“I have no interest in dying on a civilian.” His visor obscured his expression, but his voice gave away his smile. “Can you offer me odds of expiring on a captain?”
“Zero.” Now that she’d fulfilled her professional responsibility to address the safety issues, they could go.
He snapped her chin strap without catching her skin. “You’ve ridden a motorcycle?”
“I’m from New Jersey. What do you think we do in the summer?”
“With a man?” His hands lingered under her chin, not tickling, but heightening her awareness of him.
“No, with a space alien.” Filled with energy, she rocked from her heels to the balls of her feet, an urge to move brought on by his nearness. “I can walk and chew gum too.”
“Then you’ll remember how.” He tapped the side of her helmet to turn on radio speakers. “Follow my lead, hmm?”
They roared away, and she closed her eyes only once, when he cut across four lanes of traffic at the Victor Emmanuel Monument. She didn’t want to enjoy the ride, but wrapping her arms around him while unleashed power vibrated between her thighs was an undeniable thrill.
“Theresa,” he said as the gritty urban outskirts blurred past. “Did you talk about our plans?”
“No. Why?”
“Idle curiosity.” The voice coming through the helmet speaker sounded too clipped for that to be true. “Who knows about your trip?”
“Jennifer and my other roommates. Colonel Loughrey approved my leave.” The trickle of anxiety down her spine reminded her that the only absolute truth she knew about Wulf was his rank and unit. He admitted he lied to everyone, including the army.
“Outside the army.” His words were curt, but she didn’t know why.
“My mother. She sent the clothes.” God was punishing her for not returning her mother’s calls. The woman who gave birth to her had probably petitioned the patron saint for mothers with ungrateful daughters.
Please
,
Saint Gina the Miracle Worker of Newark
,
make my little girl call.
Scare her if you have to.
It’s for a good cause.
“I talked with her this morning,” she consciously lowered her voice to keep it from cracking as she lied, “and said I was meeting you.”
“Who would she have told?”
“Half of New Jersey.” That wasn’t a complete fabrication. Her mother would’ve talked about the Rome trip to everyone, as in,
Theresa’s not coming home for leave like the Gianni and Marotta boys did.
What
,
her mother’s pasta isn’t fancy enough?
“The Italian half. Why?”
“Nothing.” His tone resurrected the sensation of watching the church doorknob turn.
The crowded sidewalks of the city center had vanished, replaced by cinder block buildings squatting behind chain-link fences topped with razor wire.
Wulf snorted. “You’ll crack my ribs if you squeeze harder.”
“Sorry.” She loosened her grip and forced herself to keep talking. “You didn’t answer my question. Why do you want to know who I told?”
“Because we’re being followed.”
Chapter Thirteen
Wulf wished he’d chosen the ring expressway, where he could’ve opened up the throttle, but on Via Ostiense potholes and traffic limited his speed. “Black Fiat four cars behind us.”
“Remember, this is Italy, not Afghanistan. Don’t overreact.” Her knees clenched the outside of his thighs as he pulled around a car. “Besides, they’re all black.” Her decisiveness contrasted with the pincer grip on his waist.
The pressure doubled the dread in his gut. “I’ve watched the same one since Saint Paul’s Outside the Walls. No left headlight. Missing front plate.” In his mirror the car slipped closer. No question, this date had a party crasher, but was it a stranger from Rome, someone from Karachi or someone from Afghanistan?
For several seconds his helmet radio delivered nothing but Theresa’s breathing, loud enough to distinguish from road noise. He tried to peer around the vehicle immediately in front, a battered red mini-truck with a wooden canopy enclosing the cargo bed. To call that canopy “custom” was an exaggeration. The slatted lumber cage was as jerry-rigged as the hillbilly armor troops had scavenged and welded onto their vehicles for the first years of the Iraq war. Some entrepreneurial Italian had built his truck addition so wide Wulf couldn’t see if he had passing room.
The Fiat passed a white sedan. Now it rode the bumper of a tan two-door.
He shouldn’t have come to Rome from Karachi, but it was too late to undo the arrogance of mixing Theresa into his mission to gather intel on the smugglers. All he could do was try to keep her safe.
The tan car slowed and turned into a driveway, leaving only a one-vehicle buffer between his motorcycle and their tail. This close, he could pick out the driver’s silhouette through the tinted windshield. There were no passengers.
The red truck in front belched exhaust and rocked faster until its cargo, crates of fruits and vegetables, swayed in their stacks. This straightaway offered the best chance to maneuver. As the now-or-never decision surged through his arms and legs, his right hand twisted and his wrist dropped the fraction that would notch up the speed. Revving the Benelli, he pulled around the vegetable truck.
A boxy Mercedes G-Wagen rocketed toward them from a hundred twenty yards away. As soon as Wulf passed the truck’s rear bumper, there wouldn’t be a chance to change his mind or debate their chances. Leaning forward, he committed Theresa’s life with the decision to pass.
Theresa screamed and the oncoming four-wheel drive blared its horn.
As his motorcycle overtook the vegetable truck’s rear wheels, a taste like spoiled milk filled Wulf’s mouth. In maybe six seconds they’d meet the G-Wagen’s front grille.
