Lights raked the top of the wall, and a burst of gunfire sounded. And a voice: "Non sparate!"
"Keep running!" Pendergast cried.
But it was too late. There, in front of them on the wall, dark figures were mounting, blocking the way. Lights shone in their direction. D'Agosta and Pendergast dove to the rubble, flattening themselves.
"Non sparate!" someone shouted again. "Do not shoot!"
From behind, D'Agosta saw that a second group had surmounted the wall. They were surrounded. D'Agosta lay huddled in a pool of brilliant light, feeling exposed, naked.
"Eccoli! There they are!"
"Hold your fire!"
And then a voice-quiet and reasonable-said:
"You may both stand up now and surrender. Or we will kill you. Your choice."
{ 54 }
Locke Bullard stared across the table at the two men shackled to the wall. Two sons of bitches dressed in black special-ops outfits. They were Americans, that much was clear; probably CIA.
He turned to his security chief. "Wipe the paint off their faces. Let's see who they are."
The man pulled out a handkerchief and brusquely wiped off the paint.
Bullard could hardly believe his eyes. They were the two people he least expected: the police sergeant from Long Island and Pendergast, the FBI special agent. Immediately, he realized Vasquez had failed. Or more likely, run off with the money. Unbelievable. Yet even without Vasquez, it stunned Bullard to think these two had somehow followed him to Italy and managed to break through several layers of security at the lab. He kept underestimating them, again and again. He had to get out of that habit. These two were formidable. And that's exactly what he didn't need. He had something a lot more important to do than mess around with these two.
He turned to the security director. "What happened?"
"They penetrated outer security at the old railroad grade, made it as far as the second ring. They tripped the laser grid at the inner field."
"You found out what they're after? What they heard?"
"They heard nothing, sir. They got nothing."
"You sure they never made it past the second ring?"
"Absolutely, sir."
"Any comm devices on them?"
"No, sir. And none dropped. They came in deaf and dumb."
Bullard nodded, his shock slowly giving way to rage. These two had insulted him. They’d damaged him.
He cast his eye toward the fat one, who-as it happened-didn't look quite so fat anymore. "Hey, D'Agosta, you shed a few pounds? How's the hard-on problem?"
No answer. The fuck was looking at him with hatred. Good. Let him hate.
"And the not-so-special agent. If that's what you really are. Want to tell me what you're doing here?"
No response.
"Didn't get jack shit, did you?"
This was a waste of time. They hadn't penetrated the second, let alone the third, ring of security, which meant they couldn't have learned anything of value. Best thing now was to get rid of them. Sure, the feds would be all over the place tomorrow, but this was Italy, and he had friends in the Questura. He had five hundred acres in which to hide the bodies. They wouldn't find shit.
One hand was in his trouser pocket, rolling around some euros. The hand fell on his pocketknife. He removed it, opened the nail file, began idly cleaning his nails. Without looking up, he asked: "Wife still doing the RV salesman, D'Agosta?"
"You're a Johnny-one-note, you know that, Bullard? Makes me think you've had some problems along those lines yourself."
Bullard felt a surge of rage, which he quickly mastered. He was going to kill them, but first D'Agosta was going to pay a little. He continued with his nails.
"Your hit man fucked up," D'Agosta went on. "Too bad, him going the cyanide highway before he could implicate you. We'll still see you get stuck with a conspiracy rap, though. You'll do hard time. Hear me, Bullard? And once you're safely in the Big House, I'll personally make sure somebody makes you his number one bitch. Oh, you'll make some skinhead a nice punk, Bullard."
It was only through long practice that Bullard managed to keep his composure. So Vasquez hadn't run off with the money. He'd taken the job and failed. Somehow, he'd failed.
He reminded himself it hardly mattered now.
He examined his work, closed the nail file, opened the long blade. He kept it razor-sharp for occasions just like this one. Who knew: he might even get some information.
He turned to one of his assistants. "Put his right hand on the table."
While one guard grabbed D'Agosta's face in a meaty paw and slammed it back against the wall, the other unmanacled one hand, jerked it forward, and pinned it to the table. The cop struggled briefly.
Bullard eyed the class ring on the hand. Some shitty P.S. in Queens, probably. "Play the piano, D'Agosta?"
No answer.
He swiped the knife down across D'Agosta's right middle fingernail, splitting the tip of the finger.
D'Agosta jerked, gasped, pulling his finger free. Blood welled out from the wound: slowly at first, then faster. The man struggled wildly, but the guards regained a lock on him. Slowly, they forced the hand back into position against the table.
Bullard felt a flush of excitement.
"Son of a bitch !" D'Agosta groaned.
"You know what?" Bullard said. "I like this. I could do this all night."
D'Agosta struggled against the guards.
"You're CIA, aren't you?"
D'Agosta groaned again.
"Answer me."
"No, for chrissakes."
"You." He turned to Pendergast. "CIA? Answer me. Yes or no?"
"No. And you're making an even larger mistake than you made earlier."
"Sure I am." Why was he bothering? And what difference did it make? These were the bastards who had humiliated him in front of the whole city. He felt rage seize him again, and-more carefully now-he took the knife and sliced it hard across the table, taking the tip off D'Agosta's already damaged finger.
"Fuck!" D'Agosta screamed. "You bastard !"
Bullard stepped back, breathing hard. His palms were sweating; he wiped them on the sleeve of his jacket, took a fresh grip on the knife. Then he caught sight of the wall clock. It was already close to two. He couldn't let himself get caught up in a minor distraction. He had something more important to do before dawn. Something much, much more important.
He turned back to his security chief. "Kill them. Then get rid of the bodies. Dump their weapons with them. Do it over at the old shafts. I don't want any forensics left on the premises, especially not around the lab. You know what I mean: hair, blood, anything with DNA. Don't even let them spit."
"Yes, sir."
"You-," began Pendergast, but Bullard spun around and landed a massive uppercut in his stomach. Pendergast doubled over.
"Gag them. Gag them both."
The security men rammed balls of cloth into their mouths, then bound them tightly with duct tape.
"Blindfold them, too."
"Yes, Mr. Bullard."
Bullard looked at D'Agosta. "Remember how I promised to pay you back? Now your finger's as short as your dick."
D'Agosta struggled, making inarticulate sounds as the blindfold went on.
Bullard turned to his assistant, nodded at the table. "Clean up that mess. And then get the hell out of here."