Chapter Three - 'Rough Diamond' Part Three

I’m already moving, charging across the floor... “Katya! Down!”

Her face swings toward me, then again toward the approaching figure…

Diners look up, slack jawed. The father of the teenage boys stands, blocking my way… “Now, look here…” … But barrelling past, I shove him aside in my headlong charge for the strange waiter.

Roaring some instruction, Romano pushes Katya aside and down, under the table… The lid lifts from the tray… As the dome comes up, I see the dish underneath…

And I'm hurling myself toward him, lashing out for the tray, crashing my fist down on his extended arm. The waiter yelps. Tray and dome topple, clanging down. The dish spins and sprays, splashing cloths, tables and diners in a tide of tomato, pesto and cream, vivid across white tablecloths, the expensive carpet and even more expensive clothes of the diners.

The waiter sits up, red sauce dripping down his shirt front. Romano offers him a hand up, snarling. “What the hell d’you think you’re playing at, Hickman?”

Voices in the background bark and snarl, but it's like some movie background. “Sir, he said he was Guiseppe. He’s not.”

Emilio charges up. “Who are you? Where is my nephew?

Giving me the evil-eye, the waiter swipes himself down with a napkin. “The agency sent me. Here, I’ve got the paperwork…” He slides a hand as though to an inside pocket... “… Guiseppe called in to say couldn’t make it…”

But I’ve already seen the bulge under the jacket…

Reality clicks into slow motion…

…The movement…

… the weapon... A Sig Sauer…

… arcing upward…

Romano’s face morphs from anger, to surprise, to wide-eyed shock…

… grabbing hold of Katya, plunging, he takes her with him…

Lurching, I swing my arm down, trying to knock off the aim…

… but the trigger squeezes…

The crash of a round being fired… And another…

The smash of shattering glass…

A round punches up into the table, splinters flying. Another ricochets from the wall, plaster fragmenting. Diners scream and dive and run, chairs scraping and tables overturning as men and women alike stampede out, scattering for the kitchens, the bathrooms. Some even with the sense to make for the outer door.

Schmidt, charging in from off-side, hurls himself at the assassin, slamming him to the carpet, grappling for the weapon, but Romano flings an arm toward me, then Katya… “Get her out of here!”

Hauling her bodily from under the table and upright, hooking my arm through hers, I bundle her toward the exit, scanning one way and the other for accomplices. Manhandling her out, I hear Romano’s snarled question. “Who the fuck is he? There any more new staff?”

***

On the street, barely are we clear of the door when another shot slams out. Inches away, stucco shatters and flies as, reflexively, we both duck.

Where the hell did that come from?

Spinning Katya against the wall to shield her with my body… “Stay low!” … Crouching, I hustle her along behind the doubtful shelter of parked traffic, but in the dagger-heels and elegant outfit, she’s dressed for dinner and being seen, not escaping from assassins. Glock in hand, I press her around the corner for the shelter of the side-alley.

Another shot. She shrieks, cowering back into my embrace. “Where are we going?”

“Car’s parked in the next road,” I mutter. But then, with a bare second to think, to measure our situation…

To reach the car, we’d have to cross the street, completely exposed.

Fuck!

For a moment, stymied, I hover…

… Then, tapping at the pre-stored number in my phone, “Armando, get a fucking car to La Dolce Vita. Right now!”

Behind his voice, an engine roars. “Already on my way, Hickman. Hang in there.”

“What are we going to do?” Katya’s eyes are wide, her pupils pin-pricked and she’s panting.

Glock in hand, I lay a hand on her shoulder, pressing her back around the shelter of the side-alley. “We stay put. Try not to panic. Help’s on the way.”

She peers back along the narrow passageway. “Can’t we escape that way?”

“Dead end. We go down there, we’re sitting ducks.” I scan the row of buildings across the street: stores, take-aways, apartments…

Where the hell are they shooting from?

Then, the squeal of wheels and Armando roars up from the end of the road, tires screeching as he pulls up alongside, the passenger door flinging open. Ducking behind the cover of the car, I shove Katya inside headfirst, yelling, “Get her the hell out of here.”

Slamming the door closed behind her, I slap on the roof and as Armando revs away, I break for the next vehicle. Another shot rings out, slamming into tarmac where a tire burned rubber half a second ago.

But this time, my attention freed, I saw where the round came from. An open door to one of the balconies across the street. Two floors up, the sniper has a clear view of La Dolce Vita and the adjacent two or three stores.

Weapon at the ready, I keep running, now for the triangle of greenery, ducking behind the shelter of shrubs and hedgerow, looping around the edge of the island. Another shot sounds, this time ricocheting from the fountain. But the sniper’ll get no more on me. He’s lost the angle and I’m out of his line of fire.

Dodging traffic, I dash across the road then, pressed against the wall of the building under the shadow of the overhanging balconies…

Front or rear?

Never going to come to the front…

I toe-sprint for the back of the block, pausing to peer around the corner.

The shots have died.

Gone to ground?

Probably getting the hell out…

And there, I see him. Stepping out from a roller-shutter exit, strolling, carrying a bag, trying to look casual.

