Page 25 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

T he back lot behind the Ministry of Justice sits empty at half past midnight, shadows pooling between abandoned construction equipment and rusted shipping containers. I check my watch and scan the perimeter one more time before stepping out of the darkness.

Cristiano Laera is already here, pressed against the concrete wall near the service entrance.

Even from thirty meters away, I can see his hands shaking.

The man looks like he hasn't slept in days, his clothes wrinkled and his face gaunt with the particular exhaustion that comes from living in constant fear.

He spots me approaching and pushes off the wall, nearly stumbling in his haste. "You came."

"I said I would." I stop just outside his reach, my eyes moving past him to check for surveillance. "You have what we agreed on?"

Laera nods and pulls a small hard drive from his jacket pocket. The device disappears back into his clothing before I can get a good look, but the weight of it seems to steady him slightly.

"Everything's there," he says. "Bank records, communication logs, payment transfers. Enough to prove who's been selling court information to the highest bidder."

"And Serena Barone's leak?"

His face darkens. "That too. You're not going to believe who's been feeding her cases to the competition."

I reach into my own jacket and withdraw a manila envelope.

Laera's new identity papers, crafted by the best forger in southern Italy.

Birth certificate, passport, driver's license, even a backstory complete with employment records and tax filings.

Enough to disappear completely if he has the discipline to stay gone.

"Naples," I tell him as he tears open the envelope. "There's a shipping company that will hire you without questions. The contact information is inside."

Laera flips through the documents, his relief palpable. "And the immunity agreement?"

"Will be honored once I verify what you're giving me." I gesture toward the Ministry building. "But first, we do this clean."

The maintenance corridor entrance is exactly where Laera said it would be—a nondescript steel door set into the building's foundation, hidden behind a cluster of ventilation units. Laera produces a keycard from his wallet, his hands steadier now that we're moving.

"Security rotation changes at one fifteen," he whispers as the lock disengages. "We have twenty minutes before the next patrol."

The corridor beyond is narrow and poorly lit, lined with pipes and electrical conduits that hum with the building's mechanical systems. Our footsteps are muffled by years of dust and neglect as we make our way deeper into the building's bowels.

"Here." Laera stops at a junction where three hallways meet. Above us, a security camera sits in its housing, red light blinking steadily. "That's the one that covers the approach to the records vault."

I pull a small device from my pocket—no bigger than a smartphone, its surface covered in buttons and LED indicators. The signal jammer activates with a soft beep, and the camera's red light dies immediately.

"How long will that last?" Laera asks.

"Long enough." I'm already moving toward the vault entrance, a reinforced door marked with warnings about authorized personnel only. "What about the locks?"

"Electronic. Tied to the same system as the cameras."

The lock picks are old school—steel and brass, worn smooth by years of use. But electronic locks have mechanical backups, and mechanical backups can be defeated by anyone with patience and skill. The tumblers give way after ninety seconds and a lot of finagling on my part and the door swings open.

The records vault is smaller than I expected, lined floor to ceiling with filing cabinets and computer servers. The air smells of paper and ozone, sterile and cold. Laera moves to a terminal in the corner and begins typing, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

"Court records are compartmentalized," he explains without looking up. "Personnel files are separate from case files, which are separate from evidence logs. But if you know the backdoors…"

The screen fills with directories and file names, scrolling past too quickly for me to read. Laera navigates through them with the confidence of someone who's spent years learning the system's weaknesses.

"There." He plugs in the hard drive, and progress bars begin crawling across the screen. "Financial records for everyone with access to sealed case files. Cross-referenced with known criminal associates and suspicious banking activity."

I move to the door, keeping watch while the files transfer. The corridor remains empty, but I can hear the building's security systems humming around us—cameras, motion sensors, all the electronic eyes that could expose us if we're not careful.

"How much longer?"

"Two minutes."

"And you'll delete all the records when you're done?" I ask, glancing back at him. He stands stooped over the keyboard with a scowl on his face.

"Fuck's sake, man. It's my life on the line."

"Laera…" I caution, and his head dips.

"Yeah… I got it." His grumble comes as a beep from the computer catches my ear.

The progress bar hits ninety percent when I hear footsteps in the distance. Heavy boots on concrete, moving with the steady rhythm of a patrol. I signal Laera, who nods and begins disconnecting the drive.

"Done." The hard drive disappears back into his jacket. "Everything's copied."

We're out of the vault and back in the maintenance corridor within thirty seconds, the electronic lock resetting behind us.

The footsteps are closer now, echoing through the building's skeletal framework.

I kill the signal jammer, and the security cameras flicker back to life just as we round the corner toward the exit.

The steel door closes behind us with barely a whisper. Laera is breathing hard, adrenaline and relief warring on his face. "That's it? We're done?"

"You're done." I check my watch. The entire operation took less than five minutes—no alarms, no confrontation, no evidence left behind. "Remember what I told you about Naples. Stay clean, stay quiet, and you'll live to spend your new life."

Laera nods and starts to turn away, then stops. "The information on that drive—it's going to destroy some important people."

"Good," I tell him, and I press the drive against my chest in my jacket pocket as I turn away.

