“Price. He tracked you to Venice, but after that, we lost you.”
Men’s voices came from the corridor. They sounded loud, angry—or maybe just Italian boisterous. It was hard to tell. They weren’t close enough for me to understand anything they were saying.
I muted the phone but left the speaker on so Ryder could still hear. The footsteps grew louder, the marble floor making them sound like gunshots. Two men came into view: the boatman, talking very fast and gesticulating wildly, and Tyrone, who did not look happy, not at all.
“Tyrone’s here,” I whispered before sliding the phone back onto the ledge beneath the desk. Then I scuttled back into the cloakroom to hide behind the door, pressing my eye to the tiny opening between the hinges. I hated that I was essentially backed into a corner here—Ryder would have scoffed at my tactical position, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter.
Tyrone and the boatman stopped in front of the desk, arguing, their voices raised until a man in a hotel uniform approached from the lobby, clearly asking them to lower their voices. The boatman shut up and sidled away as Tyrone spoke to the concierge, showing him something on his phone—a photo of me, I was certain since he ran his hand over his head as if to show the man I now had no hair.
The concierge shook his head vehemently. They leaned against the desk, not four feet away from me. I tried not to stare directly at Tyrone for fear that he would sense my presence, but when I looked away, I saw imprints of my wet, bare feet clearly visible on the marble floor behind the desk. I cringed and glanced around the small room for anything I could use as a weapon.
Ryder was on his way, I told myself. But that only made things worse, because then Tyrone would know he was here and might hurt him. I grabbed the nearest object as a weapon: a small, foldable pocket umbrella from the lost-and-found carton.
When I looked back through the slit between the hinges, I swallowed a gasp. Tyrone was leaning over the desk, fumbling on the ledge for something. If he turned his head, he would see that the phone’s speaker indicator was lit.
The concierge took umbrage over Tyrone’s trespass and practically slapped him away from his territory. He took a half step around the desk, grabbed a bowl of matchbooks, and offered it to Tyrone. When Tyrone took out his pack of cigarettes, the concierge shook his head and pointed to the door to the terrace, back the way Tyrone had come.
Tyrone grumbled and frowned, but the concierge held his ground, and he finally left. Probably to question the staff in charge of the dock.
My relief was short-lived as the concierge rounded the desk and seemed ready to start work. Where was Ryder? How long would it take him to reach me?
A man’s voice called out from the main lobby. My heart sped. It was Devon. He was chatting up the desk clerks, playing the loud, ignorant tourist, and they were waving the concierge over to help.
I edged past the door as soon as the concierge disappeared into the lobby, using the desk to hide me as I scanned both directions. I looked up to see Ryder beckoning to me from a corridor on the other side of the lobby.
I fought not to stare at him. Not because of how bad he looked—he had a ball cap on, but nothing could disguise his black eyes, and he was much too pale.
All I wanted to do was spend the rest of eternity looking at him.
First, I had to focus on the job at hand. Cross the lobby without being spotted. Okay. Act natural. That was the best way not to draw attention. I drew my scarf up over my missing hair—slim disguise, but it was all I had—and strolled across the opulent lobby as if I belonged there.
Ryder backed up behind two swinging doors, watching me as he held one open. I crossed into the hallway, out of sight of the main lobby desk, through the doorway, and fell into his arms.
RYDER BUNDLED ROSSI
into his arms. He squeezed her tighter than he needed to, as if she was a wisp of a dream that a strong breeze would steal away. They needed to move, move now, now, now, before Tyrone returned with more men, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed this. Just this moment. Not of passion or romance, but of relief. As if, finally, his heart was healed.
Too soon, he set her on her feet and took her hand. “Move quickly but with confidence. Two tourists out for a morning stroll.”
She nodded, wrapped the scarf tighter around her head—Christ, what had they done to her?—and gamely kept pace with him despite her lack of shoes. He led her down the carpeted hallway to the steps, then down and out the fire exit that was hidden down a short corridor. Price had disarmed the alarm when they came in, so no worries there, but still, he went first and scouted the narrow, cobblestoned alley beyond.
