Page 49 of Tainted Blood
Santi
Grayson’s fleet of private jets reach Florence shortly before nightfall. RJ and I are ready and waiting. We watch as the Colombian and two dozen of his best sicarios exit, their black military fatigues blending into the night; complimenting the thirty men behind us, along with the eight black SUVs.
He descends the airstairs with a phone attached to the side of his head and a scowl on his face. The moment his feet hit the tarmac, he’s striding over to us. “This is your idea of being covert?” he says, gesturing to the army lining the runway. “Will the Special Ops forces be joining us as well?”
I jerk my head at his fleet of jets and disembarking men. “Just leveling the playing field. This is a joint effort, not a scorpion raid.”
He pauses, taking in my black shirt and cargo pants, with that now-familiar condescending look in his eyes. “Nice to know you don’t always dress like a stockbroker.”
“Says the man who walks around looking like he just fucked up a jewel heist.”
Muttering a curse, RJ steps between us. “If you two are finished trading fashion tips, can we get on with it?” Ignoring my hardened stare, he turns toward Grayson. “Any word from the US?”
“If you’re referring to the two cartel kingpins keeping our cities from burning to the ground, then no, they haven’t killed each other yet. But ‘ally’ is a word Santiago and Carrera aren’t familiar with, Harcourt. The sooner we end Zaccaria and return, the better.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Stepping around RJ, I glance at the phone in his hand. “Do we have a location?”
“I spoke to Knight just before we landed. Zaccaria bought himself a hilltop town in northern Tuscany ten years ago... His very own fortress of stone.”
“What is it? A fucking castle?”
“From what he described, yes—and by design. Zaccaria’s taken every precaution to ensure no one’s getting in…or out.”
“Not every precaution. What’s our ETA?”
Grayson jerks his head at the waiting caravan. “Depending on how skilled your men are at handling Italian roads, we’ll either arrive in an hour, or disappear over the side of a fucking motorway bridge.”
Even that wouldn’t stop me. If I have to crawl on my hands and knees to the gates of that fortress, so be it. I promised myself I’d find Thalia and bring her home.
I lied to her once.
I’d rather die before I do it twice.
We’re walking toward the SUVs when Grayson pulls me to one side. “Remember, we’re fighting as one tonight, Carrera.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, our bullets fire for each other, not at each other. If this shit goes sideways, you’ll have to put your life in the hands of a Santiago.”
“I already have.”
The weight of the words center me as I repeat my silent promise.
* * *
There’s not a star in the sky as I lead our caravan of SUVs up the narrow, winding roads toward Città Fantasma. It contradicts everything I’ve heard about this part of the world, but it suits the plan. We’re bringing a raging tempest with us. All light needs to be extinguished to disguise our impending slaughter.
We’re about half a mile out, making up time on deserted country lanes, when the trees part and we catch our first glimpse of the town’s imposing gray stone outer walls.
“Jesus Christ,” RJ mutters, sliding forward from the backseat to take a better look. “Did we take a wrong turn into the twelfth century?”
I stare at the miles and miles of unbreachable parapets, hearing Vincenzo’s words in my head.
“Città Fantasma.”
“Ghost town,” Grayson echoes. “Sounds like a fucking invitation to create more inhabitants to me.”
The approaching road climbs steeply. We kill the headlights for the last quarter of a mile and travel in total darkness. RJ’s grip tightens around the back of Grayson’s seat as I take another sharp turn.