White Heat (13 page)

Flying backward, she managed to correct herself and staggered to her feet. Half crouched, she ran, the rain striking her face like icy pellets, the streetlights a blur of movement as she passed.
Bangbangbang.

She was still out in the open, fully exposed and half expecting a bullet to hit her at any second. Breath sawing in and out of her aching lungs, Emily jumped on the hood of a parked car, rolling across the slick surface before tumbling to the pavement on the opposite side. Bullets
pinged
and ricocheted off parked cars, and sparks flew like Fourth of July sparklers.

A car’s alarm started shrieking, adding to the din and chaos. She was cut off from Max. Knowing she had to get into the dubious protection of the alley, Emily ran in a crouched, semi-protected stance. She’d passed three, maybe four, parked cars when she heard a staccato burst of gunfire behind her. It was louder and close enough that she could taste the acrid smell of gunpowder.

Run run run run run.

Straightening, she ran flat-out toward the brightly lit opening of the narrow street and the safety of a crowded restaurant.

Pleasepleaseplease.

A second later, it wasn’t a bullet that slammed into her back. It was the full force and heavy weight of a man. God. Another few yards and she’d have made it. She saw the gun in his right hand as they went down hard. They fell to the wet ground in a tangle of arms and legs, his arms wrapped around her from behind.

At the last instant he twisted, taking the brunt of the fall with her gripped in his arms. On her back like an overturned turtle, the man beneath her, Emily fought him tooth and nail. But this guy was stronger, more persistent than the others, and he subdued her easily by wrapping his arms and legs around her. She could barely move as he rolled them between two parked cars, his body as undamned—resilient as the hard surface of the street.

This time it occurred to her that she needed help, and she opened her mouth and screamed, “Maaaax!” at the top of her lungs.

“Emily,” Max yelled against the side of her face as she bucked and heaved in his arms, shouting his name. “It’s me, Max.” They were sprawled halfway in the alley. “Calm down, I’m going to let you go, but for Christ’s sake, do
not
knee me.”

Apparently he thought it prudent to issue the warning. Emily was pretty sure every nerve and muscle in her body had liquified with fear; she had no more fight left in her.

Two men sprinted around the fender of the car. They were only feet away. One arm around her, Max extended his other arm over her head and fired.
Pop. Pop.

He pulled her to her feet before the bodies hit the ground. Then there was silence. No more shots, nothing but the sound of her pulse echoing in her ears, and her breath sawing unsteadily.

Grabbing her already bruised upper arm, Max searched her face in the iffy light. “Are you hurt?”

Elbow. Knee. Butt.
The list was growing. “No. These guys aren’t
Polizia di Stato.”

“Yeah. Got that.” He scowled, sharp eyes fixed on her face, clearly not happy with what he saw. He grabbed her hand. His was big and solid, and unlike hers, dry “We’ve got to get to the car. Run like hell. Don’t stop, don’t even flicking pause. Got it?”

“Hell yes, I get it.” Max was big. Max had a gun. She was sticking to him like glue.

He took off, Emily in tow.

Their car seemed a million miles away, skewed across the middle of the street, headlights still on. Max dodged two bodies sprawled in their way. He was nimble and light on his feet, and she felt like a buffalo in comparison. The surreal morning had turned into an even more surreal afternoon and night.

A man stepped out of a doorway, right into their path. The gun he held looked enormous. He was too close to miss. Emily flinched, as if by not looking she could somehow deflect the bullet. When she opened her eyes again the man was sliding down the side of a storefront, a look of utter surprise on half his face. The other half of his head was . . . gone.

Bile rose in the back of her throat.
OhGodohGodohGod!

“Don’t look’ Max told her.

Horrified and somehow unable to follow his instruction, she turned to glance over her shoulder. They hadn’t even paused in their running. There were bodies all over the place. Insanely, attracted to the noise and drama, some people were hanging out of their windows up and down the street to see what was going on below. Some had even come out in their bathrobes to see the action. Though the noise and commotion were deafening, most of the shutters and doors along the street remained tightly closed, the residents no doubt fearful for their lives. Inconvenient for Emily and Max, but smart of them. Any good Samaritan risked becoming Swiss cheese for his pains.

