Page 47 of Lash

I shake my head. "It's okay. It's just a jacket. We are sorry for causing you trouble. We are not bad people, we are just stuck in a bad situation." I hear Lash giving the others a summary translation of the conversation.

The captain shrugs. "Such is life, hey? Now, you must all leave me alone so I can dock the boat."

We don the coats and hats—the sizes are all over the place, so there is a lot of trying on, shrugging off, and trading until we are wearing sizes close to what fits us. Mine is too large, just like Scarlett’s, while the mens’ are all too small. Except for Lash’s, which is small in the shoulders and chest but long in the arms.

A few minutes later, the boat approaches the dock, and the engines grind noisily as the back end swings in toward the dock. The young crewman tosses the line ashore to a dockworker, who ties it off with expert speed. Before the boat has even settled, Solomon leads the charge, hopping ashore and extending a hand to Scarlett. Lorenzo is next, and then Lash, and Lash lifts me ashore.

It's dark still, the sun having not yet risen. A lone seagull wheels overhead, keening now and again. The marina is empty and quiet. A pair of dim yellow headlights glides along a road that runs parallel to the shore, vanishing into the distance. A dog barks somewhere far away. It's cold, and everything is dew-wet.

"Come on," Solomon says. "Gotta get scarce."

The road nearest the marina, however, is several feet lower than the rest of the city, with another road parallel to one that services the marina; there is no pedestrian access to the upper road, requiring a long walk to where the marina service drive splits off.

Not a soul is visible. The lone seagull is joined by a second, and then a third, and then half a dozen more as the sky lightens.

"This seems too fuckin' easy," Solomon says, scanning our surroundings with one hand in his jacket pocket—gripping his pistol, I assume.

"Maybe they assumed we'd have the ferry take the shortest route across?" Scarlett says.

Solomon rubs his face. "We probably should have. We just wasted twelve fucking hours."

Lorenzo claps him on the back. "I think this was best, my friend. It was unexpected. The time we lost going north we will make up by not having to shoot our way out of Ancona."

"But how do we get to fucking Brazil?" Sol snaps. "I used all my favors."

"After I left the army, I spent some time traveling for fun. I spent a good bit of time here in Italy, and I have even been here, to Ancona," Lorenzo says.

Solomon rolls his hand. "And?"

“Impatient Americans," Lorenzo mutters. “And…there is an international airport here, but it only goes direct within Europe, since it is too small for transoceanic flights. To fly direct, non-stop, to South America, we need to get to a major city. Rome, London, Frankfurt."

Solomon nods. "Ah, I see. So the first step is a ride out of Ancona. Bus, train, or car. Public transportation is risky, since Pugli likely has us flagged for detention. How we'll get around that is a question for later."

Lash sighs. "I have an idea for that, but we need to get to Germany for it to work. I have contacts in the German military. I should be able to get us seats on a military flight, but I need to see my contact in person."

"So we steal a car?" Scarlett asks.

"I have enough cash that we could purchase something. It will not be very nice, but it would make smaller the risk," I say.

"You'd be throwing your money away," Scarlett says. "We'd leave it behind when we fly out of here."

I shrug. “It is my father's money."

Scarlett grins. "Well then, let's go buy a car."

Lorenzo guides us deeper into Ancona, which is sleepy but rousing. Cyclists on their way to work zip past us, paying us no mind in our ferry-worker attire. A taxi trundles past slowly, light on, hoping we'd be his first fare of the day. A delivery van beeps as it backs up along the curb next to a cafe; the outdoor seating area is being set up by a pretty young woman, the chairs unstacked and tables arranged just so, while within baristas calibrate the espresso machines, noisily banging the wands to discard grounds.

Lorenzo halts, eyeing the cafe. "We need to eat," he says. "Tatiana, give me your cash, and I will find us a car. Order us food and coffee and I will return as soon as I can."

I sling my backpack-purse off my shoulders and fish the stack of cash out of it, handing it to Lorenzo. He counts it swiftly and hands back a small stack, folding the rest and putting it in his hip pocket; he does all this with his good hand, keeping the wounded one immobile against his belly.

Lash converses with the young woman setting up the outdoor seating area—his Italian, he explains when the woman hustles off to get menus, is far from fluent but he can make himself understood. Moments later, we're seated inside in a back corner,out of view of the street. We get coffee and breakfast, ordering for Lorenzo.

Thirty minutes later, a dirty, rattling, rusty old Lancia sedan squeals to a halt outside the cafe, and Lorenzo emerges. We've all finished eating already and are sipping our coffees while we wait for Lorenzo.

He tosses the key on the table and hands me a much smaller stack of cash. "I got a good deal. We will have to hope we don't get into any high-speed chases, however, since I doubt it will reach ninety-five on its best day." He arches an eyebrow at Scarlett and Solomon. "That is sixty miles per hour, for you Americans and your idiotic imperial system."

Solomon snorts. "Thanks, pal, don't know what I'd do without you." He rolls his eyes. "I may be an American by birth, but I've spent more time outside the US than I have stateside. I'm all for the metric system."