Malone veered left, out into the mist, and trotted across the square.
The two men advanced parallel to him, their images illuminated between each of the arches. The thin strain of one of the café orchestras masked all sound.
Malone slowed and wove his way through a maze of tables, empty thanks to the inclement weather. Beneath the covered arcade, Stephanie stood before a glass case studying the ice cream.
The two men rounded the corner a hundred feet away.
He stepped up beside her and said, “The chocolate chip is excellent.”
Surprise invaded her face. “Cotton, what in—”
“No time. We have company, behind me, coming this way.”
He saw her glance over his shoulder.
He turned.
Guns appeared.
He shoved Stephanie away from the counter and together they fled the arcade, back into the piazza.
He gripped his gun and readied himself for a fight.
But they were trapped. A football field–size open square spread out behind them. Nowhere to go.
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “I have this under control.”
He stared at her, and hoped to heaven she was right.
VIKTOR INCHED THE BOAT THROUGH THE NARROW CANAL AND passed beneath a rickety arched bridge. He wasn’t planning on tying up at the waterway’s end, near the restaurant, he just wanted to make sure the village had cleared out for the night. He was glad for the wet weather, a typical Italian storm had blown in from the sea, rain coming off and on, more a nuisance than a distraction, but enough to provide them with great cover.
Rafael kept an eye out on the blackened banks. High tide had arrived two hours ago, which should make their eventual landing point that much more accessible. He’d spotted the location earlier. Adjacent to the basilica, where a sluggish canal cut a broad path across the breadth of the island. A concrete dock, near the basilica, would provide the stopping point.
Ahead, he spotted the village.
Dark and quiet.
No boats.
They’d just come from the warehouse Zovastina had directed him toward. True to her word, the Supreme Minister had planned ahead. Greek fire, guns, and ammunition were stored there. He wondered, though, about torching the museum. It seemed unnecessary, but Zovastina had made clear that nothing should remain.
“Looks okay,” Rafael said.
He agreed.
So he shifted the boat’s throttle into neutral, then reversed the engine.
CASSIOPEIA SMILED. SHE’D BEEN RIGHT. THEY WOULDN’T BE FOOLISH enough to dock at the village. They’d intentionally reconnoitered the other canal that ran beside the basilica as their destination.
She watched the boat’s outline turn one hundred eighty degrees and leave the canal. She reached back, found the gun Thorvaldsen had sent, and chambered a round. She gripped both the gun and the cloth bag and fled her hiding place, keeping her eyes locked out on the water.
Viktor and his accomplice found the lagoon.
Engines revved.
The boat veered right, beginning its circumnavigation of the island.
She trotted through the soggy night, toward the churches, one stop to make along the way.
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
THIRTY-EIGHT
STEPHANIE WAS PUZZLED BY MALONE’S PRESENCE. ONLY ONE WAY she could have been found. No time at the moment, though, to consider the implications.
“Do it now,” she said into the lapel mike.
Three pops echoed across the piazza and one of the armed men crumpled to the pavement. She and Malone dove to the damp flagstones as the remaining man sought cover. Malone reacted with the skill of the agent he’d once been and rolled himself back into the arcade, firing twice, trying to flush the remaining attacker out into the open square.
People scattered in a frenzy, as a panic overtook San Marco.
Malone sprang to his feet and hugged the wet side of one of the arches. The assailant stood fifty feet away, caught in a crossfire between Malone and the rifleman Stephanie had stationed atop the building on the north side.
“Care to tell me what’s happening?” Malone asked, not taking his eyes off the man.
“Ever heard of bait?”
“Yeah, and it’s a bitch on that hook.”
“I have men in the square.”
He risked a look around, but saw nothing. “They invisible?”
She looked around, too. No one was coming their way. Everyone was fleeing toward the basilica. A familiar anger swelled inside her.
“Police will be here any second,” he said.
She realized that could be a problem. Her rules at the Magellan Billet discouraged agents from involving the locals. They were usually not helpful or were downright hostile, and she’d seen evidence of that, firsthand, in Amsterdam.
“He’s on the move,” Malone said, as he rushed forward.
She followed and said into the mike, “Get out of here.”
Malone was running to an exit that led from the arcade, away from the square, back into the dark streets of Venice. At the exit’s end a pedestrian bridge arced over one of the canals.
She saw Malone race across it.
MALONE KEPT RUNNING. CLOSED SHOPS LINED BOTH SIDES OF THE ridiculously narrow lane. Just ahead, the street right-angled. A few pedestrians turned the corner. He slowed and concealed the gun beneath his jacket, keeping his fingers tight on the trigger.
He stopped at the next corner, embracing the gleam of a wet store window. He swallowed hot, heavy gulps of air and carefully peered around the edge.
A bullet whizzed past and ricocheted off the stone.
Stephanie found him.
“Isn’t this foolish?” she asked.
“Don’t know. It’s your party.”
He risked another look.
Nothing.
He abandoned his position and rushed forward another thirty feet to where the street turned again. A glance around the corner and he saw more closed shops and deep shadows and a misty murk that could conceal almost anything.
Stephanie approached, holding a gun.
“Aren’t you the little field agent?” he said. “Carrying a weapon now?”