At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

She was smart enough to hear the warning in his voice. “Coffee,” she said meekly, swallowing her temper and heading for the bathroom.

She managed to eat half a sweet roll with Randall threatening mayhem, to drink three cups of sweet black coffee that only made her more nervous. Together they pooled their weapons—her Colt 380, his dark and serviceable Beretta, the ubiquitous Uzis. The border guards hadn’t bothered to check the aging Bronco for weapons, and Ian’s illicit arsenal would come in handy. Maggie stared down at the weapons with unconcealed distaste. She’d worked hard at making her hands and feet deadly weapons, but they wouldn’t be much good against machine guns. And Maddelena looked the type to be into hardware.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. Their plan was simple—Maggie would head into the front of the shop, Randall would sneak around back. It wasn’t much of a plan, but with so little information available it was the best they could do. Maggie promised herself that if they hurt Holly she wouldn’t hesitate to use the hated Uzi.

The snow had melted in the bright Venetian sunshine, and the Piazza San Marco was crowded with tourists even during the chilly winter. For a while Maggie tried to distract herself by deciding whether there were more pigeons or tourists, and then gave up. Either way, there were too damned many of them. Without a word she walked with Randall, across the great square, putting her arm through his without a murmur of protest, as they watched the great clock of St. Mark’s pass the hours with excruciating slowness.

She was staring out at the island of San Georgio Maggiore when Randall’s deep voice interrupted her mindless abstraction. “It’s time, Maggie.”

She looked up at him. “It’s only two-thirty.”

“Makes sense to get there early, doesn’t it?”

She grimaced. “Of course it does. My mind doesn’t seem to be working properly.”

She expected some blistering comment, at best some sly mockery. But he squeezed her arm, and the expression on his face was oddly tender. “You’ll be fine when the time comes,” he said. And because he believed it, she believed it.

There was only one glassware shop in the Calle del Porco, a small, seedy affair with fly-specked windows and graceless glassware that didn’t even dare call itself crystal. At quarter to three it looked deserted, observing a siesta the rest of Venice generally ignored, particularly during this busy holiday season. There was a tattered strand of silver tinsel hanging over the doorway, and nothing but darkness beckoned.

Randall had left Maggie just before the entrance to the square, in case anyone was watching for them. And someone must be—she could feel the eyes boring into her tall, slender figure as she crossed the Calle del Porco, with its tiny green garden in the center and its bronzed statue of a pig. Someone had decorated the pig with a wreath of evergreens, and someone had stuffed an apple in its open bronze mouth. Maggie looked at it, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had the suspicion she wouldn’t be smiling for quite a while.

It was two steps down into the darkened interior of the little shop. She almost hoped the door would be locked, but it opened noisily beneath her shaking hand. The Uzi was tucked up under her heavy sweater, the Colt resting in the small of her back, tucked into her too-loose jeans. And Randall was backing her up—there was nothing to be afraid of.

“May I help you, signorina?” The old man behind the counter had the slurred northern accent of the Venetians, and his eyeglasses were as thick as the clumsy glassware in the window. “A Christmas present for a lover, perhaps? I have several very nice goblets—I could lower the price for a pair. Just right for you to toast each other.”

“No, thank you. I’m looking for someone named Maddelena. She told me to meet her here.”

The old gentleman frowned. “My granddaughter,” he said heavily. He gestured toward the curtained doorway behind him. “She’s in there.”

“Grazie,” she murmured with her friendliest smile. He probably didn’t have any idea what his sweet little granddaughter was using his shop for, Maggie thought as she moved past him toward the doorway. How was he to know his little angel was involved in kidnapping and probably extortion and murder and …

She felt the sudden uprush of wind as she passed the old man. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his arm descend, and then everything went black, and she was falling. She caught the curtain as she went, and it ripped off its rod, wrapping around her as she slid downward. She fought that terrifying blackness, but it was useless, and she was gone before she hit the floor, lost in a velvet trap of darkness.

When she awoke, she was lying prone, trussed up like a chicken, something nasty was stuffed in her mouth, and every bone in her body ached. The frail old man hadn’t been as delicate as he looked, damn him. She tried to stretch her cramped muscles, but the ropes binding her were tight, and she sank back on the floor, resting her face against the cool stone in the dark room. And then she realized she wasn’t alone.

It took a bit of effort to roll over, but it was worth it. The gathering shadows couldn’t obscure Holly’s similarly bound figure, couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes or the bruise above her own gag. But she was alive and well, and a rush of gladness swept over Maggie. Now it was up to Randall.

But the tiny rustling noise behind her filled her with sudden misgiving. It was either a rat, or she wasn’t the only one who’d walked into a trap. She would have given ten years off her life to be able to turn and face the mean red eyes of a woman-biting rodent, but her prayers weren’t answered. Randall was lying stretched out on his back beside her, bound as they were, a thin line of blood oozing from a cut on his forehead. And they were up shit’s creek without a paddle.

They must have been listening for sounds of life in the old storeroom. The door opened, letting in only minimal light, and Maddelena stepped inside. There was a dark, sturdy figure behind her, still in the shadows. It was too broad to be the old man, too short to be Flynn. She could feel the tension emanating from Holly, and she peered through the darkness, suddenly aware that there was something oddly familiar about the figure.

Maddelena smiled down at them, a sweet, sad smile, and Maggie could see she had a split lip and a black eye. The wounds did nothing to mar her beauty, but she was glad someone had put up more of a fight than she had. It had probably been Randall, who made no pretensions to being a gentleman. “I am certain you are glad to be together. It is a sad thing that you must die, but you know the dangers when you play the game.”

Maggie had been pressing her tongue against the filthy rag in her mouth, and with a sudden feeling of triumph she spat it out. Maddelena made no move to come closer, to replace the gag, and Maggie considered screaming. Considered, then dropped the idea. Both the Uzi and the Colt had been removed, probably into Maddelena’s capable hands, and she wouldn’t get off more than one shriek.

“Why are you going to kill us?” she asked instead, her voice husky but eminently reasonable. “We’ve never done anything to you.”

“Of course you haven’t,” she agreed. “We’re extending a professional courtesy to Flynn. The Irish freedom fighters have helped the Red Brigade many times. We’re returning the favor, simply because we were asked.”

“How nice,” Maggie said faintly. “Why doesn’t he do it himself?”

“He’s not in Venice. He never has been, for that matter. He went directly from Rome to a place called Cul de Sac. Have you ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“It’s no matter. You won’t care for very much longer. And I’m not go

ing to be the one to kill you. For one thing, I don’t like to kill. I only do it when I have to. For another, it’s Christmas Eve, and I promised my mother I would go to mass with her. I’m going to pass you on to one who enjoys killing.”