’s shoulder, leg and ribs. He can barely pull himself upright as he runs.
He has no chance of keeping up with Guilio as he weaves a route through a labyrinth of back streets and passages that few locals even know of.
‘Down here!’
Tom has no idea where ‘here’ is. He stops for breath beside some low railings.
‘Here!’
