Eddie hit the doors at a full run, hunching his shoulders at the last second as he burst through the delicate wood mullions and antique panes of bevel-cut glass. Shards ripped at his skin as a bullet whizzed by, striking the building opposite in a puff of brick dust.
He barely slowed as he reached the railing. Using just his legs, he vaulted over it and twisted around in midair so that he was facing the building as he started to fall. He grabbed two of the countless wrought-iron spindles, his hands slick enough with sweat to allow him to slide down smoothly, while seventy feet of nothingness separated him from the traffic crawling below.
His hands smashed into the concrete deck just as the tips of his toes touched the fifth-floor balcony railing. Without a moment’s hesitation, he let go and stepped back, falling all over again in a headlong plunge toward the sidewalk. As the fifth-floor balcony whipped by his face, he reached out and clutched two of the wrought-iron bars again, slowing himself just enough so that he was in constant control of his descent. It was an awesome display of strength, balance, and a total lack of fear.
He was teetering on the fourth-floor railing, centering himself for the next plummet, by the time Kovac reached the suite’s balcony. At first, expecting to see Eddie’s corpse sprawled on the asphalt, Kovac didn’t spot Seng until he stepped back from the baluster below. The Serb opened fire, raining down a storm of bullets.
Eddie felt the shots ripple the air around him as he slid down the spindles. His hands slammed into the concrete. No matter how he stretched his body, he couldn’t quite reach the next balcony down. His wrists were screaming with the strain, so he let go, falling just an inch before he found purchase. He wind-milled his arms for a second before dropping again. If his hands weren’t broken by the time he reached street level, he’d consider it a miracle.
Kovac couldn’t get an angle, and rather than risk being spotted by passersby who were starting to gawk at Eddie’s insane stunt Kovac holstered his pistol and stepped back into the suite.
For a moment, Eddie considered leaping onto the balcony and entering the third-floor room, but he had no idea how many men Kovac had covering the building. His best chance was to get away as quickly and cleanly as he could and regroup later.
He stepped back again, smearing skin off his now-dry palms as he slid down the spindles. The second-floor balcony was a story and a half above the pavement, to allow for a high ceiling in the hotel’s lobby. The drop was nearly twenty feet. Just off to Eddie’s left was a bright yellow canopy arching out over the sidewalk to protect the entrance from the elements. Like a tightrope walker, he padded across the top of the railing and dove for the canopy, torquing his body so his back slammed into the stiffened fabric.
Sliding down its curved face, he was able to reach between his legs and grab onto the underlying metal frame. He somersaulted over the edge, holding on as tightly as his damaged hands would allow, and dangled for a second before nimbly dropping to the ground. A few in the gathered crowd cheered, not understanding what was happening.
Eddie started running down the sidewalk, dodging through the throngs as best he could. The noise of a powerful engine roared over the din of regular commuter traffic. He whirled to see a black motorcycle jump the curb and start after him, panicked people scattering out of its path as the rider hit the throttle hard. Less than fifteen feet separated him from the bike, and the big Ducati was accelerating.
Making like he was running for the entrance of the bookstore next to the hotel, Eddie leapt to his left instead, flying onto the hood of a parked car. His momentum slid him across the vehicle and dumped him in the road just ahead of a Volvo truck that had found a little room in the congestion to speed up. The driver never saw Eddie fly over the car, so he kept on the gas. Eddie had a second, at most, to twist out of the way of the heavy-duty tires. He covered his head in a vain attempt to protect it as the ten-wheeler rolled over him. Heat from the engine was like the open door of a blast furnace on his back.
The truck suddenly braked, wheels skidding on the asphalt. Eddie heard the bike again. It must have returned to the road between two parked cars right in front of the Volvo.
He scrambled from underneath the vehicle. An open-topped double-decker tourist bus was in the opposite lane. It had paused to let people off. Eddie was near the rear of the vehicle, far enough away from the driver that he most likely wouldn’t be noticed. He jumped hard at the side of the bus, thrusting upward to get himself off of the roadway. He kicked out with his other foot, connecting with the truck, still idling three feet away, gaining himself another foot. He did this again and again, kicking each vehicle in turn, ignoring the startled faces of passengers in the bus, as he used his strength and dexterity to shimmy up the gap between the two trucks until he reached the top of the Volvo. He rolled onto its roof, panting, and would have paused to catch his breath except a sizzling hole appeared inches from his face.
He looked up. Kovac was on the balcony again, taking deliberate aim. With little chance of alerting pedestrians with the shots, he could take his time. Eddie jumped to his feet, running along the top of the truck, and leapt for the bus as it started to pull away. He sailed over a bench seat of Japanese tourists and tumbled into the aisle. He ran to the back of the bus to see the Ducati pull out from in front of the Volvo truck and start after him.
Eddie might have made it clear of the hotel, but he hadn’t escaped yet.
The motorcyclist in black leathers stayed right behind the bus, making no attempt to hide the fact he was following it. Eddie didn’t know if the man had a radio tucked into his helmet. If
The bus pulled out onto a four-lane road, picking up speed as it approached the Colosseum. Cars zipped by, horns blared, and the occasional rude gesture was thrown out the window by their drivers. The Ducati rode in its wake like a manta ray following a whale.
Eddie flexed his fingers to work some blood back into them as he thought of a way out of this mess.
He’d left his cell phone in the suite because Max had been carrying his. A crazy idea popped into his head and, if he hadn’t felt he was running out of time, he would have dismissed it entirely, but he was getting desperate.
A set of spiral stairs at the rear of the bus led Eddie down to the first level. He was relieved that there weren’t many tourists taking this part of the trip. There had been only fifteen people upstairs and just a handful were downstairs. No one paid him any attention as he strode down the aisle. Eddie kept in a crouch as he approached the driver. There was a translator sitting in the front seat, working on her nails with an emery board between her canned speeches from the tour script. Seeing Eddie approach, she set aside her file and smiled brightly. Judging by his appearance, she assumed he was part of her group and asked him something in Japanese.
He ignored her entirely. The driver wore a white shirt, black tie, and a cap more befitting an airline pilot.
Eddie was just thankful he had a slender build. In one motion, Eddie grabbed the driver’s right arm and heaved him out of his seat. Seng ducked, as the man rolled across his shoulder, and then straightened quickly, hurling the driver down the couple of steps near the bus’s main door. He hit the door upside down and collapsed in an untidy heap.
The big diesel barely slowed before Eddie was in the driver’s seat, his foot on the gas pedal. The tour guide was screaming, and passengers farther back began to look frightened. Watching the big wing mirrors, Eddie hit the brakes.
Horns immediately erupted all around, and the Ducati shot from around the back of the bus, narrowly avoiding the car that rear-ended the double-decker. The guide wailed at the impact. The bike was hugging the center line, riding the gap between traffic, and Eddie let him travel halfway down the bus’s length before hitting the gas again and swerving left. The bike had nowhere to go. The other lane was bumper-to-bumper. Had he hung back near the rear of the bus, he might have been able to tuck back behind it again, but he had committed himself to the gap. He dropped a gear and wrenched the throttle.
The front wheel leapt off the tarmac, as the 1000cc engine shrieked, the rider bending low over the handlebars to reduce air friction and give him a fraction more speed.
He never stood a chance. The bus clipped him ten feet shy of where Eddie was sitting. The Ducati careened into a car in the left lane. The rider was launched over the front of his bike. Limbs flailing, he smashed headfirst into the rear window of the next car in the line of traffic. The safety glass turned into a glittering explosion of diamond chips. Eddie could only hope the helmet saved his life. The collision started a chain reaction of minor accidents
