"I think I have the answer," the officer said softly. "Flower pots. The answer is flower pots."
Chapter 40
Now was the time for blood.
Alberto Allegro Pronti moved silently from the shadows of an alleyway behind the Guida Brothers warehouse at Filippo Argelati, 20-32, in Milan.
While sitting at an unsteady table, sipping a Valpolicella, red of course, he had heard a noise from half a block away. A rapping. Perhaps a voice.
He'd stood immediately and hurried to where he believed that sound had come from: the warehouse.
He was now behind the old structure and could see what he believed was a flicker of shadow on one of the painted-over windows.
Someone was inside.
And that was good for Pronti, and quite bad for whoever that person might be.
The fifty-eight-year-old, wiry and strong, returned to where he'd been sipping and collected a weapon. An iron rod, about three feet long. At the threaded end was a square nut, rusted permanently onto the staff.
It was very efficient and very dangerous and very lethal.
He called to Mario that he would be handling this himself, to stay back. He then returned to the warehouse, easing quietly to the rear. He peered through a spot on the pane where he had scraped the paint away, when he'd been inside recently, so that he could do just this--spy on whoever might be there and deal with them as he wished.
Pronti glanced through the peephole fast, his pulse racing, half believing that he would see an eye looking directly back at him. But no. He noted, however, that there was a shadow in the entryway, where stairs led from here to the first floor. Yes, a target was inside.
He moved on the balls of his running shoes to the back door and withdrew a key from his pocket. He undid the lock and carefully threaded the chain out of the rings screwed into the frame and door, setting the links down--in a line on the dirt so they would not clink together.
The lock too he set down carefully, away from other metal. He spat quietly on the hinges to lubricate them.
Pronti had been well trained.
Then, gripping the deadly club in a firm hand, he pushed inside.
Silently.
It took a moment for his eyes to get used to the darkness, though Pronti knew the layout well: The warehouse was built like a huge horse stable, with six-foot-high dividers separating the ground floor into storage areas. All but one were filled with trash and piles of old, rotting building materials. The remaining one contained a tall stack of cartons and pallets, a recent delivery from a company letting out space here. The floor here was clean, dust-free, and he could walk to the cartons and hide behind them without fear of his target seeing footsteps. He now did so, and he waited, listening to the creaks from overhead, closing his eyes from time to time to concentrate more clearly.
Blood...
His target returned to the top of the stairs, and Pronti could hear him walking down them carefully. As soon as he stepped out of the stairway, he'd return to the front door or walk through the center aisle. Either way he would present his back to Pronti and the wicked club.
His tactically trained ears--like a bat's--would sense exactly where the son of a bitch was, and Pronti would step out, swinging his murderous weapon. He cocked his head and listened. Oh, yes, just like the old days...in the army. Fond memories, troubled ones too. He would bore Mario with his exploits in the service as they sat together over meals or wine.
He thought now of that time on the Po River...
Then Pronti grew stern with himself. Be serious here.
This is battle.
The footsteps descended the stairs and stopped. The victim was debating which direction to turn.
Left to the door, straight?
Either way, you're about to feel my fury...
Pronti took the club in both hands. He smelled the iron nut, close to his nose. Blood and rust smell similar and his weapon was about to reek of both.
But then...What's happening?