Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (5 page)

He skidded around the corner and kept moving. The Ponte di Rialto loomed a hundred meters ahead. Two inclined ramps covered by a portico with shops on either side. He recalled from his map that the ornate bridge was one of four that spanned the Grand Canal. It led to the less-crowded San Polo district. If he could make it across, he’d have a chance to pull away. He skirted past an artist chalking an image of the bridge, grinding his jaw over the loss of the peaceful life he’d embraced only twenty-four hours before. He was halfway to the bridge when a herd of
uniformed children exited an alley ahead of him. They squeezed five deep between the sidewalk vendors and the water’s edge. The path was blocked. Beside them, a row of docked gondolas bounced in the wakes of the water traffic.

An angry shout. The men behind him had turned the corner. Renzo leaped onto the bow of one of the gondolas and kept running, arms outstretched for balance, skipping from one boat to the next, thankful for the grip of his runners. Children shouted at the sight. They surged together like fans at a rock concert, cell phones held overhead. Their mass created an impassable palisade.

Three more leaps and he was past them and back on the walkway. A quick sprint and he turned the corner onto the bridge. The two men behind him had vanished, and Renzo assumed they’d detoured down the alley behind the children. This was his chance. Up the stone steps three at a time, sticking to the outer walkway along the balustrade. He dodged an arrangement of knockoff purses displayed on rugs and hurried over the top.

The sight of dark sunglasses and rubber-soled shoes stopped him cold. The man stood at parade rest at the bottom of the other side of the bridge.

Renzo sidestepped under the portico to the central walkway. Glittery shops lined either incline. Tourists were everywhere. The man ahead of him had followed his move. He stood at the base of the bridge. Another man joined him. A glance over his shoulder, and Renzo saw the two previous pursuers working their way through the crowd behind him. They spotted him, and one of them raised a finger to his ear. His lips moved as he coordinated the collapsing net.

Renzo was trapped.

Vendors hawked, a gondolier sang, and the motor of a vaporetto echoed below.

The men closed in on him from either side of the ancient bridge. Renzo felt a surge of anger. He was about to die and he didn’t even know why. He squared himself to the two men
moving up the incline behind him. They were closest. One of them gave a feral grin, and Renzo resolved that he wasn’t going down alone. Determination balled his fists, and a rush of blood pumped through his limbs. They’d be on him in twenty steps. He was ready.

But when a family strolled past him and he saw the children licking gelato from cones, the wind left his lungs.

Collateral damage.

The echo of the motor spurred Renzo’s feet even before the decision was half-formed in his consciousness. Three strides and he was atop the balustrade. The nose of a vaporetto pushed into the sunlight from under the bridge. The top of the passenger compartment was fifteen feet below. He prayed, jumped, and rolled when he hit its surface. Bullets puckered the rooftop beside him. He scrambled to the edge, dropped to the next level, and ducked under the roof. Passengers cried out in alarm, distancing themselves from him. Two more hammer blows from above, and then the shooting stopped.

The driver yanked back on the throttle and turned to identify the trouble. The boat slowed. Renzo rushed forward. Something in his expression caused the driver’s eyes to go wide. He stepped aside and Renzo took the controls, slamming the throttle to its stops. The boat surged ahead. He steered around the sharp bend and out of sight of the bridge.

“The sooner I’m off your boat, the better for you,
sì
?” Renzo said.

The driver nodded three times in rapid succession.

Renzo pointed at a dock on the San Polo side of the canal. “Then drop me there,” he said, stepping aside to allow the man to take over.

Barber-striped mooring poles framed the private dock. The four-story palazzo behind it stretched a full block. Its facade was obscured by a network of scaffolds. It appeared deserted. The boat approached, and Renzo moved toward the exit. Passengers
edged away. He hesitated at a large wall map. They’d expect him to run to the train station, he thought. It was on the other side of San Polo. He placed a finger on the station, knowing that others were watching. But his mind traced a route that led to a marina in the opposite direction. He’d catch a water taxi there and disappear on the mainland. The vaporetto slowed. He unhooked the rail chain and readied himself. A quick look over his shoulder, and the passengers shrank back. They seemed to hold a collective breath.

“I’m sorry—”

He cut off when he saw a name on one of the posters on the opposite wall. It was an advertisement for a five-star hotel by Piazza San Marco.
The Hotel Danieli
.

A place, he realized with a start. Not a person! He swore to himself at the mistaken assumption. The kid had wanted him to go to the hotel. At noon. He checked his watch. Thirty past the hour. His mind raced. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

The roar of speedboats shattered the thought. Two of them careened around the corner from the Rialto. Dark sunglasses locked onto him. Renzo turned his back to the threat and leaped onto the dock.

Venice, Italy

T
ONY WAS THE
first to enter the hotel lobby. Pretty damn posh, he thought, soaking it in. He’d been called in to plenty of lavish spaces as a senior cop with LAPD, but nothing compared with this. The lobby wasn’t wide, but it was tall. A red-carpeted grand staircase hugged a mahogany wall as it twisted and turned up three open stories. The extended balconies above were edged with richly decorated balustrades, supported by hand-carved marble columns and gilded arches. Bouquets of fresh-cut flowers sprang forth from waist-high vases. Colored glass chandeliers reflected off marble floors that were polished to a mirror finish. The furniture was antique, the imported rugs luxurious, and the lighting subdued. It was glamorous, old-world, and it smelled like money. Tony couldn’t have felt more out of place.

Seven impeccably dressed attendants bowed at his arrival.