He disappears into the shadows between the shipping containers, leaving me alone in the Ministry's back lot. I wait another sixty seconds before moving toward my car, parked three blocks away in an all-night garage.

The streets are empty at this hour, Rome settling into the deep quiet that comes in the hours before dawn. I navigate the narrow alleys that will take me back to the parking structure.

I'm two blocks from the garage when I spot the tail.

A dark sedan, engine running, parked in the shadow of a closed restaurant.

The silhouette behind the wheel could be anyone, but the way the car pulls away from the curb as I pass tells me it's professional surveillance.

Patient, disciplined, probably armed. It's most likely someone who is interested in what I have, someone who would disrupt my plan to keep Serena safe and destroy the Costa empire with what's on this drive.

I turn left at the next intersection, taking a route that will lead me through Rome's oldest quarter. The sedan follows, maintaining distance but staying close enough to keep me in sight. When I turn again, it turns. When I stop to light a cigarette I don't smoke, it stops too.

My car is still a block away when I decide the game has gone on long enough.

The alley I choose is narrow, barely wide enough for a single vehicle. Ancient walls rise on either side, lined with doorways and windows that have watched over Rome for centuries. I walk casually, hands in my pockets, until I reach a spot where the alley widens into a small courtyard.

Then I disappear.

The doorway I choose is recessed, hidden in shadow. I press myself against the stone and wait. The sedan appears at the mouth of the alley thirty seconds later, moving slowly as the driver searches for his lost target.

I let them get halfway down the alley before I make my move.

My Glock comes out of its holster smoothly as I step into the open and put three rounds through the sedan's rear window before the driver can react. Glass explodes inward, and the car swerves hard right, scraping against the ancient stone wall with a shriek of metal on rock.

But the driver doesn't stop. Instead, he floors the accelerator, the sedan's engine roaring as it rockets toward the far end of the alley. I dive sideways as the car clips the spot where I was standing, stone chips flying from the impact.

The chase begins in earnest.

I sprint back toward the main street, knowing the sedan will have to take the long way around to intercept me. My car is close now, just around the corner in the parking structure. But as I reach the street, I see a second vehicle—another sedan, this one blocking the entrance to the garage.

Two cars. Coordinated surveillance. This isn't random.

I change direction, heading deeper into the old quarter where the streets are too narrow for vehicles. Behind me, I hear car doors slamming and boots on pavement. At least three men, maybe more.

The pursuit winds through alleyways that haven't changed since the Renaissance, past churches and fountains that have stood for a thousand years. My pursuers are good—they know how to move quietly, how to anticipate my route through the maze of ancient streets.

But I know Rome better than they do.

I find a motorcycle parked behind a cluster of delivery trucks in a service area near the Pantheon.

There's no key, so I use the tip of my pocket knife to pop the ignition out of its housing and my teeth to strip the wires.

The engine turns over on the first try, and I'm moving before my pursuers round the corner.

The streets open up as I head toward the river, the motorcycle's engine noise bouncing off the buildings that line the Tiber. Behind me, headlights appear in my mirrors—the sedans, moving fast and closing distance.

The first shots come as I cross the Ponte Cavour, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness behind me. Bullets spark off the bridge's stone railings, sending chips flying into the black water below. I lean low over the handlebars and twist the throttle, the motorcycle surging forward with a roar.

The chase becomes a running gun battle through Rome's heart. My pursuers are relentless, taking corners at dangerous speeds and firing whenever they have a clear line of sight. I return fire when I can, one-handed shots that force them to take cover behind their windshields.

A bullet takes out my left mirror as I race past the Mausoleum of Augustus. Another punches through the motorcycle's rear fender, missing my leg by inches. I can hear sirens in the distance now—the Polizia, responding to reports of gunfire in the city center.

Time to disappear.

The turn I take is sharp enough to scrape my knee against the pavement, sparks flying as I tilt the motorcycle into a lean that should be impossible.

The alley beyond is barely wide enough for the bike, walls rushing past on either side like a tunnel of stone.

I emerge onto a parallel street and kill the engine, coasting into the shadow of a construction site.

The motorcycle disappears behind a wall of scaffolding and concrete barriers, hidden from the street, and I take a deep breath.

The sedans roar past thirty seconds later, their occupants scanning doorways and side streets for any sign of their target. I wait until their taillights disappear before starting the engine again.

The rest of the journey takes me through Rome's industrial district, where abandoned factories and empty lots provide plenty of places to watch for pursuit.

I ditch the motorcycle in a scrapyard near the airport and acquire a replacement vehicle—a delivery truck left running outside an all-night bakery.

By the time I reach my neighborhood, the eastern sky is beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. I park the truck six blocks from the house and complete the journey on foot, moving through back alleys and residential gardens to avoid the main streets.

The house appears undisturbed when I finally reach it. No signs of surveillance, no vehicles that don't belong. But the chase through Rome's streets has left me paranoid, every shadow suspect.

I'm three houses away when I hear a sound that doesn't belong—metal on metal. It could be anything. A cat knocking over a trash can. A neighbor's door swinging in the wind, or maybe that prowler came back to get what he wanted the first time.

I draw my Glock and melt back into the shadows, every instinct screaming that the night isn't over yet and that I should've taken Serena and gotten out of here a long time ago.