Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘She’s an NYPD detective and a competitive shooter.’

Rossi considered the request. Then he said, ‘I am not aware of the agreement we have with the United States but I authorized gendarmes in pursuit of a criminal from France to enter Campania armed. I will do the same now.’ He vanished and returned a few minutes later with a plastic pistol container. He jotted the number from the case onto a form and opened it. ‘This is a—’

‘Beretta ninety-six,’ she said. ‘The A-one. Forty caliber.’ She took it and pointed it downward, moving the slide slightly to verify it was empty. She took two black magazines and the box of ammunition that Rossi had also brought.

‘Sign here. And where it says “Rank,” and “Affiliation” — those words there — write something illegible. But please, Detective Sachs, do not shoot anyone if you can avoid it.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

She scrawled where he’d indicated, slipped in a mag and worked the slide to chamber a round. Then, making sure it was on safe, she tucked the weapon into her back waistband. She hurried to the door.

Ercole looked from Daniela to Rossi. ‘Should I—?’

Rhyme said, ‘Go! You should go .’

‘That’s it ?’ Amelia Sachs asked, as they ran from the Questura. ‘That’s your car?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Ercole was beside a small, boxy vehicle called a Mégane, soft blue, dusty and dinged. He began to walk to her side and open the door for her.

‘I’m fine.’ She waved him off. ‘Let’s go.’

The young officer climbed into the driver’s seat and she dropped into the passenger’s.

‘It’s not much, I’m sorry to say.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘The Flying Squad actually had two Lamborghinis. One was in an accident a few years ago so I’m not sure if they still have both of them. It’s a marked police car. What a—’

‘We should move.’

‘Of course.’

He started the engine. He put the shifter in first, signaled to the left and looked over his shoulder, waiting for a gap in traffic.

Sachs said, ‘I’ll drive.’

‘What?’

She slipped the shifter into neutral and yanked up on the brake, then leapt out.

Ercole said, ‘I should ask, do you have a license? There are probably forms to be filled out. I suppose—’

Then she was at the left-hand door, pulling it open. He climbed out. She said, ‘You can navigate.’ Ercole scurried around the car and dropped into the other seat and she settled into the right, not needing to adjust the seat’s position; he was taller and it was as far back as it might go.

She glanced at him. ‘Seat belt.’

‘Oh. Here, no one cares.’ A chuckle. ‘And they never give you a ticket.’

‘Put it on.’

‘All right. I will—’

Just as it clicked, she slammed the gears into first, fed the engine a slug of gas and popped the clutch, darting into a minuscule gap in traffic. One car swerved and another braked. Both honked. She didn’t bother to look back.

‘ Mamma mia ,’ Ercole whispered.

‘Where do I go?’

‘Straight on this road for a kilometer.’

‘Where’re your lights?’

‘There.’ He pointed to a switch. The headlights.

‘No, I mean the flashers. You have blue here, in Italy?’

‘Blue? Oh, police lights? I don’t have them—’ He gasped as she zipped into a space between a truck and a trio of motorcyclists. ‘This is my personal car.’

‘Ah. And how much horsepower? Eighty?’

Ercole said, ‘No, no, it’s closer to a hundred, one ten, in fact.’

Be still my heart, she thought, but said nothing. Amelia Sachs would never tarnish anyone’s image of his own wheels.

‘You don’t have flashers in your personal cars?’

‘The Police of State might. Inspector Rossi and Daniela. I am, as you know, with the Forestry Corps. We do not. At least none of the officers I work with do. Oh, we are to turn soon.’

‘Which street and which way?’

‘Left. That one up there. But I didn’t prepare. I am sorry. I don’t think we can get over in time.’

They got over in time.

And took the ninety degrees in a screaming second gear. He gasped.

‘Next turn?’

‘Half a kilometer, to the right. Via Letizia.’

He inhaled harshly as she accelerated to eighty kph, weaving into and out of all four lanes.

‘Will they reimburse you, the Police of State?’

‘It’s only a few euros for the mileage, hardly worth the effort of the forms.’

She’d been referring to repairing the transmission but decided not to bring that up. Anyway, how much damage could a hundred horses do to a tranny?

‘Here is the turn.’

Via Letizia...

The road grew congested. Rear ends and brake lights loomed.

She was skidding to a stop, using both brakes, inches from the jam.

A blast of horn. Nobody moved.

‘Hold your badge up,’ she told him.

His smile said the gesture would do no good.

She hit the horn again and guided the car over the curb and along the sidewalk. Furious faces turned toward her, though the expressions of some of the younger men switched from indignant anger to amusement and even admiration when they noted the insane driver was a beautiful redhead.

She breached the intersection and turned as Ercole had instructed. Then roared forward.

‘Call,’ she instructed. ‘See if the — what’s the name of your tac outfit again?’

‘Tac?’

‘Sorry. Tactical. See where they are.’

‘Oh, SCO.’ He pulled out his phone and placed a call. Like most of the conversations she’d heard so far, this one unfolded lightning-fast. It ended with a clipped, ‘ Ciao, ciao, ciao, ciao... ’ He gripped the dash as she shot between two trucks and said, ‘They’re assembled and on the way. It should be fifteen minutes.’

‘How far are we?’

‘ Cinque. I mean—’

‘Five.’ Sachs was grimacing. ‘Can’t somebody be there any faster? We’ll need a breaching team. The Composer would have locked the doorway or gate again. He did that in New York.’

‘They’ll probably think of that.’

‘Tell them anyway.’

Another call. And she could tell from the tone, if not the words, that there was nothing to do to expedite the arrival of the tactical force.

‘They have hammers and cutters and a torch.’

A fast shift, fourth to second. She punched the accelerator. The engine howled.

A phrase of her father’s came to mind. A bylaw of her life.

When you move they can’t getcha...

But just then: A blond teenager, his long curls flying in the breeze, steered a peppy orange scooter through a stoplight, oblivious to any traffic.

‘Shit.’

In a blur of appendages, Sachs used the gears, the foot brake and the hand brake to decelerate and then skid around the Honda, missing the kid by inches. He didn’t even notice. Sachs saw he wore earbuds.

Then first gear, and they were on their way once more.

‘Left here.’ Ercole was shouting over the screams of his laboring engine.

It was a narrow street they were speeding along. Residential — no stores. Pale laundry hung above them like flags. Then into a square around a tiny anemic park, on whose scarred benches sat a half-dozen older men and women, a younger woman with a baby carriage and two children playing with scruffy dogs. It was a deserted area and the Composer could easily have slipped the victim out of his car and underground without anyone’s seeing.

‘There, that’s it,’ he announced, pointing to a shabby wooden doorway in the abandoned building Giacomo Schiller had referred to. This, like all the building façades nearby, was covered with graffiti. You could just make out the faded sign: Non Entrare .