And I’m running, Glock in my outstretched hands, charging forward. As he sees me coming, he gawks, reversing back into the building, banging the door in my face. But my foot in the gap, I kick inward, cheap timber bouncing back on the hinges.

Barging through, I’m right behind him as he hammers up the stairs. At the top of the first flight, swinging around, the bag swings with him, snags on the handrail and yanks him back.

A mere heartbeat, but that’s all it needs. I’m on him, my fist in his face as he twists, trying to face me.

Too late. He’s down, on his hands and knees. My weapon against the back of his head, yanking the bag away, “Flat on the ground, face down. Hands behind your head.”

Silent but trembling, he obeys. I pat him down, finding no more than a cell phone. “Who sent you?”

He trembles but doesn’t speak.

“Easy or hard. Your call. My magazine’s full and there’s a spare in my pocket. That’s thirty rounds I can pump into you one at a time. I’ll start with your feet so you can’t run. Now, who sent you?”

Mouth and throat working, he licks his lips.

“Right foot first, then left. Your hands go next.”

His eyes dart one way and the other, shoulders hunching. “It was Mancini.”

“Mancini? The man himself? Not one of his men? He spoke to you?”

“No. It came as a message to my phone.”

“You always get your orders that way?”

“Yes. He messages the instruction. When the job’s done, I get paid.”

“This phone here? What’s the PIN?”

“Yes. And nine-two-oh-seven.”

Quickly, I check the PIN unlocks the phone, shove it in a jacket pocket then, my Glock still poised, juggle my own cell out, thumbing open to Romano’s number. “Sir, I've got one of them. The sniper across the street.”

“Good work, Hickman. Recognise him?”

“No, sir. He says Mancini hired him. You want to interrogate him?”

“No need. I’ve got the fake waiter. He’s already confirmed it was Mancini. I’m sure he’ll give me the rest of what I want to know very shortly.”

“And this one?”

“We don’t need him. Get rid of him.”

“Sir.”

Romano’s words are loud enough for my sniper to hear. His cheek pressed to the concrete, glaze-eyed, he’s trembling violently. “Will you make it quick?”

“I’m not a sadist. You were here to do a job. You failed.” And I pull the trigger.

***

Adrenaline is a great thing. When the body faces an emergency, the ability to acquire a superpower is irreplaceable. But now that the emergency is over, I can think…

Romano paces, white-faced and furious. “How dare they? How fucking dare they?”

Armando watches our mutual employer with caution in his eye, exchanges a glance with me.

I interrupt his pacing. “Sir, the real question is how they knew.” He halts, staring at me, eyes white-rimmed. “They had the fake waiter in place. They had a sniper in position. They knew you'd be there, sir.”

He snarls quietly. “That sniper could have been waiting for days. I use La Dolce Vita regularly.” He shrugs, jaw clenching. “Fuck! It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t build up habits.”

“What about the waiter, sir? He replaced the real Guiseppe. They knew there would be a fresh face in there to cause confusion. Who told them? For that matter, do we know where the real Guiseppe is?”

Romano calms, blows out his cheeks. “He’s okay. In hospital. He was found tied and gagged in his own apartment. He’d had a blow to the head but isn’t seriously injured. A mild case of concussion. They say he’ll be fine in a day or two. I gather he’s more shaken that it could have happened at all.”

“You can hardly blame him. Who’d think being a waiter could be dangerous?” Romano raises brows, nodding thoughtfully. I continue. “Do we know how the attack happened? He lived by himself? When he has family here? Could one of the family be the leak?”

Romano sucks at his teeth. “That's an unpleasant idea. I'd not like to think Emilio had a traitor in the camp. I rather like the old man.”

“It could have been quite innocent,” I say. “Who’d think it controversial to mention a new family member joining the staff? I imagine everyone in the restaurant knew there'd be an unfamiliar face joining them. He only had to get away with it for half an hour.”

“Maybe. But right now, it’s not your problem.” He fixes an eye on me. “What did you do with the sniper?”

“Bagged him up and dumped him at the landfill site.”

Romano nods slowly, staring down, then, “Hickman, I want you to get Katya out of here until this is resolved.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you, Hickman. I need men I know I can trust. Armando here will help me in the search for our leak. You are responsible for keeping Katya out of harm’s way.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

A flight out of the city on fake IDs.

Another flight, hopping destinations, breaking the trail.

A rental car, a drive, and another city.

We should be untraceable.

Katya’s quiet, barely speaking the entire journey. Dumbly, she simply obeys me as I guide her through my planned route.

***

In the hotel suite, I try to settle her down. “Miss Masterson, you’re safe here. No one knows we’re here except Mr Romano. And he’s sent me with you to be sure you’re okay…” Eyes reddened, her smile is watery. “… Try to relax. Have a bath. Watch some TV. Whatever helps you wind down.” Her mouth curves, the smile looking a bit more genuine. “Would you like to eat?” I ask. “I can call room service. Or some wine perhaps?”

Her throat ripples. “I couldn’t eat right now. Later maybe.”

“You’ve not eaten all day. You should have something, even if it’s only a bowl of soup.”

She sucks at her lips, then nods. “Alright. Soup.”

“Good. I’ll go order it. Why don’t you go have that bath? I’ll call you when the food arrives.”

***