Page 37 of Glitter
“Probably up to his eyeballs in pussy, the little shit.” Dario flags a passing server and gestures for another round. The white-coated man leaps into the air and shoots off like he’s touched a live wire.
Yeah, sure. Caraldi fits right in.
“Seems unlike him to be this late, though.”
As if on cue, the roar of a high-powered engine has everyone on the deck spinning toward the sound.
“There’s our boy.” Dario drains his glass and sets it down. Except there’s something else now. Another rumbling engine, I frown as shouts bring the conversation to a halt altogether. And then gunfire.
“Jesus!”
Dario and I are up and running toward the entrance simultaneously as all the others around us fling their hands in the air and start screaming. We make it to the main access to the parking area just as the door of Raoul’s Ferrari flings open. Raoul leaps out and drops to one knee, a pistol gripped in one hand, firing straight at the gleaming black van that’s pulled up behind him.
There’s more screaming as another volley of shots rings out. Whoever’s in the van is armed with automatic rifles. Bullets spray wildly, peppering the Ferrari’s red paintwork and shattering the windscreens of a string of luxury vehicles parked nearby. It might not be the right time to tell Dario he’s probably lost his club membership.
I react automatically, reaching to the back of my waistband, then feel dismay surge as I remember I’m not armed. The piece is such a part of me that I seldom imagine being without it. But there’s a no-weapons policy here. Dario’s not packing either. And we arrived without security. Because why would we need it now that there’s no threat?
No threat…we’re fucking idiots, that’s what we are!
“Down!” I hear Dario yell, though I don’t need the instruction. We drop low, scurrying in Raoul’s direction using fancy pot plants for cover. The van's door has slid open, and a band of black-clad men barrels out.
Someone shouts something. Low and guttural, I don’t understand the words, but the language is familiar.
Fucking Russians!
“Raoul!” I yell. “Through the car!” If he can get to the other side of the vehicle, he can use it to shield himself till we reach him. My Lincoln is only a couple of cars away. My Glock’s in there, along with a backup piece. If we can get to it in time, smash the window if we need to—
“No!” Dario yells suddenly, then makes a mad dash forward. Two of the men have come in behind Raoul’s defense line. One gets his arms as another brings the butt of his rifle down against his temple. Raoul crumples, and Dario’s still running, despite the rap of Kalashnikov fire that spits up asphalt around his feet. He jerks, and I see him drop and roll and get back up running.
He dives straight behind a nearby Merc, which bears the brunt of the rest of the bullets. Blood blossoms on the white sleeve of his shirt where a slug has ripped past his arm. Something else Lacoste’s designers may not have planned for. There’s no way he will get to Raoul in time, however. Not without taking a more lethal hit. I can’t get there either. I just can’t. It would be suicide.
I watch in impotent rage as the pair drag Raoul’s lifeless form toward the open door. The others surround them, firing randomly in sweeping circles, not aiming anywhere in particular. The lead curtain is designed to keep us at bay. The group clambers back into the van, pulling the door shut sharply. The engine guns then roars as they pull off.
Dario belts off behind them, thighs pumping, bellowing like an enraged bull, while I glance toward my car, knowing it would be fruitless to go after them now. My keys are still back on the table on the patio with my sunglasses and cellphone.
Jesus, what a fuckup!
The way we handled this…like complete rookies.
Dario spins to face me as he stops running at last, eyes wild.
“They took him!” His breath is rasping. “They fucking took him!” He raises powerful forearms and rakes both hands through his hair. His face is a mask of fury…and pain. The whole thing has lasted barely a minute.
And Raoul is gone.
