Close Range (5 page)

Jake saw a set of lights up ahead. As the minister’s car went through, the lights switched to amber. The BMW accelerated through as it changed to red, and the Lexus jumped the light. These guys meant trouble. The other lane started to move and Jake skidded to a halt, slamming the handlebars with his fist. He was going to lose them.

As cars streamed across in front of him, he watched his targets recede into the distance. There was no way he could take the bike through that sort of traffic. He scanned the road up ahead, curving round the edge of the cemetery, and made a split-second decision.

Pulling the bike round, he hopped on to the kerb, and plunged through a side gate into the graveyard. A flock of pigeons burst from the path as he careered through them,
then dodged around two women pushing prams. Jake took the bike on to the grass, and hurtled across landscaped gardens. It was disrespectful, but he figured if there was going to be some sort of Mafia hit, then surely God could overlook it.

If the cars didn’t go the way he hoped – sticking to the main road – he’d lose them. Treading the pedals, his legs aching, he whizzed down a narrow pathway between old crumbling headstones. The grass needed a trim here and it was tough going. Suddenly he saw a pile of earth ahead, and jinked the steering to avoid it. He saw a black space yawning.

An open grave!

With nowhere to steer, Jake yanked up the handlebars and lifted the front wheel as the two-metre abyss gaped below. As the wheel landed, he pressed down, dragging the rear of the bike with him.

That could’ve been nasty!

Twenty metres away a warden of some sort wearing a peaked cap shouted at him to stop, but Jake ignored him.

He almost missed the exit signs, skidding round to where another gate left the park. The road was just visible through thick bushes on the other side.

He slowed and switched through the gears to slalom through a set of railings. Out on the street again, he scanned up and down for the three cars.

The sweat cooled on Jake’s head, but his heart was still pounding. He’d been in the cemetery for less than thirty seconds. If his mental map was right, this is where the cars should be.

But they weren’t.

They must have turned off.
Damn it!

Then he saw the limo. It was stuck behind a small red Fiat in the middle lane.

The BMW and the Lexus fell into its wake.

The minister’s silver limo was indicating left. Jake dropped back on to the road, cutting across three lanes of traffic and jumped up on to the pavement on the other side, just as the limo turned into the road ahead of him. The buildings on either side blurred past, and Jake dodged carefully around the pedestrians on the narrow pavement, keeping level with the limo.

The driver had both the front windows down and looked nonchalantly to his right. His gaze lingered on Jake for a second, then he brought his eyes back to the road in front.

It’s not me you should be worried about, Jake thought, it’s the hit men following you.

He twisted to check they were still following. Yep. They were right behind.

The speed limit was 30kph, but Jake had to pedal hard
to keep up. The offices gave way to stone buildings as they entered the older section of Milan. With Jake’s focus on the three cars, he was only vaguely aware of one of the greatest cities in the world flashing by him in a blur. Grand-façaded churches, massive palazzos, fountains in piazzas.

They reached a main square, behind which a cathedral’s gothic towers soared into the sky. Tourists milled around everywhere in brightly coloured, mismatched clothes.
What was it about going on holiday that made people abandon their fashion sense?
As the cars went round the outside, Jake took a short cut up a ramp and found himself cycling behind a colonnade, between tables with coffee-drinking holiday–makers and café fronts. A waiter stepped out in front of Jake and gave a yelp, spinning away. Jake heard the crash of broken glass and shouted an apology over his shoulder. ‘Sorry, um …’
What was it in Italian? ‘Mi dispiace!
‘

He reached some steps and juddered down. No suspension forks on a racing bike. When he saw the cars approach again, Jake realised that the Lexus had dropped off.

Huh?
Perhaps it got caught in traffic.

Or maybe it had gone ahead to intercept.

Adrenalin surged through his blood, and he forgot about the burn in his legs.

Only one car was following now. And closer too, just one
car back. Jake slipped into the traffic again behind them, and thought he’d caught a glimpse of the driver looking in his rear-view mirror. He’d been careful, but they had probably recognised him from earlier. The bright green bike and orange helmet didn’t help.

