Page 30

ERO

T he sound of creaking pipes wakes me.

Ah. Shitty motel.

Guess we lived. I wiggle my fingers. Toes.

Legs. Arms. Everything works.

Everything hurts .

Especially my head. I take my time sitting up, assessing the damage. Manageable.

The second bed across from me is empty. Slept in.

My next question answers itself as the bathroom door billows steam and a man steps out wrapped in a towel. Dom.

“Morning, Iron Man. You used to love it when I called you that as a kid.”

“I must have been a fucking idiot back then too.”

“We wondered. Didn’t talk. Never smiled. Thought you were a broken toy. Eva always swore that you’d live up to your name, that you were just as slow to change as iron.”

“I get it. My name means iron. I speak Italian,” I rattle off in monotone. Already, I kinda hate this guy.

“Just trying to help you remember. Circe said you’re missing a few marbles.”

“Maybe I’m better off without.”

“Suit yourself. I got stories galore if you decide you want ’em. Nobody else left to share them with you.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“Look, I just did what I had to, to survive. You look like you’ve done the same and worse.”

Wish I had a snappy comeback to that. Avoiding his gaze, I snatch the TV remote and turn it on. Anything’s better than this god-awful family reunion.

I surf for a bit, easing back and propping myself against the headboard. Nothing. Talk show. Tabloids. Sports.

Haven’t watched a game in…

Hm. I must have been into basketball. Sounds kind of familiar.

I’m flicking through faster when the door unlocks, Dom and I both reaching for our guns.

“Relax it’s just me,” Circe hums, bags of takeout crinkling in her hands.

“Finally, I’m starving.”

“I could eat.” I’m still clicking through channels when I see smoke and fire. My bag drops to the floor as Circe absently tries to hand it to me. “Shh!”

Cranking up the volume, I stare transfixed at the scene playing behind a news banner. Circe pauses. Her keys hit the floor. Dom watches stunned, a burger halfway to his open mouth.”

“Be advised, the following clip we received anonymously this morning is shocking. Viewer discretion advised.” The banner swipes away, revealing a drone shot of a desert road. A burning caravan. Bodies. Gunfire. Explosions.

“Details are still scarce, but from what we can tell, early yesterday this U.S. Marshals’ caravan was attacked by multiple assailants.

As you can see, there were mass casualties, including officers from the Marshals’ office, FBI agents, and soldiers.

The identities of the masked assailants are as yet unknown. ”

We all exchange glances as the anchor passes the baton to another host.

“Thank you, Tom. While both agencies involved have refused to comment, sources within the government have given credibility to rumors that the target of the attack was none other than notorious criminal Domenico Vipera, a known mob affiliate who was taken into protective custody just a few years ago after his arrest.”

A clip plays, a statement by the FBI. Deny. Distract.

“While our own government has declined to address the issue of a criminal on the run, a representative from Interpol addressed the international community just hours ago, claiming that Vipera was en route to extradition in a trade with the US to serve time for crimes committed in Europe.”

Cut to a podium. London. The banner crawls, announcing Special Agent Morrigan. A rich, flawless British accent reads from a prepared document.

“In accordance with international law, we hereby declare a heightened state of alert. Yesterday, a dangerous criminal being delivered to Interpol for sentencing escaped the authorities in a tragic, devastating attack. Our hearts are with the families of the officers involved.

“In regard to the prisoner, Domenico Vipera, he is to be considered armed and dangerous. Any information as to his whereabouts, or the two accomplices who aided in his escape must be reported to the proper authorities at once.”

Pictures of my face and Circe’s appear on the screen.

Shit.

She then proceeds to list our alleged crimes. In Hong Kong. Russia. Thailand. The list goes one. Specifics. Robberies. Kidnappings. Murder. Aiding and abetting terrorist and criminal organizations alike. Just about every single thing we’ve done over the past year.

“That’s…” Circe plops down at the foot of the bed.

