“You have something to do with that?”
“Heard you killed the man you thought did.”
“I don’t mind taking out the trash,” Christan agreed. “I’m doing some of that right now.”
“Her bedroom smelled like fresh flowers,” the man said. “Her sheets like sex. I rubbed my cock all over her pillow and then I nailed that cat to her bed.”
“I’m disappointed to hear that.” The man tied to the chair jerked beneath the sudden pain. “Who told you to kill the cat?”
“No one. They told us to have fun.”
“Are you having fun now?”
The warrior shrugged, trying to shield against the mental intrusion; Christan eased up enough to let him believe resistance was possible.
“We’ll still get the girl and she’ll squeal like her cat,” the snatcher said. “If not today, then some other day.”
“Who sent you?”
“Don’t have a name.”
“You don’t have very much, do you?”
“Okay,” the snatcher said, seeming to understand the danger. “Maybe it was this rich guy.”
“He’s the one paying?” Because mercenaries rarely did anything without money in the bank.
“Yeah, but only if we get your girl.”
“Alive?”
“Dead is okay, too.”
“How many have you killed?” Christan asked.
No answer. Moaning filled the cellar again.
“How many?”
“We haven’t counted,” the man said, and tried to laugh until his windpipe completely closed. The snatcher struggled against the plastic ties that held his wrists, and his bare feet beat against the dirty floor. Christan released the mental pressure around the man’s throat enough for the snatcher to look into his face.
“How many?”
No answer.
Christan expected none. Without emotion, he pressed harder into the man’s mind, ripped into the memories. He didn’t need to be told how many innocents had been killed. He could see for himself. Count them. Slowly, methodically, he broke apart the images. He learned of the second attack, of the three men hiding in a warehouse outside of Florence, and the two girls they’d snatched from the street. Learned what they planned to do and where they planned to do it. Calculated the time he had before the atrocities began. Discovered the plans after those plans. Plans for Arsen’s girl. For Christan’s girl. And when he was done and the man sat screaming in the chair, Christan turned to his second.
Arsen?
Arsen didn’t have to ask. He stepped forward, placed both hands on the man’s head and twisted so swiftly no one realized an execution had occurred until the body hit the floor. Both warriors turned and walked out of the cellar.
Someone else would clean up the mess.
CHAPTER 22
Someone was watching. Awareness prickled as Lexi stood in front of the bronze Etruscan sculpture of a wounded chimera from the 4th century BC. She’d read the details in the guidebook clutched in her hand, trying to look like every other tourist while her heart began to pound. A group of Japanese students closed in and provided cover; it was a guided tour, but at least they weren’t carrying the umbrella or the large yellow flag that marked so many tour guides throughout Florence. The guide escorted her charges into the next gallery and Lexi joined a different group crowding toward the exit. Within minutes Lexi was back outside and wincing in the bright sunlight as she hurried down the street.
Arsen stood in her path.
“Having fun, Slick?”
Her gaze narrowed as she slid to a halt.
“You here to kick my ass?”
“I thought you knew how to read.”
Lexi had no idea why she felt so bad. Maybe it was the look in Arsen’s eyes. “I came here to help.” Crossing both arms, Lexi braced. Arsen was far too good a second-in-command not to rat her out, and she expected to find Christan lurking at her back. But they were alone.
“Where is he?”
“Busy.”
Arsen had matched her stance. Lexi realized he was angry. His arms were so taut the biceps flexed, and she didn’t like the way his gaze kept moving to scan the street.
“Was that you in the museum just now, following me?”
“No.” Arsen’s expression changed, and he pulled her into an alley. A Vespa motorbike was parked at the curb with two helmets hanging from the handle bars. He thrust one in her direction.
“Put this on.”
Lexi eyed the helmet warily. “We’re going somewhere?”
Arsen was already astride the bike. From his scowl, the bike wasn’t a preferred choice for transportation. “Get on, Slick. I ain’t gonna wait all day.”
Lexi took the helmet, slid on the saddle behind him. She’d never understood why people loved Vespas until Arsen navigated through the maze of traffic with such ease, slipping between stopped vehicles and up on to the curb a few times. He doubled back twice as if making sure no one followed. Lexi held on to his waist. Soon exhilaration surpassed fear. When he turned the engine off outside a four-story stone building topped with red tile, Lexi was smiling so hard her face hurt.
“This isn’t the flat, Bucko,” she pointed out as they stood on the sidewalk. “You get lost?”
“Nope.”
“Big warrior secret?”
Arsen made a rude sound that meant he wasn’t seriously mad anymore, only a little mad, and ushered her inside. “Upstairs.”
“Who’s waiting upstairs?”
“You remember that video conference with the Italians? They told us about Dante’s girl.”
The woman’s name was Renata, and she’d been running through an outdoor market near the Piazza di San Lorenzo. Luca said they’d recovered her, but she was emotionally wounded and would need time to heal.
“Since Renata refuses to talk to us,” Arsen continued, “Christan sent me to get you. If he’d come himself and found you gone, he’d be really pissed right now.”
“But you’ll keep my secret, won’t you, Bucko?”
Arsen didn’t answer. The lobby of the building was quiet, the first landing scattered with fliers, and the stairs to the second floor were covered with clean but threadbare carpet. By the time they reached the third floor Lexi realized it was one of those old buildings that held so many memories. They were warm and comforting, traces of happy families, echoes of laughter floating through the halls. Lexi caught snatches: a transparent image of a soccer ball bouncing down the steps, children, just sitting with their legs swinging through the black iron of the railing. There were the scents of lemon, sweet basil, the murmurs of old women sitting in the doorways when it was too hot to gossip in the sun. These were the imprints she enjoyed because they held no uneasy secrets.
They reached the top floor, and Dante met them at the entrance to the flat. Lexi was directed one way while Arsen and Dante disappeared in another. She found Renata waiting on a balcony filled with plants, red geraniums, ferns, something trailing over the ornate black railing. The sudden sprays of green reminded Lexi that the old town of Florence was a city made of stone. Stone buildings on narrow stone streets. Only the formal tourist gardens held trees. It was the absence of trees Lexi felt the most.
Two padded iron chairs were arranged around a table set with glasses of lemonade. Renata sat in one chair. Lexi slid back the other chair. Renata looked younger than expected, but perhaps the photos had aged her. Or the look of terror that had been in her eyes. When the woman spoke, it was in English.
“You have memory lines?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I check?”
Lexi allowed Renata to take her wrist and hold it in the light. Two lines glimmered in the sun.
“You haven’t recovered many memories,” the woman said as she released Lexi’s hand.
“Does it matter?”
“I can’t expect you to understand if you haven’t remembered enough to know.”
“I understand what it’s like to have the dreams,” Lexi said. “That should be enough.”
Renata’s face tightened. Her right hand held a tracery of memory lines that looked like a spider’s web. The woman sipped at the lemonade and Lexi felt precious time tick by until Renata returned the glass to the table.
“What do you know about warriors?” Renata asked.