Point Blank

“Signore Adamo? This is Lieutenant Albanesi.”

One of their men within the Guardia di Finanza, Albanesi never called unless there was some trouble in the offing—an indictment, for example, or a raid pending against some Magolino enterprise.

“Yes, Lieutenant. How may I assist you?” Aldo was going through the motions, as if they were simply friends and he was there to serve the fat little policeman.

“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Albanesi said. “We have found four of your men outside Le Croci. They’re dead.”

“Dead? All four?”

“Regrettably. Yes, sir.”

“What happened?”

“They were shot. It also seems that one of them was struck by a vehicle.”

Adamo knew he must be careful with his next question. “Were they alone?”

“Yes,” the officer confirmed. “Were you...expecting someone else?”

“No, no. I only thought, if there was shooting...”

“Ah, of course. They did return fire, but we’ve found no evidence so far that it accomplished anything. I wonder, sir, if you could say what sort of car they had?”

“Their car?” Adamo had to think about it for a moment, thrown off base by Albanesi’s unexpected question. “It was a black Lancia Delta.”

“And would you know the number of its license plate by any chance?”

“I couldn’t say. It’s registered commercially,” Adamo answered. “To our winery, if I am not mistaken.”

“Never mind,” the lieutenant said. “I can check that myself.”

“Why do you ask about the car?” Adamo pressed him.

“Ah. Because we found one at the scene, damaged by gunfire. It’s a rental, from the airport at Lamezia Terme. It was hired out today, in fact, to someone named...um...Scott Parker. Is that name familiar to you, sir?”

“It is not,” Adamo said. But it will be, he thought.

“An American, it appears, if we may trust his operator’s license and the credit card he used to hire the car. We will be tracing both.”

“Of course. Please keep me informed of any progress, and advise me when the bodies may be claimed for burial. Their families...”

“Under the circumstances,” Albanesi said, “I’m afraid the magistrate will certainly demand autopsies. The delay in their release may be substantial.”

“Do the best you can,” Adamo said. “Your efforts are appreciated, Lieutenant.”

Meaning that he owed the little troll another envelope of cash, with more to come if Albanesi could identify the killer and deliver him to the family.

But the main headache for Adamo now was the missing woman.

A headache he was about to share with his padrino.

Bracing for the storm to come, Adamo made the call.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_2f079b69-ee76-57f6-9b20-94596190fb75)

“I need to ditch this car,” Bolan informed his silent passenger. “As soon as possible.”

“Of course.” She answered dully, as if they were discussing the weather.

The police would find his rental car sometime within the hour, if they weren’t already at the shooting scene. That meant they’d trace it to the airport and discover his I.D. An all-points bulletin was sure to follow, with a photocopy of his driver’s license and a tight watch on his credit card in Scott Parker’s name.

Bad news, but he was not prepared to call it a catastrophe.

The I.D. was disposable. Once he’d placed a call to Hal, inquiries into Scott Parker would collide with cold stone walls, all record of the man erased, leaving police—and anybody else who tried to trace him in the States—without a clue. As far as money went, he had enough on hand to see his mission through, and he could always pick up more by ripping off the ’Ndrangheta.

But his enemies would be looking for the car he’d borrowed. Whether they passed on its description to the cops or not, all eyes beholden to the syndicate would be wide open, watching for the black Lancia Delta.

Too bad, Bolan thought. It was a nice ride, but every minute he spent behind its wheel brought him closer to danger. Losing the car in Catanzaro shouldn’t be a problem, but his best bet for a quick replacement was the long-term parking lot at the same airport where he’d rented the Alfa Romeo. Maybe he could put the woman on a flight out of Calabria at the same time.

“You saved my life,” the woman said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

“Happy to do it,” Bolan replied.

“But why?”

“Why not?”

She hesitated. “Are you...’ndranghetisto?”

“No,” Bolan said. “Not even close.”

She tried again. “Police?”

“I’m strictly unofficial,” he said. She looked confused. “You are not Italian.”

“No.”

“ American, I believe.”

“Does it matter?” Bolan asked.

“No, I suppose not. I simply want to understand.”

“I saw an opportunity to help and took it. Let it go at that.”

“What happens now?”

“First, I find another set of wheels, and then I make arrangements that will keep you safe.”