The driver tried to stop, but Wulf couldn’t brake without skidding. Unable to return to the right lane and unable to veer left without hitting the steel barrier and catapulting over the handlebars, he accelerated. At fifty miles an hour, wrestling the handlebars on the rutted road felt like waterskiing behind a helicopter.
The curve of Theresa’s helmet dug into his back, while wind jammed his elbows to his sides and compressed his chest until he could barely inhale. Still, he pushed with every cell, as if the force of his will could hurl them through space. With thirty yards to collision, he could see the wide-stretched mouths of the G-Wagen’s driver and the woman next to him.
The motorcycle roared past the red truck’s rusty bumper.
He turned the bike handlebars. There was a sermon of horns and shrieks as disc brakes locked, but nothing hit them except the backblast. They’d made it; the empty lane ahead proved it.
His heartbeat felt like an M249 blasting a thousand rounds a minute. He had to swallow before he could speak. “Lost him.”
“Ohmigod.” Theresa’s breath shuddered over the helmet radio, a drawn-out sound nearly drowned by the rev of his bike. “Ohmigod.”
“Don’t freak out, Doc. We lived.” He didn’t mean to sound cavalier, but they weren’t clear until he’d put enough distance between them and the Fiat to confirm they’d lost the tail.
They rode in silence. His mirrors stayed empty through several turns and evasive maneuvers. With the immediate threat over, his adrenaline-heightened senses absorbed the way her inner thighs cradled his hips and her grip curled around his waistband.
“We have to talk.”
Ominous words, but he ignored them to concentrate on the feel of her body behind his. Hell, they could ride to Kyrgyzstan like this. He’d be happy.
“Risk taking’s a common post-combat response.” The fear and edginess had left her voice, as if she liked leaning against him, but the damn leather jacket was thick enough to blunt the feel of her rack. “We will talk about this,” she repeated.
“Sure.” Their date could still happen. Plan A, the ruins would drive unpleasant conversation out of her mind. If not, he’d implement Plan B: kiss her until she forgot about the psych eval.
Because Theresa’s left hand had relaxed open to spread across his thigh, he almost missed the sign for Ostia Antica. No one could expect him to read when each bump jolted her fingers closer to the bad boys, but he didn’t miss the billboard advertising a new airport hotel.
Chill.
He wanted her, but not in a generic room shaken by jets every four minutes. He turned into the gravel lot and parked in the shade of the umbrella pines. A single tour bus close to the entrance didn’t interfere with the solitude promised by the acres of ruins. Without the engine throb or his helmet, he heard birds from the banks of the Tiber. Yesterday she’d made clear she liked history as much as some women liked chocolate, so today he’d play personal audio guide until she marveled over him like she’d stared at those marble effigies.
“Where are we?” She swung her leg to dismount. Her knotted shirt hitched up on one side and showed the smooth tan of her bare waist, a shade darker than his.
“Ostia Antica.” If he licked that patch of skin, he imagined it would taste sweet and salty, like caramel gelato. “The Roman Empire’s version of the ports of Long Beach or Houston.”
While he spoke, she laid her helmet on the seat and shook her sweat-flattened hair.
He wanted to lift that dark fall, but she beat him to it. Did she know that finger combing her hair, with her arms raised, also jacked up her killer round parts? And some of his parts too? “After the river silted—” he swallowed, trying to create enough saliva to continue, “—the shoreline moved, shipping stopped and the city emptied.” His words felt as dry as his mouth, but maybe conversation would consign his hard-on to history. Otherwise, given the way his jeans had tightened, he’d be challenged to get off his bike without busting a rivet.
“We can’t ignore what happened on the way here.” Her eyes were so deep brown and all-encompassing that it seemed as if he’d plunged into a pool. Her mouth moved, but he couldn’t look away from her gaze even as he absorbed how her eyebrows drew together and a crease formed over her nose. “You can’t let strangers spook you into losing control.”
Before he could reply, she bent at the waist to flip her hair upside-down.
“I wasn’t spooked.” Now he could stand and adjust without her seeing his condition. “And I was in full control of the bike.” Right, that sounded defensive.
“I know that.” Her voice sounded muffled. “I meant control of
yourself.
”
If he had control, he wouldn’t be staring at the whorls of hair that edged the nape of her neck. He surrendered. Careful not to pull the cashmere strands between his fingers, he cupped her head and nudged her upright. Loose strands clung to his fingers when he traced her jaw. Her chin was strong. Stubborn. Her lips parted, making him think—
A car engine downshifted and tires crunched gravel.
By reflex, he flicked his eyes to the driveway. Years of training primed his muscles to react before what he saw fully registered. His hand grabbed her arm, anchoring her to the far side of his body where his bulk offered a barrier, while his legs sped into motion. “Move!”
The black Fiat had caught up. With the river to their right and access to the road on the left fenced off, only one route remained—into the ruins.
“Whaaat?” She glanced over her shoulder as they sprinted around the tour bus. The moment comprehension hit, her arm spasmed in his grip. “Is it—”
“Yeah.” He shoved a handful of euros through the ticket window and, in Italian, told the disinterested guard to keep the change. “Her husband hired the man in the car, you understand? Perhaps you could assist with a delay?” Neither the best lie Wulf could manufacture in seconds nor the extra cash distracted the man from his text messages.