Where the
hell
were the real police?

Max got off another shot, effectively deterring a guy sneaking up alongside them. The bullet went through the man’s throat, then ricocheted off a wall behind him in a shower of sparks and bits of stone. The plate glass window in the butcher shop shattered from yet another bullet. One meant for them.

Someone grabbed Emily from behind, yanking her away from Max, almost pulling her arm from its socket. Another man closed in from his right. Before she could drag in a breath to scream, Max had taken down the man who’d grabbed her by kicking him in the jaw. The guy went flying, then slid a dozen feet along the ground and lay still.

“Go. Go. Go.” Spinning in a half circle he did some improbable movement that had his entire body suspended in the air while his ankles hooked around the second man’s neck.

They came down together in a bone-jarring tangle against the curb. “Go, damn it!”

Go where? As if she’d leave him here. She looked around for something to use as a weapon. The only thing she could see was a still spinning hubcap. Swooping down, Emily grabbed it and started swinging it at Max’s opponent’s head, connecting with a resounding
clang
that made
her
wince.

Max landed a punch to the man’s face, and he crumpled against a parked car. Seizing her hand again, Max pulled her along, keeping his body slightly in front of hers.

By the time they reached the car, Emily was sweating and lightheaded. Max pulled open the back door and shoved her inside. “Bulletproof windows.” He slammed a fist on the lock, then slammed the door closed.

“Stay the flick inside.”

Then the crazy man went back into the fray.

WONDER OF WONDERS, THIS TIME EMILY HAD OBEYED HIS GODDAMNED
orders. By the time Max returned to the car, eleven of the sixteen men were dead, and the local T-FLAC operatives had arrived from the Bozzato house just in time to take the remaining men into custody.
La polizia, I carabinieri,
and
Polizia di Stato,
plus several ambulances arrived minutes later, sirens screeching, lights blazing. So good of them to finally get their asses on the scene.

People were out in droves, umbrellas bobbing as they tried to see what was going on. A big night in the streets of Florence. All they needed was a fucking marching band, and someone handing out hot cappuccinos.

Local law enforcement usually deferred to T-FLAC when it was a matter of their own national security. Max knew this situation didn’t qualify; he lied by omission as he gave a statement. This situation, while lethal, was not an act of terrorism. While his focus
was
combating acts of terror, it was usually on a global or national scale.

Whatever was going on with Emily had something to do with an artist and his protégé. Or with her boyfriend, Max thought, annoyed by the possibility that some suave yahoo had gotten Emily into this kind of danger.

What
the connection was Max had no idea. But when the police knew T-FLAC was involved it was a natural assumption that terrorism was their reason for being there. He didn’t divulge the truth because he didn’t want the local cops to take the remaining five men into their custody. He trusted T-FLAC’s manner of interrogation more than he trusted the rigid guidelines local authorities were required to follow.

They could have what was left of Emily’s attempted kidnappers when T-FLAC was done with them.

“That was fun,” Keiko Niigata said dryly, wiping blood off her face with a filthy hand as she unlocked the driver’s side door. She was slightly out of breath, her short black hair matted down with rain and blood.

Max gave her the once-over. She looked like hell, but she also had a familiar expression on her face. A look that said “Damn, I love my job.” He saw it in his own mirror every day. “First time in close combat?”

“Yeah.” She indicated her LockOut suit. The black, body- hugging material was almost impervious to penetration, and clung faithfully to her stocky frame. Although from the white, already healing streaks across the dense black fabric on her chest and shoulder, someone had attempted to cut her. “Think I’ll wear this twenty-four-seven,” she said cheerfully.

“Get that taken care of when we board.” He indicated the seeping wound on her cheek. It would need stitches, but the suit had saved her from more serious injury. “Seen Zampieri?”

She jerked her chin to indicate the direction of the other man, then slid into her seat and started the engine.

“Good?” Max asked the older man as he approached.

Zampieri shrugged. “No complaints.”

