I consider this. It could work. And it may be our only option.
“She may not have much time, Cristiano,” Charlie adds as if he’s just read my mind.
The driver takes the exit off the highway and a few moments later we’re on a dark, single lane road, two cars close behind with soldiers. More coming from other directions but it’ll take time and we’re out of it.
“Pull over. We’ll switch cars. Antonio and I will go in. Dante, you ride in the next car.”
“No,” Dante says.
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean I go in with you. It’s my plan. I’m not sitting it out. And I want this.”
“You’re not trained well enough—”
“You really think I’m not trained? That for the last ten years since finding my family massacred, I haven’t been preparing for a moment like this one? Like the one we just had? What kind of fool do you think me, Brother?”
I study him, my younger brother, my, what I presumed carefree brother, living the life he should live with girls and liquor and fun. Not the half-life of a damaged boy turned damaged man.
“Pull over,” I tell the driver.
He does and we all step out. The rain’s picked up and I’m getting wet but I’m still considering my brother. He needs this. I know it.
I nod. “I’m driving,” I say. “Antonio, Charlie, I’ll give the signal. You two work out the distraction.”
41
Cristiano
Rain now drums against the roof of the car. The windshield wipers work frantically to clear the glass.
The street leading to the house is quiet. We’re late to the party.
Dante is sitting beside me loading extra rounds of ammunition into his pockets. I keep looking at him to see if I can read distress, any sign of upset after what just happened. He’s got the radio turned up to some heavy metal shit music and is focused on his Glock.
Narrow canals parallel the road on either side with trees lined up at the perfect distance from one another almost as if someone used a ruler when planting them.
As the road curves to the right, I see lampposts along the side of the road. In the distance, the tall gates of the estate, the gargoyles perched atop the pillars on either side lit up like two devils.
I turn to Dante who is looking ahead at the entrance, too.
“Whatever happens, none of this is your fault. You know that, don’t you?”
He turns to me. “You don’t need to baby me, Brother.”
“I’m not babying you. I know you’re not a fucking baby. But you’re still my kid brother. You’ll always be my kid brother.”
He studies me. “Nothing is going to happen,” he says, turning back to the gates as we near them, turning the volume up on the radio when we see the first armed guards come into view. I slow the car, pushing the button to roll down my window part of the way, irritated by the rain pelting my face. Dante tucks his weapon out of sight and sings along to some of the lyrics. The guard leans his head down to look inside the vehicle as he pushes his automatic rifle behind his back.
“Gentlemen,” he says. He has to scream it over the rain. Lightning electrifies the sky just beyond the hulking house.
Another man shines a flashlight inside checking out the backseat.
“This is a private residence. You’ll need to turn around.” He’s soaked, umbrella barely hanging on in the wind.
I turn the music down. “I expect Pérez to have booked a private residence considering.”
He studies me as his colleague knocks on the trunk of the car.
“Why are you so late?”
“We got lost. This place is the fucking end of the fucking world and road signs don’t exactly help when you don’t speak the language.”
“Name.”
My brother turns the music back up and leans across to look at the man. “You don’t recognize my brother? He’s fucking famous.”
The man looks from him to me. He gives up on the umbrella with the next gust of wind and tosses it aside, letting the rain cascade down his face. “Name.”
Committed.
“Grigori,” Dante says, sitting back in his chair as I survey what’s beyond the gates. More armed soldiers, smoking, a few feet away. Lights from the house, about a mile farther down, and more than a dozen vehicles dotting the place. At least of those I can see.
“I gotta take a piss,” Dante says to the man.
“Just a minute. Let the man do his job,” I tell him.
“They could pay a fucking monkey to do this job faster,” he mutters half in English half in Italian. The monkey part loud and clear.
“What did you say?” the soldier asks.
The man at the back knocks his fist twice on the trunk.
“Pop the trunk,” the one from the back yells.
I do. “Is there a problem?” There’s nothing in there but a spare tire.