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She nearly spills her noodles as she jumps up and comes across to give me a hug.
A text pings my phone.
Jerry wants his answer.
My mood drops.
Before we land, I shower and put on a white Armani dress. I send messages to Carlo, Bruno, and Alessio. I want to see them at Blackridge. Today.
I ask Catlin if she would like a driver to take her home or if she would prefer a car to drive herself.
“I’ll have a driver, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. Of course. I’m going to have a car and drive. I want to think.”
I arrange for Mikey to collect Catlin and drive her home.
Even though I take my time driving home, when I get here, it’s too early for breakfast, and too late for sleep. I make coffee, perch at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and settle in to catch up on some busywork on the laptop.
A sound from the basement snaps me to alertness. Only a short, soft scraping noise. Probably an animal that got in from the forest.
Still, I hit the house security button on my phone. It shows movement in the room below me that’s due to be part of the wine cellar. Flicking automatically to the cameras, I catch sight of a foot disappearing behind a wall.
They’re headed for the stairs. Coming this way. I only saw one foot, but there could be any number of them.
They will be coming up and out through the door on the far side of the kitchen. I don’t have time to find weapons. As I dash to the side of the door, I pick up an iron skillet. I have to listen hard by the door. They’re moving softly, stealthily.
I can’t tell how many, but they’re so quiet I know they’re not amateurs. And it’s not Carlo or Bruno again. They’re never .
I’m behind the door as it slowly opens. A man in a close-fitting ninja suit comes sneaking in. I swing the iron skillet hard in a fast arc, into the middle of his back. He lets out a tense yelp as he goes down, splayed, face first onto the floor. There’s a gun in his hand.
I kick back as hard as I can to slam the heavy door behind me. I hear the crack and I feel the resistance. It definitely connected with a forehead. A tumbling sound thumps down the stairs.
That was bad timing. I was too hasty. Now I have to go down the stairs after them. It means I have to make sure I don’t get any more trouble from the one on my kitchen floor. First I swing the skillet hard onto his wrist. Now I can get the gun away. I would smash his hand for good measure, but I’m pressed for time. I need to get after his companion. Swinging the skillet in a high arc, I slam the side of it down into his spine. Twice. That will have to do.
Obviously, I could crack his skull. But really, I don’t want him bleeding all over my new kitchen floor. Especially when I was planning to cook.
He’s not moving much. I don’t think he’ll give me any more trouble. Snatching up the gun from his limp hand, I head for the door. To get the door open I need to put the skillet on the counter, but then I remember an online video where a cast-iron skillet stopped a bullet from anything up to a forty-five and I decide to take it along.
As soon as the door is open, I hit the lights for the basement space. There’s one crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. No way to know if there are more. I want to deal with this one fast, but I also want to know where they came from. I might need a live one while I find out.
I dash down the stairs and he scrambles to get out of the way but he’s sluggish. I’m fast and I don’t worry about falling since I plan to land on him anyway. Jumping the last six steps, he howls as my spiky heels connect with his ribs.
Losing balance, I stumble into his writhing body. I need him conscious, but I also need to know if there are any more. So I swing the skillet down into his knee. there’s no weapon in his hands, so I figure at least I have time to check the basement for signs of any more of them. Cursing myself that I didn’t think to bring the phone, I set the skillet on the ground, crouch and point the Glock with both arms out straight, turning quickly.
There’s no sign of anyone else, but I need to be sure. Moving smartly, keeping close to as much cover as there is, I’m checking the space, clearing thoroughly from one corner to the next, I keep the gun aimed into the spaces I haven’t seen, ready to fire wherever someone could be hiding.
The moment I’m sure, I hear a noise behind me. I spin around to see the guy on the ground has got a gun out, aimed straight at me. There’s no cover near. All I can do is move.
His barrel tracks me, shaking as it does. I look in his eyes. His face is red and he’s straining to steady the grip with his other hand. The crack of a gunshot is a deafening shock in the hard, confined space. The man’s body jerks.
I look up.
“Mikey,” I shout. “I wanted to talk to him.”
Silhouetted in the doorway at the top of the stairs, smoke curls up from Mikey’s gun. Diabolo stands by his feet. Head low, jaws wide.
“Sorry, Princess. My priority was more pressing.”
