Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(54)
Uncle Samuel is lying on the ground, and my mother is on her knees cradling his head in her lap. Blood seeps through his shirt at the shoulder, and he’s pressing a hand firmly over the growing stain. My mother sets her hand over his and presses harder. Petrov looks just as pleased with himself as when he got his hands on the box of evidence, and he’s still holding the gun tightly aimed at them.
Time stops, the seconds stretching into hours, and I’m infinitely torn between wanting to rush to my mother, to be there to protect her—or possibly to die with her—and wanting to squeeze my eyes shut and pray this is all just a horrible dream.
But it’s not a dream. Petrov is still looming aggressively over my mother and uncle, and someone has to do something. But anyone who tries to attack him head-on is going to end up bloody on the ground like Uncle Samuel. Brute force isn’t going to win the day here. I need to be better. Smarter.
“I wouldn’t kill them if I were you,” I call to Petrov, hoping my voice doesn’t belie my bluff.
Petrov looks over his shoulder at me but keeps his weapon trained on my mother. “No?” He sounds so confident, so smug. If I were the one with the gun, I’d pistol-whip the smug right out of him right now.
“Your pilot…you trust him?” I’m grasping at straws, testing Petrov’s faith in his man for any hint of weakness.
He hesitates a little too long. I have my answer.
“You’re absolutely certain no one else got to him and turned him? Maybe a certain man whose brother you killed a decade ago…” I nod toward my uncle. “One doesn’t tend to just forget when someone murders a member of one’s family. It’s amazing how little loyalty you inspire in your people, Petrov.” I spit his name as a sign of disrespect.
“What are you saying?” His focus is now entirely on me, and his aiming arm has slackened; the gun is pointed somewhere to my mother’s right now.
“I’m saying you were stupid to think I would just hand over the box without a plan to get it back. And all this time you’ve been down here with us, he’s been up there alone. With the box.”
Petrov’s gaze darts to the plane, then back to me. His lips purse; his gun arm drops to his side. The idea I’m trying to plant has taken root in Petrov’s brain. Petrov’s face freezes into a mask of panic and turmoil. “Carlos!” he shouts, and a little bit of spittle flies out of his mouth with the words. He glances over at the plane, then at me again. He swivels back and forth like that several times before tucking Niko’s gun into his belt and making a beeline for the airstairs. “You’ll pay for this,” he shouts as he starts up them. Then, “Carlos, show yourself!”
No sooner is Petrov out of sight inside the jet than sirens sound somewhere in the distance. The wailing grows imminently louder, and soon a line of dark cars with flashing blue lights appears on the road coming our way. A cloud of dust rises behind the first one and grows with each subsequent car behind it, making it hard to know exactly how many there are, but I count at least three for sure.
“Someone called the carabinieri?” Vasili asks Niko. As if on cue, they take off together, heading down the runway away from the plane and away from the approaching carabinieri. They climb into the SUV and peel out.
I rush to where my mother is already helping Uncle Samuel sit up, and Will is hot on my heels. My uncle’s face is pale, his expression pained, and his shirt has soaked up quite a bit of blood. But he’s able to get to his feet with our help and move a safe distance away from the jet. Once we get him situated back on the ground, Will reaches behind his head with one hand and pulls his shirt up and off, then wads it up and presses it against my uncle’s shoulder.
Headlights illuminate us as three cars pull to a stop in front of Petrov’s jet, effectively blocking his escape. A fourth car speeds past us in the direction Vasili and Niko fled to.
“Dov’è Petrov Rosinsky?” Where is Petrov Rosinsky? A deep voice calls from the darkness beyond the headlights.
I point toward the jet at the same time Will says, “On the plane.”
Shadows cross in front of the headlights, and then a man dressed in carabinieri black with full tactical gear kneels next to my uncle. I back away to give him space. Will does the same, but my mom stays by his side, comforting him with soft soothing words I can’t quite make out. I guess she’s having no trouble forgiving him for the role he played in Petrov’s game.
A bullhorn pops to life somewhere near the cars, and a man calls through it in Italian, commanding Petrov to come out of the plane. He doesn’t obey or even respond. After several long, tense minutes, two carabinieri climb the airstairs cautiously and do their best to flank the open door in the tight space at the top. One goes in slowly. Then the other follows. I half expect to hear a heavy round of gunfire as Petrov tries to stand his ground and battle it out with the two men. But there’s no sound except for the constant whir of the jet engines. Until even that stops, winding down gradually into silence.
Petrov’s pilot appears in the doorway, led with his hands behind his back by a carabiniere. They descend the stairs, and Petrov, led by the other carabiniere, follows next. They got him. I release a heavy sigh of relief and let some of the pent-up tension leave my muscles.
“Looks like we got here just in time,” a small female voice says from right next to me. I spin quickly to see who’s managed to sneak up on me. It’s Giada, hands on hips, watching Petrov’s arrest.