CHAPTER 21
Lexi finished her second cup coffee as she read the final document in the files. The Italians had been thorough, but they hadn’t traced Katerina’s movements back for more than a few weeks. Lexi didn’t need surveillance to track a person’s movements. Habitual patterns were not as random as people thought. Earth energies had a lot to do with how attractive or repulsive a location felt, and it wasn’t always the taste of the coffee that drew people to a certain cafe.
According to Marge, what people didn’t see had more influence on their actions than what they did see. Actually, it was what people felt and didn’t feel, but they’d been sitting on Lexi’s deck at the time, watching a pair of grown men and laughing hysterically about what people didn’t see. The idiots had been flirting with what turned out to be sneaker waves. Some people needed to get knocked on their asses before they realized their own stupidity.
Still, Lexi assumed the Italian warriors had loaded their own tracking software onto the laptop. They were good, not as skilled as Ethan, but talented enough Lexi began the first swift keystrokes that would lead her to Matthew’s secret backdoors.
An hour later, Lexi acknowledged that Katerina knew how to hide her presence from the cyber world. The girl never posted on social media, sent or received email, commented on her friend’s posts or did any electronic banking. And if she used a cell phone, it was encrypted.
But Lexi discovered the posting on social media from one of Katerina’s friends, about how thrilled Katerina was to be visiting Florence “because of a research grant.” Katerina’s godfather was identified as a scholar, with a particular interest in ancient European civilizations if an obscure book he’d written ten years ago was any proof. Lexi found it in an online archive through her old university, used a password and quickly scanned the contents.
Lexi followed another lead and discovered a brief announcement posted by the godfather’s academic institution: the professor had turned down a coveted research grant for health reasons and his goddaughter, Katerina Varga, had accepted in his stead. Kat had majored in computer science and ancient languages. One of her published papers had been on the lost Etruscan language. It was not an Indo-European language but based on the ancient Aegean languages with elements of Raetic, spoken in the Eastern Alps. Katerina had proposed using computer algorithms to cross-reference with known ancient dialects. The paper had been moderately received, with some skepticism. Multiple theories were argued as to the origin of the Etruscans since the Romans had obliterated almost all of Etruscan culture. Katerina had then been accepted into a doctoral program at her godfather’s institution, which she turned it down two months later to accept the research grant.
And there is was. Katrina had come to Florence to research the Etruscans.
Lexi felt energized. She gathered the hair at her nape and wrapped it into the knot for convenience. In skinny jeans and a black top, she would look like every other tourist visiting the Museo Archeologico—the one place in Florence Katerina would not have overlooked. The museum housed one of the most extensive Etruscan collections in Italy. If Lexi was lucky, she would pick up some imprint of the girl’s presence, a trace that might lead her to more interesting clues. And since it was within walking distance, not more than a few blocks, she might find other interesting memories along the way.
Florence had a long and ancient history. It was calling to her.
And yeah, Arsen could just try to kick her ass, Lexi thought as she walked out the door.
Luca was waiting at the end of the alley leading to Katerina’s old flat, leaning against the armored black vehicle blocking the street. Angry pedestrians swarmed around the shiny metal, shouting their displeasure in typical blunt fashion.
Christan met Luca’s eyes. “What kept you?”
“Someone I saved for you.”
“Who?”
The Italian smiled. “A mercenary who’s regretting his decision right now.”
Luca opened the car door, waited while Christan and Arsen slipped inside. Then he joined them and slapped the back of the driver’s seat. The vehicle pulled away from the alley.
“How did you find him?” Christan asked in Italian.
“We had intel on two attacks scheduled for last night. They’re working with two-man teams now. A snatcher and a driver. We got the girl, but the driver got away. The snatcher wasn’t so lucky.”
Christan nodded. “What of the other attack?”
“We’re still looking for the two girls.” Luca’s voice was hard. The vehicle was merging onto the Autostrada. It rode low to the ground due to the heavy armored protection.
“Something’s changed,” the Italian continued, as the vehicle sped up. “Word on the street says their boss is impatient. Makes them sloppy.”
Christan stared out at the passing landscape. “Did you identify your snatcher?”
“A low-level assassin. He’s worked for both Six and Five. We might get more information when this guy sees you. He’s not talking much to the rest of us.”
“Where is he?”
“A farmhouse well out of town. Private.” Christan nodded without emotion. The Italian warriors understood better than most; this was a harsh world where vengeance wasn’t always swift. And an Enforcer’s justice not always blind.
They reached their destination within an hour, stood in a cellar smelling of fear and mold within five minutes. Christan recognized the man. His actions over the centuries had been unsavory and undistinguished. Rumor had it he’d been somewhere else, but now he was here, and there was not much else to do. The moment the snatcher recognized who stood in front of him, he lost whatever hope he still possessed.
“Do you know who I am?”
