She turned the corner into the Campo and knew what she’d see. The kid was predictable. She headed for crowds, particularly those she thought of as hers. Sure enough, the slight young figure was slowing now, strolling into the knot of bodies by the statue, hoping to be anonymous again. Emily cast a worried glance behind her and saw nothing. Not a soul was moving down the narrow medieval thoroughfare of the Via del Pellegrino, and she tried to convince herself she’d lost the man.
“But he’s good,” she muttered, and took out her issue revolver, put it snugly in the right-hand pocket of her jacket, then placed the pair of regulation handcuffs she carried in her left, wishing all the time she’d paid more attention during the repetitive, noisy tedium of the firearms classes back in Virginia.
She put her head down, stared at the grubby snow and began to cut a diagonal path across the square, marking out a decent distance from the statue, looking, she hoped, like any passerby moving through the night.
Laila was cowering there, hiding herself in a crowd of youths. Emily didn’t like what she saw. The girl looked odd.
Emily locked one cuff around her own left wrist, keeping the metal hidden from view. They could spend all night running around Rome after this girl. It was important to bring her to a halt here.
Then she doubled back to the statue quickly, silently slipped between two youths sharing a joint, stood beside the girl and placed a hand on her arm.
“Laila,” she said quietly, firmly, “there’s nothing to worry about. We’re here to help.”
The kid turned, her pale face shining with pure terror.
“It’s all right,” Emily said.
But Laila was ready to run again and there was no option. Emily reached out, took Laila’s slender right wrist, and locked the right handcuff around it, tight to the soft skin. The girl leapt away from her, as if touched by an electric shock. The others were beginning to mill round the two of them, not taking any notice when she kept on yelling, “Police, police.”
Laila almost dragged her off the steps. Someone’s hand tried to separate them, jerking hard on the cuff chain. It was the scene by the river all over again, and Emily thought of the options in front of her, thought about how carrying a knife was, in circles like these, just part of everyday life. Finally, she remembered what Nic Costa had done in similar circumstances. She needed help. She needed to make a point.
Emily Deacon took the gun out of her right-hand pocket, held it high in the air and, for the second time that night, two shots burst towards the luminous disc of the moon.
“Nic!” she yelled. “Peroni!”
The youths got the message. They were moving back, looking scared, ready to run, to get as far away from trouble as possible. There were faces at the windows of the Campo bars but no sign of movement. The shot had bought her time. Now she needed assistance.
“Nic!” she screamed again and pushed the girl hard into the stone pedestal of the statue to stop her trying to drag herself away.
“Wait…” she was saying, until something got in the way. A fist, hard as stone, coming from somewhere behind her right shoulder, catching her on the jaw, making her shaky grip on the gun loosen so much that it slipped, with a steady, inevitable momentum, right out of her fingers and flew rattling across the ancient, slushy cobblestones.
She half stumbled against the plinth, tasting blood in her mouth, struggling to think straight. Then a figure bent over her, the face hidden in the shadows, and he was laughing, a normal, natural laugh, calm, controlled, one that made her spine go stiff.
“You ask for men,” he murmured in a flat, North American voice. Something black and cold and familiar pressed against her cheek, sending the stink of gun oil straight into her head. “They send you children.”
Her eyes dodged the weapon, raking the square anxiously, wondering where the hell Costa and Peroni were. They’d surely heard the shots. Then he dragged her upright, stared into her eyes. He was about fifty, with a chiselled anonymous face and lifeless grey eyes. A stupid thought came to her: I know this man somehow.
He yanked the chain of the cuffs high in the air, dragging the two of them together. With her left hand, unseen, she fumbled in her pocket, searching desperately for a solution.
“You cuffed her well,” he said. “I watched. But you have to think about consequences. Always. Was it the right thing to do? What happens next?”
The gun moved from the girl’s terrified head to hers.
“Decisions,” he said wearily. “Sometimes there’s no avoiding them. You American? Or Italian?”
“Guess,” Emily hissed at him.
She pushed in front of the kid, tugging against his powerful grip on the chain, and covered Laila’s slight body, wondering all the time if it were really possible to escape from such a situation, to try to find a refuge in the scattering handful of people retreating from the violence of this scene.
Then some clarity entered her mind and it said: Best not to fool yourself.
She drew back and spat full into the pale, emotionless face, then said, in a quiet, controlled voice, “You murdered my father, you bastard. I hope you rot in hell.”
The grey eyes blinked. Something went through his head at that moment and in a strange, unexpected way it changed things. Not that there was time to consider what he might be thinking just then. Her fingers had found what she wanted: the key.
This man recognized her. There could be no mistake. He was staring at her, partly bemused, partly lost, troubled, struggling to come to terms with something she couldn’t fathom.
His hand reached out, jerked her blonde hair close to his mouth.
“Emily Deacon,” he murmured. “Little Em. Following in Daddy’s footsteps. Such a waste…”
He relaxed his grip a little, let her head move back from his face. The gun brushed her lips. She twisted the key in the lock on her wrist and, with one deft twist, released the clasp, squeezing Laila’s hand to let her know she was free, then held on to her gently, waiting for the moment.
“Civilians,” he whispered and there was doubt in his voice now, something holding him back. “Don’t you hate it when they get in the way? Little Em…”
“Don’t call me that, you murdering bastard,” she hissed at him and lunged hard with her free hand, punching straight into the throat with the side of her hand, the way they’d taught her.
“Go, go, go!” she yelled at Laila as he fell back into the snow, pushing the kid out from under Giordano Bruno’s shadow, out into the square, beneath a sky that was beautiful with stars but starting to cloud over with the filmy promise of snow.
Someone was shouting. A familiar voice. Nic Costa’s.
The figure on the ground pulled himself upright. She mustn’t run. This man was good. He could bring her down anytime he wanted.
He still held the gun loosely at his side, like a professional.