No movement except a man pushing a cart away from them. Ryder beckoned to her, and they hurried down the alley. It was barely seven, the city just waking. He wished he could do something about her bare feet, but the best thing was to get her to safety, and they didn’t have far to go.
“We’re working from a flat Price rented under a dummy name,” he whispered as they skirted puddles and hurried along the cobblestones. He had to admit, Price and the Kingston fortune were coming in handy. “It’s over near the opera house, just a few blocks away. Can you make it that far?”
She nodded, her eyes wide as they crossed the main thoroughfare and headed down a side street populated by restaurants and jewelry shops. A small bridge crossed over a canal, another short walk to the plaza where the stately opera house stood, then a right turn down an anonymous alley so narrow they could barely walk side by side.
Twelve seconds later, he’d unlocked a door with a polished lion’s head doorknocker, and they were inside, safe and sound. Finally, he did what he’d been desperate to do since the last time he’d seen her.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She reached her arms up to encircle his neck, and his ball cap tumbled to the ground. He slid his hands beneath the bulky raincoat she wore, exploring her body as if assuring himself that she truly was unharmed. Her scarf slid free as they finally parted.
“My God. What did they do to you?” he asked, tracing his lips over her shaven scalp. Leave it to Rossi to look even more beautiful without hair—although he would miss it. He loved how it fell, so silken against his chest when they made love, the way it cascaded and shimmered when she played her fiddle.
“I could ask you the same thing.” She stretched a finger but didn’t touch the surgical horseshoe of staples along his scalp.
“Not as good a job as when you stapled me together last month.”
“Seriously, Ryder.” Her tone grew stern. He loved it when she played doctor. “You shouldn’t even be out of bed—”
“I’m fine.” If fine included thundering headaches, vertigo, nausea, and ribs that tried to stab him with every breath. “Now that you’re here.”
She shook her head, but couldn’t hide her smile. She kissed him again, gently. “I missed you.”
“Easy fix for that.” He wrapped his arms around her once again.
A key rattled in the lock. Ryder spun, reaching for the Beretta at his back. He pushed Rossi behind him.
“Don’t mind me,” Price said as he opened the door. Ryder cursed his lousy timing.
“Any sign of them?” Ryder asked, forcing himself to concentrate on the fact that they were still in enemy territory. Difficult to do with Rossi’s body pressed against him in the narrow hallway.
“Yes, but nowhere near here. And before you ask, no, they didn’t follow me.” Devon shoved past Ryder to greet Rossi with open arms. “Angela.” His tone started out triumphant but twisted into regret. He gave her a long hug, then pulled her down the hallway to the sitting room that overlooked the canal. “Guess you’re one princess who doesn’t need a Prince Charming to come to her rescue.”
“Give her a break,” Ryder said. “She’s freezing. The bath is upstairs, and I brought clothing.” He wanted to take her up himself, but he and Price needed to talk.
She curled up on an armchair big enough for only one, her coat wrapped around her as she shivered. “No. I need to tell you first.”
“What?” Price asked, perching on the heavy coffee table in front of her.
Ryder hovered behind her, wanting to pluck her from the chair and take her upstairs, get her warm and in bed, but he shoved those protective instincts aside to focus on the mission. She was right. A debrief took priority over her comfort, as much as he hated to admit that.
By the time she finished telling her harrowing story, describing Francesca’s plan, the containment lab where the lethal prions were stored, the island filled with dying family members, he couldn’t help himself; he’d sat on the arm of the chair and curled his arm around her shoulders, refusing to let her go no matter how unprofessional it might be.
“We need to go back,” she finished. “Destroy those prions.”
“Major obstacles,” Ryder delineated. “We can’t let them grab Rossi again. That’s numbers one through ten. Then we have getting past the guards and onto the island—”
“The grotto I escaped through.”
“If they haven’t tumbled onto the fact that you used it. Big if,” Price put in, standing up and wandering around the room with its heavy antiques. He ended up at the other end, where a hall led past the kitchen to the front bedroom. Price held a hand up as if he’d just thought of an idea and vanished into the room.