“Daciana Dalca!” Dom’s on his feet, pointing at the woman speaking on screen. She’s my fucking ’Ndrangheta contact.”

I look closer. At the eyes. Circe spots it too, almost simultaneously.

“Ananke,” we whisper at the same time.

“Who?”

“The woman who we work for. Who…ordered us to do all of that. Funded our missions.”

“The woman who used us,” I hiss, my fists bunching. “She fucking forced us to do her bidding.”

Silence settles for a time, the TV muted.

Dom breaks the stillness finally, his eyes darting as he paces the room. “She set this all up. My escape. The hitmen. Forced you to rescue me. To put us on the run.”

“Actually, we had orders to kill you too,” I admit.

“We were still going to after we questioned you,” Circe adds. “Before we went back. It was supposed to be our final mission.”

“Looks like it was,” Dom grimaces. “Dalca, or Ananke, or whatever…she always had a plan. Intricate.”

“There’s a reason she wanted you dead.”

“Or she wanted me to appear to be on the run. How many different gangs showed up to snatch me, kill me? I bet the contract said to make sure no one ever found my body.”

“Which means she needs a scapegoat.”

“And regardless of whether we killed him or died in the cross fire, she’d have her win.” Circe crosses her arms.

“To what end?” I wonder, rubbing my face.

“Scapegoat. Like you said. With us in the spotlight, a distraction, she can make her move.” Dom stops his circling.

“The ’Ndrangheta always wanted New York.

They sent me to take it from Aless. But I left things…

unfinished. But with me dead, or on the lamb, she can seize my international assets through the court.

Legally. Which will get her access to every shell corporation I owned. ”

“Meaning the entire East Coast operation. Shipping companies. Warehouses,” I marvel.

“And the network of accountants and informants, every remaining business operating under the umbrella.” Dom finishes, smiling wickedly.

“How do you know” And why is he grinning?

“Because I would have done the exact same thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was going to take advantage of the situation to get out, take my place in her ranks.

Work my way up if I had to. The odds are too high that she sent you and every other pro to that hit.

The likelihood that we’re dead in her eyes is next to certain. ”

“She knows what we are capable of,” Circe objects. “What then?”

“If you thought she burned you, what would you have done without all this info?”

“Run.”

“Exactly. And she has her bogeyman.”

“Not to mention the entire Western world authorities at her beck and call for a manhunt.”

“Which means we need to get scarce.” Dom sits down, meeting both of our eyes.

“We?” Circe mutters.

“Yeah. We.”

“Why would Circe and I work with you?”

Dom smiles again, raising his eyebrows. “You need a bankroll if you’re going to run. And I need bodyguards.”

“Fuck. He has a point.”

“And besides, family gotta stick together.”

I’ve just gotten used to the buzz of the parking lot lights when they abruptly cut off. Darkness meets my opening eyes.

Circe stirs next to me in bed, inhaling.

Staring at the ceiling, it takes me a moment to recognize what’s wrong. Too quiet. Too dark.

My nostrils flare.

A familiar scent. Smoke.

From a very specific tool used by a very specific group.

I’m up and in my boots, my gun in my hand in one motion, shaking Circe. Then Dom.

“Up. Now. Gotta go.”

“Hrng?” Dom grunts.

Circe is already standing behind the door, her gun ready, her bag in hand.

“The fuck is going on?” Dom whispers, staggering stiffly from his bed. At least he senses the urgency.

“Assassins.”

“What? Which assassins?” He’s wild eyes now, watching the curtains.

“The worst kind. Mocro. The Hand.”

“Bullshit. If it was them, we’d already be dead.”

“Trust me, it’s them.” I back against the wall, waving for Dom to follow suit.

“How do you know?” he asks, more curious and worried than skeptical.

“Because I used to be one of them.” I grin humorlessly, cocking my gun.

The window explodes, shooting glass across the room.