“What if he’s killed?”
“Then he’s out of our hair. If not, we have provided potent bait for Gia.”
Orr slapped a twenty-euro note down on the table and stood.
“Let’s go. They’ll be here soon.”
He and Gaul gathered up their gear and headed to the car.
Orr felt the adrenaline begin to kick in. He was getting pumped for the operation, as he did before any big heist he pulled. It wasn’t nervous energy. It was excitement at finally putting the plan in motion, because he had confidence that it would succeed. And it wasn’t misplaced optimism at all. He had every piece of information he could possibly need, all thanks to his priceless accomplice, Stacy Benedict.
FIFTY
A fter dropping off their vehicles, Grant and the four men from Neutralizer made their way toward the Palazzo Reale, the royal palace of Naples built by the Bourbons in the seventeenth century. Grant wished he had a shot of bourbon. He didn’t like the idea of holding back while Tyler went into harm’s way without him.
The palazzo would be the perfect observation post for Piazza del Plebiscito. They would wait in the publicly accessible palace until Grant got the signal from Tyler that Orr had appeared. Then Grant would take two men into the crowd while another two watched them from a discreet distance, ready to wade in if trouble arose.
Grant took the team on a shortcut through the Galleria Umberto. The cavernous indoor shopping plaza was built in the shape of a cross, and the last of the afternoon sun streamed through a 184-foot-high ceiling made of glass and iron latticework with an enormous dome in the center.
Although the streets were packed, the space held few shoppers. The stores were closed for the evening, and the focus was on the concert in the square outside. Everyone on Grant’s team was wearing rubber-soled shoes, so they made no sound on the marble floor.
At the far portico they got three steps outside when two light blue Alfa Romeo sedans marked POLIZIA screeched to a stop in front of them. Four cops jumped out and drew their pistols.
One of the Neutralizer men reached for his weapon, but Grant stopped him. Getting into a gun battle with the Naples police was not on the agenda. They raised their hands. A group of bystanders was already forming to watch, snapping photos of the hubbub.
“What seems to be the problem, Officers?” Grant said. One of the Neutralizer men was fluent in Italian and translated.
“Drop your weapons,” came the reply.
They all looked to Grant, and he nodded. Guns clattered to the sidewalk.
Someone had set them up. Grant had picked this team specifically because they were not from the Naples area, so the chances of them being corrupted by the Camorra were nonexistent. How had the police found out exactly where they would be?
“Tell him we have permits for these weapons,” Grant said. When the policeman who looked as if he was in charge heard the translation, he shook his head. He made them all put their hands on the cars, where they were frisked. Everything in Grant’s pockets, including his phone and the tracker, were confiscated, along with the guns. Then they were all cuffed.
All except Grant.
The four security contractors were shoved into the backseats of the police cars. The lead cop pointed back the way Grant had come and said “Go” in English. He waited until Grant started moving, then the police cars peeled away with their sirens blasting.
Grant didn’t know what was going on, but this couldn’t be good. He had to find a phone and warn Tyler that their plan had already gone to hell. He trotted back through the galleria. When he got to the center, a mountainous figure emerged from an alcove to his right. It was his old friend Sal from the British Museum.
Somehow Cavano had found him. She must have pulled strings with her police contacts to have Grant’s team apprehended.
Another man came in from the left. Two more from in front. Grant turned and saw another pair behind him. He was surrounded. Normally, this would be a good time to shout for the police, but Grant was pretty sure that wouldn’t help.
“I see you took my advice and brought more men this time,” he said.
Sal held up one meaty hand and grinned. “You come quiet, eh? We no hurt you.”
“I know you won’t. I can’t promise the same for you, though.”
That wiped the smug grin off his face.
They hadn’t drawn guns yet, so maybe that meant they weren’t supposed to kill him. At least it was something.
“So you want trouble, eh?” Sal said. “We can make trouble.”
The most effective tactic for taking down a single man when you have overwhelming numbers is simply to rush him and get him down on the ground as quickly as possible. Once he was on his back, it was almost impossible for even the best fighter to fend off attacks from a group that had him pinned.
Instead of taking that approach, only two men approached Grant warily, the others hanging back as, what, reinforcements? Well, if they wanted to be dumb, Grant wasn’t going to stop them.
As soon as they were within reach, Grant swept his leg out, sending the guy on his left to the floor, his head cracking on the marble. The one on his right swung his fist around, but only connected with air as Grant ducked under it. Using all his considerable strength, Grant hammered his fist into his assailant’s solar plexus. With a grunt, the man doubled over and collapsed, gasping for breath.
Grant stood up and smiled at the ringleader. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
Sal glanced at the other three, who rushed Grant. The degree of difficulty was harder this time, but nothing he hadn’t seen in the wrestling ring years before. Of course, those fights were scripted, but thanks to his Ranger training, Grant had learned a few more tricks.
He whipped around and threw an elbow into the chest of the man behind him, then kicked upward, connecting just under the chin of another guy, sending him flying backward. The third man was able to get a knee into Grant’s side, but Grant slapped the man on both ears simultaneously, likely shattering both eardrums.
Grant was feeling good about his progress in beating the crap out of six men when he heard the unmistakable snap of a police baton expanding. Too late, he turned to see Sal swing the baton around, catching him in the back. His kidneys exploded in pain from the impact of the baton’s steel tip, and he dropped to his knees.
Sal reared back for another blow. Grant swiped at his leg with one arm, knocking him over, but the distraction was enough to keep Grant from seeing a second baton sweep down.
A starburst blasted across his vision, and he had the vague sense to turn his head so that his teeth didn’t smash into the stone as he pitched forward.
He battled to remain conscious, if not for his own sake then for Tyler’s and Stacy’s, but the struggle lasted only another three seconds before a feeling of nausea overcame him and his world went black.
FIFTY-ONE
F or the third time, Tyler called Grant and couldn’t reach him. Having separated from Grant and the security team earlier in the day, he’d agreed to stay in regular contact. The last time they’d spoken was fifteen minutes ago.
Tyler and Stacy were standing in the nave of San Francesco di Paola, the church that formed the western edge of Piazza del Plebiscito. The church was behind the music stage, and the square was already filling with concertgoers ready for a night of songs and fireworks. Tyler thought the church would be a safe haven until they needed to venture out into the square to meet Orr. Their location would keep him in close proximity to Grant’s