Well, there was nothing for it now.

The network of streets became more confusing, and quieter. The buildings on either side looked like they’d been put up in a hurry, and there were a few vacant lots filled with piles of concrete rubble and jutting steel rods. Cars were parked haphazardly beside the cracked pavements. Houses on either side looked empty, boarded up or shuttered for the siesta.

I guess the tourists don’t come here,
Jake thought. The minister’s limo and the BMW were the only cars moving, apart from a dustbin lorry grinding up the street. If there was going to be a hit, this would be the place. Jake’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t really thought about what he’d do if things got heavy, but now he found himself wondering if he should call the police. Riding with one hand on the bars, thirty metres back from the cruising BMW, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone. Four missed calls from his mum.

He was still deliberating when the minister’s limo indicated left and turned into what looked like a narrow
road between tall apartment blocks. A couple of seconds later the pursuer turned as well. Jake free-wheeled after them, suddenly realising he didn’t even know the emergency number in Milan.

It was gloomy on the road, and the brake-lights of the BMW glowed red. It stopped right up behind the stationary limo. No one got out. Jake jumped down from the saddle, resting the bike up against the wall beside a discarded mattress. He realised it was a dead end, blocked by a wire-mesh fence at the far end. Cautiously he stepped further into the alley. The engines of both cars had been killed.

Suddenly, with the excitement of the pursuit sapping away, this felt very real.

Too real.

T
here was an old-fashioned trash can at the side of the alley, and Jake took off the lid. Would it stop a bullet?

Both front doors on the BMW clicked open, and two guys unpeeled themselves from their seats. They certainly looked like hit men, both over six feet, built like rugby players on steroids. Jake took a step back, cursing himself for being so reckless.

Suddenly a screech of tyres made him spin round. A car had blocked the near end of the alley. The Lexus. The door popped and the driver emerged.

‘Chi siete?’

Who are you?

He was trapped.

‘I’m Jake. Jake Bastin. English.
Inglese. Capsice?
‘

The men closed in on him from both sides. Jake gripped the metal lid, wondering if he could take one down and give
himself time to get back out to the road. Stuff the bike.

The driver of the Lexus reached inside his black jacket.

He’s got a gun.

Jake lunged at him, driving the dustbin lid into his chest. The man fell backwards heavily and Jake charged towards the Lexus blocking the alley entrance. He was about to leap over the bonnet when the door on the far side opened.

Oh, Christ
… Another one.

Something hit him hard on the shoulder and it felt like his whole body was on fire. Pain shot along his limbs and seemed to grip him in a spasm.
What was happening?
The pain was everywhere, making it impossible for him to think or move. Jake rolled back across the bonnet and saw a man pointing something at him. A wire trailed loosely between his hand and Jake.

As Jake crumpled to the ground, a word floated into his consciousness.

Taser.

Jake’s face hit the ground hard. He couldn’t move a muscle. His hands were pulled roughly behind his back and cold metal handcuffs clasped his wrists.

He tried to speak, but his mouth wasn’t working properly. He tasted blood, and felt as weak as a kitten. The man who zapped him hauled him upright and then flashed a badge.
A five-pointed star. Jake read the words
Repubblica Italiana.
And then heard another word –
Polizia.

The police officer jabbered a few more words in Italian that Jake couldn’t understand, but he didn’t need to.
They think
I
was after the minister,
he realised. The policeman held open the car door, while another of the men pushed Jake inside, hand pressing his head down. He let his body fall into the seat, and closed his eyes.

Now he was in a world of trouble.

‘Just call my dad,’ Jake said for what felt like the hundredth time. He mimed a phone at his ear.
‘Padre?’

The young uniformed police officer leant with both elbows against the cell door, working a toothpick between his teeth. He smiled.

Does ‘padre’ mean priest, or father? Jake wondered.

‘Steve Bastin,’ he tried. He mimed taking a step back to kick a football. ‘He’s punditing the Brotherhood Tournament.’