There was no response. The man had been stripped of all clothes except underwear. The clothes were in a pile in the corner.
Christan gestured toward Arsen, who stood at his side. “Do you know who he is? It’s his mate you’ve been hunting. I’m not saying you hunted her last night, but you’ve been hunting all our women, so the threat is the same.”
“You’re an enforcer,” the snatcher said. “He’s your second. You’ll kill me no matter what I say.”
“Perhaps. But before we do that you’re going to talk.” It was enough of a threat. The man stared at his bare knees. They were white and thin.
Christan let the man wait. “Who do you work for?”
“An intermediary.”
“This intermediary have a name?”
Silence. Christan let it go.
“What does this intermediary tell you to do?”
“We’re supposed to find a girl.”
“Just… any girl?”
Silence. This time, Christan didn’t let it go. A low moaning filled the cellar as the enforcer probed into the snatcher’s mind. The man spit blood on the dirty cellar floor.
“He told us to grab every bonded girl we came across and force her memories. That’s all I know.”
“Not all. Let’s talk about the other attack last night.”
“It must have been successful if you’re asking about it.”
“So you do know.” It was all Christan needed, a confirmation of knowledge. From there it was simple; the interrogation technique had just been demonstrated and everyone in the cellar understood how it would end. Including the snatcher tied to the chair.
“You’re a bright boy,” Christan said into the silence. “I’m sure you see your options.”
“What I see are enemies around me.” The man grew bolder, too poorly trained to moderate his emotions. “When you look around, Enforcer, what do you see?”
“A stupid man tied to a chair.”
“You sure of that?”
The snatcher was arrogant. Perhaps he’d forgotten how short life could be when an enforcer was standing in the room.
“You have enemies all around you,” he said. “Enemies who know where your friends are. Where your girl is and that she’s alone. Where his girl is, trying to hide in Florence. You can’t protect them all, not when you’re trying to protect every bonded mate we fi—”
“Hush,” Christan interrupted. “I talk and you answer. Those are the rules.”
“Fuck your rules.”
“I fuck with rules all the time.”
Silence.
“Tough guy. Especially with women.” Christan hated interrogations when they turned bad. He preferred to meet his enemies on the battlefield where the fighting was swift and clean. Digging into the depths of a depraved mind required a total lack of emotion. And there were times when Christan realized he’d committed similar sins throughout his long life, when he felt no different from the many different men tied in the many different chairs.
“That’s okay,” he said after a moment. “You don’t have to answer, nod if you like. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
The snatcher ignored the question, spoke with the fervor of a believer. “Do you remember a cottage on the beach? That stupid cat?”
“You have something to do with that?”
“Heard you killed the man you thought did.”
“I don’t mind taking out the trash,” Christan agreed. “I’m doing some of that right now.”
“Her bedroom smelled like fresh flowers,” the man said. “Her sheets like sex. I rubbed my cock all over her pillow and then I nailed that cat to her bed.”
“I’m disappointed to hear that.” The man tied to the chair jerked beneath the sudden pain. “Who told you to kill the cat?”
“No one. They told us to have fun.”
“Are you having fun now?”
The warrior shrugged, trying to shield against the mental intrusion; Christan eased up enough to let him believe resistance was possible.
“We’ll still get the girl and she’ll squeal like her cat,” the snatcher said. “If not today, then some other day.”
“Who sent you?”
“Don’t have a name.”
“You don’t have very much, do you?”
“Okay,” the snatcher said, seeming to understand the danger. “Maybe it was this rich guy.”
“He’s the one paying?” Because mercenaries rarely did anything without money in the bank.
“Yeah, but only if we get your girl.”
“Alive?”
“Dead is okay, too.”
“How many have you killed?” Christan asked.
No answer. Moaning filled the cellar again.
“How many?”
“We haven’t counted,” the man said, and tried to laugh until his windpipe completely closed. The snatcher struggled against the plastic ties that held his wrists, and his bare feet beat against the dirty floor. Christan released the mental pressure around the man’s throat enough for the snatcher to look into his face.
“How many?”
No answer.
Christan expected none. Without emotion, he pressed harder into the man’s mind, ripped into the memories. He didn’t need to be told how many innocents had been killed. He could see for himself. Count them. Slowly, methodically, he broke apart the images. He learned of the second attack, of the three men hiding in a warehouse outside of Florence, and the two girls they’d snatched from the street. Learned what they planned to do and where they planned to do it. Calculated the time he had before the atrocities began. Discovered the plans after those plans. Plans for Arsen’s girl. For Christan’s girl. And when he was done and the man sat screaming in the chair, Christan turned to his second.
Arsen?
Arsen didn’t have to ask. He stepped forward, placed both hands on the man’s head and twisted so swiftly no one realized an execution had occurred until the body hit the floor. Both warriors turned and walked out of the cellar.
Someone else would clean up the mess.