“Happy to see her family. They were waiting for her at the airfield. Looks like they’re all really tight. What will you do if she decides she wants to be with you, but insists on living in the States? I mean, I know you’d never do it.”
“For her, I would. If she chooses to come back to me and can’t handle being separated from her family, I would move us to fucking Chicago.”
“But . . . you’ve fought half your life to be able to return here. You love Sicily.”
“I do. But I love her more.”
“Fuck, Raff. You’re a total goner for that woman.”
“Yes, I am. I have to go. My intel says Calogero’s guys are just minutes away.”
“Biaggi again?”
“Grandma network.” I cut the line and take up a position around the corner of the building.
Exactly four minutes later, a convoy of black cars emerges from the curve in the road, heading fast in the direction of the refinery.
“Wait,” I instruct a man crouching on my right. He’s controlling the remote spike barrier we laid across the road.
The vehicles close in. Half a dozen of them. Fuck. I expected three or four. When the lead car is about thirty yards from the gas station, I tap my man’s shoulder. “Now.”
The steel blades of the tire killer half-hidden beneath the dirt rise up almost instantly. A heartbeat later, the unmistakable pop and hiss of the punctured tires erupt. The car begins to swerve left and right. Fishtailing the whole way, the driver tries to maintain control but fails in no time. The next two cars that follow suffer a similar fate. Traveling too close to the lead’s tail, the second smashes into the back of the first car, sending both vehicles skidding off the road. The third car over the heavy-duty spike strip continues for a short distance before it ends up in a shallow ditch at the side of the road.
“Tires first, then the drivers!” I bark into the mic. “Can’t risk having any of the vehicles get through.”
The sound of gunfire fills the broad daylight.
Bullets whoosh overhead as two of my snipers on the roof of the gas station pick off Calogero’s goons when they exit the vehicles. All too soon, the noise is joined by the rattle of handguns when our targets return fire. It’s getting harder to see and aim with all the dust that’s been kicked up into the air. I manage to hit the asshole running in my direction but have to retreat when several bullets pepper the wall right next to my head. By my guess, there were at least twenty men inside those vehicles, yet the number of dead or wounded bodies on the ground is less than half of that. The remainder have holed up behind open car doors and are shooting at my guys. Those vehicles must be armored.
I run to the car that spun out into the ditch. With the dip in the terrain, I know the targets will be out of sight of the sharpshooters’ scopes. The driver’s door is hanging open, and the man’s bloody head is slumped on the steering wheel. Two other guys are crouched by the side of the vehicle, firing at my men who are still using the unfinished gas station building as cover. I round the busted ride, approaching from the rear, and spray them with what’s left in my magazine.
Amid the commotion, an engine revs to life. My head snaps up, eyes darting to the trailing cars of the convoy that were able to stop more or less unscathed—aside from the blown-out tires—just after crossing the strip of steel spikes. Calogero’s man is behind the wheel and, despite the flat tires and damaged rims, is swerving between the other vehicles and dead bodies, trying to get clear.
I’m out of ammo in my rifle, so I drop it and reach for my gun. The first few shots either ricochet off the windshield or barely make a dent. I keep shooting, aiming at the driver’s head while the car slowly advances toward me. The fucking bulletproof glass finally cracks, and a spiderweb appears along its surface, yet the windshield remains largely intact. My last bullet finally penetrates it, shattering the fibers but missing the driver.
The car is nearly through the obstacles of dead bodies. Any moment now, the bastard will reach the open road. Fuck! I run toward the vehicle, my eyes trained on the dickhead plowing his way through.
The whipped-up dust hangs in the air, as thick as soup. It feels like I’m caught in a damn desert storm. The ringing of gunshots is everywhere. Shouts come from all around. Cries of pain among the deafening noise. All these sounds blend with the crunch and thump of tires scraping over the body of another fallen goon as I leap onto the hood of the moving car.
For a split second, the driver freezes. Punching through the hole in the windshield, I grab a fistful of his hair. Our gazes meet. With an ironclad grip, I yank him forward and slam his face right into the jagged edges of glass jutting up from the windshield frame.
“Boss!” someone yells. “Get the fuck down!”
I roll off the hood just as a bullet whizzes above my head.
The firefight continues to rage between my team and my godfather’s remaining force. I peek over the front end of the vehicle and spot Allard down on his ass with his back against another car. His left leg is drenched in blood, but instead of trying to reach cover, he’s still shooting. Staying low, I rush toward him.
“Want to bleed to death?” I snarl as I grab the back of his Kevlar and start dragging him toward the gas station building.
“Loved the hood-surfing maneuver you did back there, boss.” The maniac laughs while changing his magazine, then resumes shooting. “Does this mean you’ll be back on an active team from now on?”
I prop him against the wall and squat to check his leg. The bullet only nicked him, thankfully.
“I’m retired, Allard. That’s why I have you—to do all the dirty work.” I grab his hand and press it over the wound. “Keep pressure on that.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, boss, but you ain’t looking so spick-and-span at the moment.”
Shaking my head, I pick up his gun and turn toward the road. The gunfire has finally ceased, and the dust is slowly settling on the bodies of Calogero’s men. I turn on my phone and call Onofredo.
“I need a cleanup crew. Stat.”
“Already on their way,” he replies.
“Authorities?”
“Two patrols were sent out when someone reported hearing shots fired. I made a few calls. They won’t be bothering you.”
“Good.”
I disconnect the call and put the phone away. Calogero will have to be dealt with immediately. I don’t want any threats hanging over my head in case my vespetta chooses to return.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?” Yulia asks as she runs the brush through my hair. “Or are you going to spend the entire day just staring at the wall?”
I shrug. “Yes. I’m going back to Sicily.”
Three hours ago, Yulia stormed into my room and jumped on my bed while I was dozing, scaring me shitless. We laughed. We cried. Then, she yelled at me for not waking her up when I arrived home. We spent the morning holed up in my room, eating Igor’s partially burned cinnamon rolls while I told her all about how I ended up in Sicily.