“How’d they follow—” Theresa stumbled on the cobblestones and swore.
“Probably a GPS bug.” Wulf yanked her forward while he inventoried his assets: a Heckler and Koch Mark 23 automatic pistol, ten rounds and a Benchmade 3300 knife. More than enough to protect himself, but inadequate as piss with her safety at stake. “Move faster.”
Ahead, where a clump of pines and ornamental shrubs opened into a sunny clearing by the remains of the warehouse district, two dozen Scandinavian-looking tourists milled with a guide. He decelerated to a speed walk. “See the tall guy in jeans and a black windbreaker?” At enough distance the tail might not realize the guy was in his fifties. “Next to the grandma Valkyrie with the blue sun hat?”
“Uh-huh.” Theresa panted.
“Stick to him as if he’s me, no matter what.” Numbers would insulate her while he took his questions directly to a man with answers. “Do not leave this group.” Over his shoulder, he noted their follower was hung up at the admission window. By Frejya’s necklace, Italians did enjoy a love triangle. “If I don’t meet you, get on their bus. Pay, faint, twist your ankle, whatever you have to do, but do not go off alone.”
She had those tight-pressed lips he already associated with challenges, so he pinned her with the look he used to test fresh team members. “Understand?”
“No, I don’t.” She lowered her voice as they reached the fringes of the group. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“Not if it’s about Afghan heroin.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she pulled away before he realized how that had sounded.
“My team’s
investigating.
It’s army business, got it?” Shifting his grip, he brought her hand to his lips. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
Letting go of her felt ominous, worse than any first step into a hostile building, but he had to work alone. Screened by the mass of Scandinavians, he slipped through the remains of an arch. Beyond the tumbled blocks in the rear of the building, a former alley paralleled the main road, and he doubled back through half-crumbled columns and piles of sun-bleached bricks, their marble veneers long ago looted for Renaissance palaces. Occasionally a higher-pitched laugh carried to him, indistinct on the breeze, but it didn’t disturb his hunt.
At the next corner he spotted his prey scurrying to catch the tour group. The beefy man with a sun visor, baggy khakis and fanny pack was the eager photographer from the Mouth of Truth. Following them once might be nosiness; twice was surveillance. Wulf melted behind the stones and changed course to match his quarry, but the other man never turned, never looked over his shoulder, never noticed that he’d acquired a stalker.
Ahead, Theresa’s guide stopped and directed the group to consider the Baths of Neptune.
The follower slowed as if unwilling to overtake them.
Wulf’s alley ended in a T intersection at the multistory remains of the baths. He broke right, heading north, and sprinted to circle the rear of the large structure. Taking his eyes off the target felt risky, but without a partner he had to gamble and use his knowledge of Ostia to set an ambush. As he dashed down the lane that separated the baths from the barracks of the Vigili guards, the sun beat on his head. Perspiration stuck his jeans to his legs.
He stopped at the last corner, concealed by the wall, and watched Theresa and the tour group drift toward the restored amphitheater at the center of Ostia Antica. He’d wanted to saunter through the ruins beside Theresa, not hunt some fat, slow prey like his namesake taking a sheep. Some days it felt as if everything he wanted for himself, everything he tried to build in his life, ended up as jumbled and empty as the roofless two-thousand-year-old apartments that stood between him and the spot where he intended to act.
He trotted in the shadow of the buildings, scanning for one of the slaves’ passages that would bisect this faded street. Halfway to the main road, a slip of alley barely wider than his shoulders cut west to the plaza where the others had gathered. At the end of the passage, he dropped behind a stack of bricks high enough to conceal a prone man.
Theresa, still in the midst of the Scandinavians, craned her neck and studied the ruins. Her arms crossed above her waist as if her stomach hurt, but she hunched her shoulders and traipsed with the others into the amphitheater’s entrance tunnel.
He’d attended enough summer concerts here to know the dark ramp sloped below street level, then emerged into sunlight in the middle of a half circle of two thousand seats. In seconds, the group would be facing the stage and the remnants of the guild halls. With that spectacular sight in front of them, no one ever looked behind. There’d be no better strike opportunity.
The target slunk into the tunnel without checking over his shoulder. Dude wouldn’t last one hour in Special Forces Q-Course; he probably wouldn’t make it on a playground. He didn’t hear Wulf until after Wulf’s elbow hooked his throat. Wulf jacked the man’s arm between his shoulder blades and slammed him face-first into a wall niche. “Shut up, or I’ll pop your shoulder.” He twisted the arm high enough to trigger groans while he frisked him one-handed.
Zipped into his fanny pack the guy had a nine-mil Beretta semiautomatic. That was an immediate game changer. Anger erupted in Wulf’s chest as hot and lethal as the volcanic ash that had doomed a different ancient city. This man had come after Theresa with a weapon. It would be so easy to break his arm, and he deserved it. Deserved worse.
He only rubbed his captive’s face into the stone until he whimpered.