Max hadn’t expected a different answer. Evidence of a bullet’s path on his upper left arm and the nasal tone caused by his badly swollen nose indicated Zampieri had taken some licks. Still, the three of them had kicked the ass of sixteen determined men, and saved the girl. A good night’s work by any standards.

They were all banged up, had lacerations, and were soaking wet and cold. Situation normal.

After sending a hand signal indicating their departure to the men he’d left behind and were still talking to the cops, he reluctantly opened the door and climbed into the backseat. He didn’t know what to make of his reluctance, but it didn’t matter. They needed to get to the airport, ASAP.
Emily had her head back, eyes closed. She wasn’t asleep. God knew, considering her day, it would have made sense. He’d expected to find her curled in a ball on the floor crying hysterically. Which was what most women—other than the ones in his line of work—would be doing right about now.

The passing streetlights flashed an intermittent striped pattern on her still face. Taking the opportunity to observe her while she played possum, Max scrutinized this woman who was a study in contradiction.

The pulse at her pale throat beat a staccato tattoo, and her lids fluttered as she feigned sleep. She’d make a crappy poker player. But, man, she was such a pleasure to look at. Looking past the blood in her hair and the smears of red on her face, he noticed everything about her.

Even wet and bedraggled, she was heart-catchingly beautiful. The kind of unconscious sexiness that women strove for but rarely achieved. Emily Greene was as lovely as an airbrushed model in some high-end magazine. Except she was the real deal. Again he felt the rage that had swamped him when he’d seen those bastards with their hands on her.

Max had a strong and irrational need to reach out and touch her creamy skin, the curve of her cheek, the gentle sweep of her soft mouth to confirm that she was real.

He rarely lied to himself, although he was damn good at lying to others. Yeah, looking at her was a pleasure. But even when he’d closed his eyes that first night they’d had sex, he’d felt a hard knock to his equilibrium.

Pheromones. Nothing more. Powerful, but merely a chemical reaction. What concerned him was how many
different
pheromones her body was transmitting for him to pick up on. He understood the aggregation pheromones. Those were the ones that said, “Hi baby. I’m attracted to you.” He sure as hell understood the sex pheromone that said, “I’m available. Let’s have sex. Here. Now. Often.”

She was gorgeous, he wanted her. Physically. He got that. In spades.

But mixed in with the sexual attraction were a boatload of powerful
territorial
pheromones. The overpowering need to protect Emily at all costs was a new one for him. Max didn’t know whether to be amused or alarmed. Territorial pheromones were what dogs had in their urine, and how they marked their territory;

“Were you hurt anywhere?” He couldn’t tell. He wanted to touch her, check her out, but he didn’t dare. What he was feeling right now was too uncontrolled, too wild to express in the backseat of a car. With Emily looking as though she’d—narrowly escaped death. Again.

“I’m okay. Shaky, but okay. How about you? Were you hurt back there?”

Was
he
hurt? No one had asked him that in decades and really meant it.

“I’m good.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” She touched his cheek briefly, then dropped her hand. “But were you hurt?”

Humans had a different way of marking their territory. It was called marriage. And since
that
wasn’t in his vocabulary; he discounted all of the chemical mumbo jumbo and stuck to facts. Of course he was powerfully sexually attracted to this woman. What heterosexual man wouldn’t be?

“No. I wasn’t hurt. And neither were you, thanks to your smart thinking. Jesus, Emily. Thought the bastards had shot you before I could get over there.” He brushed his hand over the silky disorder of her hair so he could see her face, then tucked the damp strands behind her ears, out of the way. “You’re coming with us to Córdoba,” he told her quietly, casually resting his fingers on her neck to check her pulse. He noticed she’d lost another earring in the fray.

Opening her eyes, she pushed herself upright. The skin beneath the smears of blood on her face was milk white, her eyes were dark. Yet it was clear she was determined to participate in whatever he threw at her. Max admired her inner strength.

“Who’s doing this, Max? And
why?”

“I’ll find out,” he assured her grimly. And he would. As soon as he discovered who the hell had bombed two churches and a synagogue.