Chapter 165
165
Iroared down the winding roads of Tuscany, figuring it was better to deal with a cop than to be chased by the mafia.
I wanted to pull out my phone and scream at the client, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO p>
But I had to focus on driving so I could get out of there.
When I was safe… then I would call the client.
And probably not scream at him unless I wanted to be next on his hit list.
I kept checking my rearview mirror.
I didn’t see anything at first –
Until I did.
Miles behind me, back on the ridge overlooking the valley I was in, a beautiful blue sports car stopped along the side of the road. Someone got out, a tiny speck in the distance.
It was Lars.
I couldn’t see him – it was too far away – but I knew it was him. I could feel it in my bones.
Don’t follow me…
PLEASE don’t follow me…
Unfortunately, my prayers were not granted.
The blue sports car took off in my direction a few seconds later.
FUCK.
The one card I had up my sleeve was courtesy of MI6.
Part of being an agent is training for almost everything that could get thrown at you over the course of a mission.
I could fly a plane or helicopter well enough to take off and land without crashing…
But I could drive a car like a Formula 1 racer.
I flew down the road and took the corners at breakneck speeds, occasionally glancing in my rearview mirror to see if the blue sports car was gaining on me.
Every few minutes, I caught a glimpse in the distance –
But it seemed to grow smaller and smaller every time I saw it.
A few minutes later, I reached the first major exit for the road I was on.
I could either continue on to Florence –
Or take another highway and go south.
I decided to go south.
I slowed down to a crawl so my tires wouldn’t leave skid marks on the road – which Lars would be able to see – and took the exit.
Once on the new highway, I sped up again – although I kept my speed reasonable so the cops wouldn’t stop me.
After 30 minutes, I was reasonably sure Lars was no longer following me.
After an hour, I was certain.
I stopped on a deserted country road, stripped off my camouflage, and switched into jeans and a blouse.
I was just about to contact the client when Sean called me first.
“Did you do it?” he asked nervously.
“No, I missed,” I said in a calm voice.
I didn’t tell him why I missed. Maybe I would tell him at some point, but not now. I was still processing the fact that Lars had been there.
“…oh p>
I could hear the fear in his voice.
“What? Did you find out who the client is p>
“Yeah. His name is Fausto Rosolini, he’s the UNCLE of the target… and he’s ALSO in the mafia p>
Great.
“Well,” I said, trying to keep my composure, “it’s not like I didn’t anticipate the mafia part p>
“What’s Fausto’s reaction going to be when he finds out you missed p>
“I told him several times that things would likely end in failure p>
“Yeah, but… considering he’s mafia p>
He didn’t have to finish the thought.
Our other clients would have been irritated at my failure, but they wouldn’t have pushed back too hard.
A mafia thug wouldn’t be intimidated at all.
“I’m not sure how he’ll react,” I answered truthfully. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out p>
“Alright… watch your back p>
“Thanks, Sean p>
Then I hung up.
I hesitated for almost a full minute… then told myself it had to be done.
I dialed the number Fausto had given me. He answered on the second ring.
“Well?” he snapped.
He sounded completely unlike the times I had talked to him before. The charm was gone, replaced with irritability.
“I missed p>
“I see,” he said gruffly. “Was there a reason why p>
I asked myself, Do I tell him?
I reasoned that he already knew. If I didn’t mention it, he would know I was lying.
“Yes. My ex-boyfriend was Rosolini’s private bodyguard. He’s former Special Forces, and he tackled Rosolini before my second shot p>
There was a long silence.
When he didn’t answer, I grew angry.
Okay, fucker – if that’s the way you want to play it –
“Why didn’t you tell me Lars was on his security detail?” I asked in a cool voice.
There was no hesitation in Fausto’s voice: “Because you wouldn’t have taken the job p>
“But you knew p>
His answer was angry and contemptuous. “Of course I knew p>
I looked out into the distance. I wanted to scream at him –
Actually, I wanted to go back and kill him.
But he was in the mafia.
And I didn’t want to fuck with someone who killed people for a living… especially one who knew my name.
As one of those people myself, I knew they weren’t to be trifled with.
Plus, Fausto had been willing to assassinate his own nephew.
What would he be willing to do to me?
“I didn’t complete the job successfully, so you can keep the second half of the payment,” I said.
“What about a second attempt p>
“I don’t think that’s advisable,” I said coldly.
As though I’d try again, knowing that Lars was out there waiting for me.
Fausto’s reply was curt. “Fine p>
Something was wrong. The mafia boss sounded preoccupied – like something had happened over the last couple of hours, something I didn’t know about – and he didn’t really give a damn that my assassination attempt had failed.
Either that, or he was pissed off at me and planned to tie up loose ends later on.
“I want to make sure you and I are good,” I said.
“Aren’t we?” he asked coolly.
“All good from this end p>
“Then I’m fine, too. Consider our business concluded. When you leave the car, text me the location. I’ll have someone retrieve it p>
Then he hung up.
I wanted to scream – to rage – to stab the asshole’s eyes out with a knife –
But I had more important matters to attend to. Like getting out of Italy alive.
So I got back in the car and drove away.
I did as Fausto had suggested and drove to a city other than Florence.
However, I chose one he hadn’t mentioned – just in case he had friends waiting for me in Rome.
I drove to Bologna, which was about 70 miles northeast of Florence. It was big enough that I could catch a direct flight to London.
In one of the small towns I passed through, I wiped the helmet clean of prints, then stuffed it and the camouflage in a dumpster. Then I wiped down the rifle and Glock to remove any prints and put them back in the car trunk.
When I reached the airport in Bologna, I purchased a British Airways ticket to London leaving at 6:35 PM.
I ate dinner and boarded the plane at 6PM.
Only as we were taxiing down the runway did I text Fausto.
The car is at the airport in Bologna. Top level of the main parking garage.
He never texted back, so I assumed our business really was concluded.
As the plane climbed into the sky, I wondered if there would be any blowback from botching the job and how bad it might be.
A week later, I found out:
Pretty fucking bad.