Tony hesitated, unsure how to respond. Then Ahmed stepped past him. He approached the group with authority, issuing quick instructions in Italian. The attendants dispersed like a football team from a huddle. Two stepped outside to hold the doors for the bride and groom. Another rushed upstairs to prepare the waiting guests. The remaining four took usher positions at the base of the staircase. Tony respected the kid’s take-charge attitude.
It made sense that he was comfortable in this environment, he thought. Before his incarceration in a medical-health facility years ago, Ahmed had grown accustomed to lush settings. He’d been raised by Luciano Battista—the wealthy international terrorist who had brainwashed the kid into nearly killing Tony and all his friends. Now the seventeen-year-old was like an adopted son to Francesca, and a big brother to Sarafina and Alex.

Ahmed’s dark hair was swept back above a broad forehead, thick brows, black eyes, and a strong nose. He still had some filling out to do, Tony thought. But he looked dashing in his black tux. Tony ran a finger under the constricting collar of his own white shirt. The tailors had been able to adjust the penguin suit to handle his bulk. But the largest neck size on the fancy shirts was half an inch too small. Even so, he thought, his wife was gonna love the pictures. Of course, his two older kids were gonna laugh. He wished his family could’ve been here. But with the new baby and all, it hadn’t made sense.

There was a round of applause outside, and Tony watched as Lacey offered a final wave to the crowd. Marshall stood stock-still. The red blindfold hadn’t budged. Tony grinned at the sight. How his friend had allowed himself to be talked into that, he’d never know. But Lacey was worth it. She took Marshall’s arm and guided him into the lobby. The hotel staff came to attention. Tony noticed several admiring nods.

“Dammit, girl,” he said. “You are a breath-taker!”

Lacey tilted her head and batted her eyelashes. “You think?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. He patted Marshall on the shoulder. “You got a winner here, pal.”

“If you say so,” Marshall said, pointing to the blindfold. “Of course, I can’t be sure. How do I know she hasn’t been switched out for a different model?”

Lacey elbowed him.

“Ouch!” Marshall said with a feigned flinch. “Okay, it’s definitely her.”

They laughed.

Sarafina was next in the door, followed by Francesca and little Alex. Tony felt a twinge of sadness. The kid was Jake’s spittin’ image, and the sight of him reminded Tony of the best man he’d ever known. That Jake had died by sacrificing himself to save the rest of them left a hole in his gut. It was a loss that Tony and his friends would feel forever.

Alex looked worried. He stared at nothing, but it appeared as if his little brain was working overtime. It disconcerted Tony because the boy had always been oddly serene at get-togethers. Jake’s kid had ranked off the charts on puzzles and other nonverbal tests, which had made a lot of sense in light of his pop’s brain. The boy seemed to actively observe the world around him—via TV, the Internet, books, magazines, anything that provided input. It was as if he were soaking it into a vast library in his brain. Output, on the other hand, was limited. Alex seldom expressed emotions to anyone other than his mother. He never cried. Never laughed. Never spoke.

Tony shrugged off his concern, crediting the child’s anxious behavior to the unusual pomp and circumstance of today’s event. Hell, weddings loosened a few screws in everyone’s emotions, he thought. It was nice to see that the kid wasn’t immune to it.

Francesca’s father, Mario, entered with several of his gondolier buddies. The gang was all here. It was time to get this show on the road.

They made their way up the staircase.

The panoramic view from the hotel’s terrace stretched across the lagoon to the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, where sunlight glinted off golden-domed rooftops. Boats passed back and forth, and Tony could imagine noblemen of the past watching
the arrival of merchant ships from the Orient filled with exotic wares. You couldn’t find this kind of history in LA, he thought.

Marshall and Lacey held hands facing the guests. They were beneath an arched trellis of colorful flowers that cascaded to the floor. Tony and Alex stood beside Marshall. Francesca and Sarafina were next to the bride. Ahmed stood off to one side. The wedding party faced a gathering of guests who filled eight rows of chairs. A select group of photographers stood behind them. A string quartet played the last bars of the Bridal Chorus.

Even beneath her veil, Lacey’s smile lit up the crowd. She’d waited long enough for this moment, Tony thought. He was glad to be sharing it with her and his best friend. Still wearing the blindfold, Marshall exhaled a slow breath. Tony noticed, and he couldn’t help but crack a smile. Several guests must have caught the unconscious tell as well, because there was a roll of chuckles. It wasn’t that Marshall didn’t want to get married. He loved Lacey completely. He was in his thirties now and it was long past time. But still…

A priest stood on a dais behind the couple. “
Buon giorno, signore e signori
,” he said with a youthful sparkle in his voice. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” he continued in English, “to the ultimate celebration of love.” He spread his arms to indicate the wedding couple. “Aren’t they lovely?” The crowd erupted in applause. Lacey curtsied, Marshall blushed, and Tony felt Alex shift back and forth from one foot to the other. The boy had a thousand-yard stare that reminded Tony of Jake. He wondered what occupied Alex’s mind.

At a cue from the priest, Lacey reached up and untied Marshall’s blindfold. The crowd quieted. “As you have followed me to this altar,” she recited from the old rite, “so shall I follow you in life.”

The blindfold fell from Marshall’s eyes. He blinked against the sudden brightness, staring at Lacey with an awestruck expression. The moment stretched, and Tony remembered that
the groom was supposed to respond with a rehearsed line as well. Instead, Marshall dropped to one knee, cupped Lacey’s hands in his, and said, “Lace, I can’t imagine life without you. Marry me and make me the luckiest man in the world.”