“I’m actually not too worried about getting in,” Ryder continued. “I have some ideas there. But once we’re inside, we’ll have the entire populace to deal with—”
“Most of them are sick, unarmed. We can’t just go around shooting everyone.”
“I understand. But that only gives the armed forces another advantage: human shields. Even beside that, our biggest obstacle—”
“The containment lab. The only person I saw able to access it was Francesca. The security system is keyed to her biometrics plus special codes on every control.”
Price returned from the bedroom. “How’d you two like a late Christmas present?” he asked, pulling a phone from his pocket and waggling it before them.
“You have a program that can hack into the security and bypass it?” Ryder asked.
“Not quite that good, but almost. This phone was Tommaso’s. I sent it to my Russian friends to break the encryption. They found a security app coded to his biometrics and aimed at one location.”
“The containment lab.”
“Bingo. They dug into the root code and retrieved the design’s master override codes. And they reprogrammed it to my biometrics.”
“Great.” Rossi sat up, excited. “So you can destroy the lab?”
“Once I get my thumbprint onto one of the lab’s scanners.”
“Then we’re in,” Ryder said.
“We’re in.”
I FELT WORLDS
better after a hot shower and getting dressed in my own clothing. Ryder had left a tray with breakfast—heavy on the fruit and protein—along with my medication on a table in the bedroom. He’d arranged the blueberries and raspberries in the shape of a heart. The child-like innocence of the gesture in the midst of what we were facing made me laugh.
I was glad he hadn’t waited for me to finish in the bathroom. As brittle as my emotions were, I would have cried instead of laughed if I’d had to face him. At the very least, we would have ended up on the massive four-poster bed with its thick, welcoming duvet and silk sheets. If that happened, I doubted if I’d have the strength to ever leave his arms.
Along with the breakfast tray was a tablet. I knew the time difference meant waking Louise, but I had to check on the children, so I took a chance that she was near her computer.
“Angie? You’re all right.” Louise’s voice powered through the tablet’s speakers once we were connected for a video chat. I lowered the volume. Her eyes grew wide. “Wow. Love the new look. Very Mad Max.”
I rolled my eyes. Then sobered immediately. “I didn’t get the cure—there isn’t one. Not yet. Francesca said with my stem cells she could make one, but honestly, she’s nuts. We’re talking megalomaniac, I want to rule the world, James Bond villain level of wackadoo. And I looked at Tommaso’s research—he was headed down a blind alley.” I blew out my breath, hating to put into words my greatest fear. “Maybe there is no cure.”
To my surprise, Louise actually grinned. She looked ghastly—her eyes were sunken with circles of exhaustion, and she looked like she’d lost weight in the short time since I’d seen her last. Add in her toothy grin and I almost had to look away from my friend.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said. No trace of fatigue in her voice. In fact, she sounded downright jovial. “Francesca and the rest of your family might be round the twist, but they’re also bloody genius when it comes to immunogenetics.”
“Don’t toy with me, Louise. What did you find?”
“It’s not a cure. But,” her voice upticked with excitement, “we have a definite treatment. Better than what Francesca shared with us.”
“Really?” I hated the hint of desperation in my voice, but I was starving for some good news. “What is it?”
“Well...I can’t take full credit. It’s a combination of Francesca’s and Tommaso’s research, plus my clinical observations of your case progression, and Geoff, along with some of his geeky friends.”
“Geoff? How did he help?” Louise’s husband was a biostatistician, not a clinician. His work was in identifying epidemiologic trends, not treatments.
“Turned out fortuitous that Devon sent him and Tiff home to London. Because while Tiff and Grandmama have been burning through Geoff’s inheritance, Geoff got a bit obsessed with Tommaso’s research then shared it with some of his equally obsessive friends in the UK.”
“Doctors?”
“Of a sort. Veterinarian immunogeneticists.”
“Veterinarians?” Then it hit me. UK. Of course. “Studying mad cow disease.”
“Exactly. They were fascinated by your particular mutation.” She said it as if it was something to be proud of. “But realized that in addition to the prion genes, there’s another genetic anomaly that you carry. Specifically, your genes that produce aquaporin are highly activated.”