The police officer eyed Jake for a couple more seconds, then stepped back from the door.

Slam!

With a sigh, Jake sat on the hard bench and leant back against the grubby wall. The holding cell was hardly built for comfort.

He’d tried to get them to call his dad as soon as they arrived at the station, but just like the guys in the Lexus, the desk sergeant wasn’t interested. He looked at Jake as though he was a serious threat. He had a brief discussion with the guy who’d tasered Jake, and took his name. Several other officers came out to look at the suspected political assassin. Eventually, two big officers led him to a cell, removed the cuffs and shoved him inside. They’d confiscated his phone and wallet. Jake didn’t even have any proper ID on him.

He tried to keep his despair down. He didn’t even know in which police station he was being held. There must be dozens in a city the size of Milan.

Amid the wretchedness and anger, he was embarrassed. Of course the minister had a police escort.

Hit men? Oh, please!

As far as he could tell, he hadn’t been formally charged with anything. But they must be thinking about it. Was it a crime to follow a politician through the streets? Assaulting a police officer, well, there could be no arguing with that. But how was he supposed to know they were
Polizia?
They hadn’t identified themselves until after he took the first swing.

Jake ran his hands through his hair.

How could he have got it so wrong?

The cell door clicked open and two uniforms came in.
The same as before, and an older guy with white hair and a severe expression.

‘Who do you work for?’

Thank God!
thought Jake.
Someone who speaks English, at last.

‘I don’t work for anyone,’ said Jake. ‘I’m in Milan with my dad.’

‘You’re lying to me.’

‘I’m not,’ said Jake. ‘I’m only sixteen.’

The man’s cheek twitched. ‘Then why are you following Mr Lauda?’

‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ said Jake. ‘It was a mistake.’

‘And this “father” of yours, he knows what you were doing?’

Jake finally felt he was getting somewhere.

‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s working as a pundit for the Brotherhood Tournament. His name’s Steve Bastin.’

‘The football player?’ said the man, his eyes widening a fraction.

‘That’s right,’ said Jake, smiling. Dad’s name has to come in useful sometimes.

The man spoke to the officer accompanying him, and was handed a notebook and a pen. He held these out to Jake. ‘Write his telephone number, please.’

Jake scribbled down the digits, and passed it back to the officer, saying, ‘Thank you.’

It didn’t hurt to be polite.

After what felt like an hour, Jake was ushered out along the corridor by a surly-looking officer with three-day stubble and sweat patches under his arms. He offered Jake a plastic cup of water, then opened a door to what looked like an interview room. The white-haired senior policeman was there, and beside him was Jake’s father.

‘Dad!’ said Jake. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, I …’

His father held up his hands, and spoke to the policeman in fluent Italian. He called him
‘capitano',
so Jake guessed that was his rank.

The captain nodded and left the room, leaving Jake and his dad alone. In the silence that followed he could see the fury bubbling away under his father’s features. He opened his mouth to speak, but his dad got there first.

‘Jake, what the hell were you doing threatening a senior Italian politician?’

‘I wasn’t threatening him,’ said Jake, feeling his temper flare. ‘I was … I was just following him.’

His dad held his hands aloft in exasperation, then brought them down at his side.

‘For God’s sake! Why?’

Jake blushed. ‘I thought he was being followed.’

‘He was!’ said his father. ‘By a stupid sixteen-year-old boy.’

Jake knew his defence was weak. What good would it do to tell his father how sure he’d been that the minister was in danger? It would only make him look like an even bigger fool.

‘Your mother has been frantic …’ said his father. ‘She says she phoned you, over and over, but you didn’t pick up. She was in tears when she called me, and I had to leave in the middle of an interview with Mark Fortune. You know who that is? The England captain, Jake!’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘What else do you want me to say? It was a mistake.’

‘You’re telling me,’ his dad said. ‘You’re lucky they’ve agreed not to press charges. I think it’s only because they were embarrassed about having to restrain you with a taser.’ His tone softened. ‘Are you OK though?’