“I’ve got the gun. He’s climbing over the fence now.”
“Kholkov, tell your mustachioed friend to take his rifle by the barrel and toss it over the fence into the trees.”
Kholkov gave the order and the man complied. Bianco appeared on Sam’s left and walked around to join Kholkov and Mustache.
“Now you,” Sam told Kholkov.
“I’m not armed.”
“Show me.”
Kholkov took off his jacket, turned it inside out, gave it a shake, then dropped it on the ground.
“Shirt.”
Kholkov pulled his shirttails from his waistband and slowly spun in a circle. Sam nodded at Umberto, who circled around Kholkov and backed across the open space, stopping to retrieve the Luger, which he handed over to Sam.
“What did he say?” Sam asked.
“He seems to think my mother and father were not married when I was born.”
“I will kill you,” Bianco spat. “And your wife!”
“Shut up. Now I recognize that one—the one with the mustache.”
“Who is he?”
“A nobody. He’s a petty thief, a thug.” Umberto called to the man, “I know who you are! If I see you again, I’ll cut off your nose!”
Sam said, “Kholkov, here’s how this is going to work: You’re all going to lie on the ground and we’re going to leave. If you follow us, I’ll burn the book.”
“You’re lying. You won’t do that.”
“Bad gamble. To save our lives, I’ll do it without a second thought.”
It was a lie, of course, and Sam knew that Kholkov knew it, too, but he was hoping to plant even a slight seed of doubt, enough to buy them some running room. He’d considered other options—tie them up, disable their vehicle, call the police, but his every instinct was telling him to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Kholkov, and to do it as quickly as possible. And were he a different man, there would be a fourth option: Kill them right now. But he wasn’t that kind of man and didn’t want cold-blooded murder on his conscience.
Kholkov was a superbly trained soldier who knew more ways to kill than most chefs had recipes. Every minute he, Remi, and Umberto spent around these men increased the chances of the tables being turned.
“You won’t get off the island,” Kholkov growled, lying down.
“Maybe, but we’re going to give it the old college try.”
“Even if you do, I’ll find you again.”
“That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get there.”
Umberto said, “Sam, a favor if I might. I’d like to take Bianco along with us. I’ll make sure he’s no trouble.”
“Why?”
“Let me worry about that.”
Sam considered this, then nodded.
“Let’s go!” Umberto ordered Bianco. “Hands up!”
Under Umberto’s gun, Bianco started walking toward the fence. Once they were over it and standing beside the car, Umberto plucked Bianco’s handcuffs from his belt, secured them around his wrists, frisked him, then shoved him in the backseat and climbed in behind him. Remi started the car, then opened the door for Sam and slid over to the passenger seat.
Sam got in the car, put it in gear, turned around, and headed around the fence toward the main road.
“How long do you think they’ll wait?” Remi asked.
Sam glanced out the side window. Kholkov and Mustache were already on their feet and running back through the graveyard.
“About five seconds,” he said and stepped on the accelerator.
CHAPTER 27
Sam sped down the fence line, heading for the main gate. In the corner of his eye he could see Kholkov and Mustache sprinting in the same direction, dodging headstones as they went, fog swirling in their wake.
“Gonna be close,” Sam muttered.
“Where are you going?” Remi said. “You heard Umberto . . . Bianco will have the roads watched.”
“How’s your aim tonight?”
“What? Oh.” She held up Bianco’s gun as though suddenly remembering she had it. “Fine, why—”
“I’m going to make a quick pass by their SUV. See if you can get the tires. Umberto, are you sure you can handle him?”
In the backseat, Bianco was leaning in the corner wearing that same smug grin. Umberto reversed the Luger in his hand and smacked Bianco across the temple; he went limp and slid into the floor. “I am sure!”
The corner of the fence was coming up fast; thirty feet beyond that and to the right was the SUV. Kholkov had pulled ahead of Mustache and was seconds from reaching the gate.
“Get ready!” Sam called.
Remi rolled down her window, stuck the pistol out the opening, and braced her arm on the door. “You’re going too fast!”
“Have to. Just do your best. If you can’t get the tires, try for the windshield. Damn!”
Kholkov raced through the gate and skidded to a stop beside the SUV’s driver’s-side door. The interior dome light popped on.
Remi snapped off two shots. The bullets sparked on the SUV’s quarter panel, but missed the tire. “Too fast!” Remi called.
“Windshield! Empty it!”
Remi squeezed off four shots, the gun’s barrel spouting orange flame. Three spiderwebbed holes appeared in the SUV’s windshield.
“Atta girl!”
Suddenly Kholkov appeared around the front of the car, dropping into a crouch, a gun coming up in his hands. Sam spun the wheel hard left. The Lancia’s tail whipped around, the front tires spinning freely in the moist grass before finally finding purchase. Two metallic thunks echoed through the car as Kholkov’s bullets hit the car’s trunk. Sam accelerated again, straightening the car out and heading back into the meadow toward the hills.
“Everybody okay?” Sam asked.
Umberto peeked his head over the front seat, said, “Yes,” then disappeared again. Remi nodded and said, “Sorry I couldn’t get the tires. We were going too fast.”
“No worries. You got the windshield; that’ll slow them down. They’ll either have to punch it out or drive with their heads out the side windows.”
Remi turned in her seat and saw Kholkov and Mustache standing on the SUV’s hood stomping on the windshield. “Option A,” she said. The windshield collapsed inward; Kholkov and Mustache knelt down, dragged it out, and tossed it aside. Seconds later the SUV’s lights popped on and it surged forward, speeding into the meadow.
“Here they come. With that four-wheel drive they’ll—”
“I know,” Sam muttered. “Hold on!”
The Lancia lurched sideways as the front wheels slipped into the mining road’s ruts. Sam tapped the brakes, gave the wheel a jerk, felt the rear wheels follow, then punched the accelerator again. The Lancia surged up the hill. The road was narrower than he’d imagined, no wider than six feet. When they reached the crest the trees
