Page 2 of Destroyer
Only the couple didn’t move.
They stood there on the damn street corner, talking.
She needed to leave. Lingering at the scene of a crime she’d just committed, especially in a foreign country, was bad. Really bad.
C’mon. Keep walking.
When the couple came together in a kiss, Sydney glanced around for an escape route.
And that’s when she spotted the security car patrolling the neighborhood. She hurried behind a tree trunk, but her asshadto be sticking out. It’s not that it was that large, but it was round, and it had been shoved into tight, black pants. The heat of the mask suffocated her face, while perspiration trickled down her back.
The car rolled slowly by. To her horror, the patrolman shone a spotlight around.
Did someone hear the gunshots?
Though she’d used her silencer, the neighborhood was pin-drop silent. The car halted at the corner, the security guard spoke with the couple.
Go, now!
The house next to her target’s home lit up, the front door opened, and a man came rushing outside. He stood in his bathrobe, glancing up and down the street. When he saw the security guard, he whistled loudly, and started waving.
“Ecco! Sono qui!” He shouted. “Here! I’m here!”
Sydney glanced from him to the security guard, who hurried to his car and drove down the street.
Though she could have started panicking, she didn’t. This wasn’t the first time a hithadn’tgone according to plan. As the car drove past her, she peered up the street. The couple had disappeared. If she was going to bolt, it was now.
She eyed another large tree a few houses up, and—avoiding the sidewalk—she strode toward it. Once there, she peeked out. The patrol car’s security light was flashing and he was talking in earnest to the man. A woman had joined him and a few neighbors had stepped outside to view the situation firsthand.
Still masked, Sydney hurried toward the corner but, when she got there, the couple was headed in her direction. They both saw her.
Fuck.
The man took off running toward her while the woman shouted something in Italian. Sydney bolted across the street, then charged forward as fast as she could toward her vehicle. As the shouting continued, she rounded the corner and flew toward her parked car.
Like a dream she couldn’t wake from, the lights from the security car illuminated the road ahead of her. She was trapped, but she wouldn’t give herself up. There would be no one who would come forward to save her. She had to save herself.
She raced past her rental car—wishing she could flee the scene—and flew down a quiet side street. As soon as she hid behind an overgrown bush, she pulled out her phone and dialed.
Pick up.
Seconds passed while the phone rang.
Dammit, he’s not answering.
“Sydney, che sorpresa,” the man answered. “What a surprise. Are you coming to Italy?”
“I’m in Bergamo, and I’m about to get arrested,” she whispered into the phone.
“I’m in Milan.”
That was almost an hour away.
“Give me your address,” he said.
She whispered the location of the hit, adding, “I’m two blocks north.”
“I got you.” The line went dead.
