I roll out of the car before it stops moving. Gravel bites through my suit pants as my knee hits the ground. "How many?" I shout over the gunfire.
Bruno doesn't take his eyes off the shoreline. "Four, maybe five. They hit us hard and fast, then got caught in their own crossfire."
A bullet whines past my head, chipping concrete from the seawall. I drop low and circle wide, using the burning trucks as cover. The heat is intense, singeing my eyebrows as I move.
One of the Costa soldiers breaks cover, sprinting toward a speedboat pulled up on the beach. I track him with my pistol, leading the shot. The bullet catches him center mass. He stumbles, arms windmilling, then falls face-first into the sand.
Bruno advances on the rocks, laying down suppressing fire. Brass casings arc through the air, ringing against the asphalt. I flank from the opposite side, boots crunching on broken shells and seaweed. Two more soldiers huddle behind a boulder, fumbling to reload their weapons.
The first one sees me coming. He swings his rifle around, but his hands shake with adrenaline. Too slow. My shot takes him in the throat. Blood sprays across the gray stone.
The second man tries to run. His feet slip on wet rocks as he scrambles toward the water. Bruno drops him with a single round to the back. The body tumbles into the surf.
Silence settles over the beach. Waves lap against the rocky shore, washing away streaks of crimson. I walk among thebodies, checking faces—all Costa men. They're Emilio's regular crew.
One of them is still breathing. Chest wound, pink froth on his lips. He won't last long, but long enough to talk.
I kneel beside him in the sand. "Who gave the order?"
His eyes focus on my face with tremendous effort. Blood runs from the corner of his mouth. "Go to hell."
I press the barrel of my gun against his forehead. The metal is still hot from firing. "I live in hell, Son. Who sent you?"
"Emilio." The word comes out as a wet whisper. "Said to send a message."
I cock the hammer. "Message received."
The gunshot echoes across the water. Seagulls scatter from their perches on the pier pilings, crying their indignation at the disturbance.
Bruno appears at my shoulder, rifle hanging loose in his hands. "It's a clean sweep, Sal. They're all down."
I survey the carnage. Three of my men dead, five trucks destroyed, cargo scattered across the road. The financial loss is manageable. The insult is not.
"Sloppy work," I say, holstering my weapon. "Emilio's getting desperate."
An armored Mercedes pulls up behind the wreckage, tires crunching over broken glass. Gianni steps out, flanked by two soldiers. He takes in the scene with professional detachment, already calculating cleanup requirements.
"Cleanup crew is five minutes out," he reports. "Local police have been delayed."
I wipe blood from my hands with a handkerchief. "Good. Get the bodies in the trucks before they arrive."
We retreat to the Mercedes. The interior is soundproofed, climate-controlled, and bulletproof. A mobile office for conducting business in hostile territory.
Gianni spreads a map across the fold-down table, smoothing the creases with careful fingers. Red pins mark Costa holdings throughout Rome. I study the layout, calculating angles of attack.
"Three targets," I decide, tapping the paper. "Hit them all tonight."
Gianni nods, pulling out a pen. The gold cap glints in the overhead light. "Which ones?"
My finger finds the first location. "Casino in Trastevere. That's their main laundering operation, handles ten million a month."
"Security?" Gianni makes a note in the margin. "They rely on being hidden."
Another tap of his pen and I say, "Logistics depot near Vatican wall. All their weapons shipments pass through there."
Gianni frowns at the map. "That's a harder target. The Swiss Guard patrols nearby."
I lean back in the leather seat. "Then we go fast and loud. No subtlety."
