Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(126)

He glanced down, alarmed, and watched the icon detach itself from the shore, move out over the water. What the f*ck…?

András shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted. The ferry whistle shrilled. Oh, shit. No. The prick had climbed onto a boat and was sailing away to some godforsaken rock in the Mediterranean.

“On your feet,” he snarled at the ape, who had once again dropped down onto his lazy ass, wheezing. “We need to find someone with a boat immediately to get us to wherever that ferry is going.”

To András’s surprise, Angelo made himself useful by promptly locating a man with a powerful motorboat, fast enough to get to the island before the ferry did. A smuggler, no doubt. Negotiations were swiftly concluded. András peeled several hundred-euro notes off his money roll, put them onto the man’s grimy palm and was climbing on board, one leg on the side of the boat, when suddenly he stopped.

Motionless, he sniffed the air as a shiver ran down his back, half in and half out of the boat. Angelo and his avaricious smuggler friend waited, their peasant faces blank and stupid.

He, after all, had been the one in the goddamn hurry. But the ferry retreating before him did not make saliva pump into his mouth. He was beset with doubts.

A trick?

But the tracer was inside the man’s body. How was it possible?

He stepped back onto the dock. “You go on,” he said. “Get to the island before that ferry does and watch for him. Follow him with the handheld. Call me immediately if you locate him.”

“Sì, sì, certo,” Angelo muttered sullenly.

“And if you kill him, I will rip out your liver with my hands and feed it to a stray dog while you watch. Is that clear?”

The smuggler blinked. His eyes darted between András and Angelo. Angelo nodded. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To make sure he hasn’t f*cked me by going in the opposite direction,” András snapped. “Now go.”

A taxi was just letting out a clump of Dutch tourists in front of the nearest beachside hotel. András slid inside it gratefully. “Take me to the beach on the north side of La Roccia,” he said. “One hundred more euro if you get there in less than ten minutes.”

The man’s eyes lit up. The taxi dashed out onto the road and jounced up the cobblestoned streets.

It took the man eleven minutes to get to the other side, but András was not inclined to quibble. They jerked to a stop right next to the ice-cream stand near where Janos’s rented Opel Tigra had been parked. The car was gone. So his instinct had been correct—unless, of course, someone had stolen the car, always a possibility in southern Italy. He shoved the hundred euros into the hand of the taxista, and got out.

A slim, dark-eyed girl no more than seventeen presided behind the counter of the ice-cream stand. Pretty breasts, shown off by a low-cut pink leotard under her artfully opened sweater. Taut dark nipples shadowed the pale fabric. She would have seen who took the car. He gave her his nicest smile, but she shrank back.

“Did you see someone get into that Opel that was parked over there a little while ago?” he asked.

She opened and closed her rosy mouth. “Sì. A man.”

“And what did he look like?” he asked.

Her big, limpid eyes went blink, blink. “I don’t remember, really.”

“Ah.” András reached into his pocket, and pulled out a twenty-euro note. He slid it across the counter.

“Tall,” she said helpfully. “Dark.”

He waited for more. She shrugged. He pulled out another twenty.

She fluttered her lashes, made it disappear. “Wet,” she said. “He looked wet and cold. Like he was bleeding, too. His shoulder. And arm.”

So. Confirmed. Janos had gouged out the RF trace and gotten the better of him. But not for long. He had a fix on their nighttime position. Where else could a cold, wet, wounded man go but to ground? And to Steele? On track again. All was well.

He gave the girl a murderous smile. Her face went white. He’d gotten what he needed from her, but the sulky, grasping little bitch hadn’t made it easy. He didn’t like that. He reached over the counter and gave her nipple a vicious pinch that she would feel for the next ten days.

She shrieked and clutched her chest, staring at him wildly.

“Thank you for your help, signorina,” he said pleasantly.

He headed for his car, reflecting that the ice-cream whore was lucky he was so pressed for time. Or else he would have made her earn every last cent of that money, ten times over.

On her hands and knees.



“Is this the only thing you have?” Tam asked for the third time.

Pantaleo, Signora Concetta’s youngest son, gave her a grunt that she could only interpret as a yes, since it was followed by no other options.

She stared at the rusted 1965 Fiat 500. Inside, the upholstery was rotted to stinking gray dust. Shreds of ceiling fabric hung like cobwebs. The original color was impossible to determine. The exposed foam padding of the seats had discolored to deep orange, degenerating into grainy chunks; the dash coated with greasy dust. The backseat had been ripped out to make room for farm tools. Three windows were taped shut and the windshield was cracked and cloudy. A rearview mirror swung forlornly on a piece of duct tape. There were no side mirrors. She could see the ground through the holes in the floor.