Read Online Costa 08 - City of Fear by David Hewson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Hewson
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was the distant clockwork rattle of a machine gun, and Nic could tell from Dario Sordi’s face that it was a sound the man had heard before.
10
“DANNY, DANNY, DANNY …”
The golden boy had skipped forward into the sunlight, like some long-lost god newly sprung to life.
With that, a thunderous noise filled the room, and Peroni found himself screaming over it, bellowing at the two cops with him to get down on the floor, out of reach of the deadly, shattering eye of the window.
A deafening racket shook the building. Peroni watched a line of dust devils burst out of the ancient walls behind them as the tracer line of bullets bit into the brickwork.
Rosa was on the bare timber boards already. Mirko Oliva had begun messing with his gun, looking ready to race to the front of the room. Peroni grabbed him as the young officer began to move, punched him hard in the shoulder, then shoved him facedown to the floor, letting momentum do the rest.
He was still grappling with Mirko when they hit the ground so hard it made his old bones jar with the pain.
“I don’t want a dead hero on my hands,” the old cop grunted, pointing a fat finger in the trainee’s face.
The gunfire had halted. Rosa, sensibly, was sliding backwards to the door, phone in hand, chanting a quiet demand to whoever was on the other end.
“Boss …”
“Quiet, Mirko,” Peroni told him, trying to think.
The figure above them was talking in his strange foreign voice, and Peroni couldn’t dispel the thought:
This is not a man; it is a child
, weak, defenseless, scared, baffled, exposed in the bright shaft of golden sun.
A child covered in blue paint and stained with the blood of the man he’d just slaughtered.
“Peroni …”
There was a note in Rosa’s low cry.
He jerked his finger back toward the door and made sure Oliva saw too. Then he looked up.
The boy was wavering in the beam of light, arms outstretched, face a picture of tortured agony, standing in front of the table where Giovanni Batisti’s body lay torn and bloody against the old, bare wood, something outside of him that was meant to be in.
Peroni couldn’t see through the window. Maybe the gunman had gone. Maybe not. The golden boy belonged to him, to them. He had to. Was that why the man on the other side of the street relaxed his finger on the trigger, ceased spitting hot shells across the brief width of the Via Rasella in their direction?
“Get down,” Peroni called to the strange, upright creature in the sunlight, gesturing to the floor with his hands, hoping that would be enough.
He felt confused trying to weigh up the options. One thing, above all, seemed clear and significant.
They had left the golden boy behind
. That said everything.
Those lost eyes, straying behind the sweaty, grimy blond curls, stayed on the window. Still, he kept murmuring, “Danny … Danny …”
Not moving a centimeter, arms stretched out like some cheap Jesus from an Easter street procession.
“I don’t have the words anymore,” Peroni murmured, and knew he had to finish this.
He shuffled up to a half crouch and wondered how strong the youth was, how easy it might be to drag him out of the target zone, back behind the relative safety of the antiquated building’s crumbling brickwork.
“Don’t you even dare, Peroni!” the young policewoman shrieked, with such force and vehemence he had to turn and look.
Rosa was in the doorway in front of Mirko Oliva, her foot almost in his face, as if she was ready to kick him back into place if necessary.
“Stay there,” Peroni ordered, wondering why he was taking instructions from some twenty-something female cop.
He was half on his feet when she fell on him, at a moment when his bulk was teetering off balance.
It was this, he thought later, that saved them both.
They fell, tumbling, back to the ground, and the roar of the gun was on them before they even touched the floor. Peroni grabbed her slender body and tugged and pushed the two of
10
“DANNY, DANNY, DANNY …”
The golden boy had skipped forward into the sunlight, like some long-lost god newly sprung to life.
With that, a thunderous noise filled the room, and Peroni found himself screaming over it, bellowing at the two cops with him to get down on the floor, out of reach of the deadly, shattering eye of the window.
A deafening racket shook the building. Peroni watched a line of dust devils burst out of the ancient walls behind them as the tracer line of bullets bit into the brickwork.
Rosa was on the bare timber boards already. Mirko Oliva had begun messing with his gun, looking ready to race to the front of the room. Peroni grabbed him as the young officer began to move, punched him hard in the shoulder, then shoved him facedown to the floor, letting momentum do the rest.
He was still grappling with Mirko when they hit the ground so hard it made his old bones jar with the pain.
“I don’t want a dead hero on my hands,” the old cop grunted, pointing a fat finger in the trainee’s face.
The gunfire had halted. Rosa, sensibly, was sliding backwards to the door, phone in hand, chanting a quiet demand to whoever was on the other end.
“Boss …”
“Quiet, Mirko,” Peroni told him, trying to think.
The figure above them was talking in his strange foreign voice, and Peroni couldn’t dispel the thought:
This is not a man; it is a child
, weak, defenseless, scared, baffled, exposed in the bright shaft of golden sun.
A child covered in blue paint and stained with the blood of the man he’d just slaughtered.
“Peroni …”
There was a note in Rosa’s low cry.
He jerked his finger back toward the door and made sure Oliva saw too. Then he looked up.
The boy was wavering in the beam of light, arms outstretched, face a picture of tortured agony, standing in front of the table where Giovanni Batisti’s body lay torn and bloody against the old, bare wood, something outside of him that was meant to be in.
Peroni couldn’t see through the window. Maybe the gunman had gone. Maybe not. The golden boy belonged to him, to them. He had to. Was that why the man on the other side of the street relaxed his finger on the trigger, ceased spitting hot shells across the brief width of the Via Rasella in their direction?
“Get down,” Peroni called to the strange, upright creature in the sunlight, gesturing to the floor with his hands, hoping that would be enough.
He felt confused trying to weigh up the options. One thing, above all, seemed clear and significant.
They had left the golden boy behind
. That said everything.
Those lost eyes, straying behind the sweaty, grimy blond curls, stayed on the window. Still, he kept murmuring, “Danny … Danny …”
Not moving a centimeter, arms stretched out like some cheap Jesus from an Easter street procession.
“I don’t have the words anymore,” Peroni murmured, and knew he had to finish this.
He shuffled up to a half crouch and wondered how strong the youth was, how easy it might be to drag him out of the target zone, back behind the relative safety of the antiquated building’s crumbling brickwork.
“Don’t you even dare, Peroni!” the young policewoman shrieked, with such force and vehemence he had to turn and look.
Rosa was in the doorway in front of Mirko Oliva, her foot almost in his face, as if she was ready to kick him back into place if necessary.
“Stay there,” Peroni ordered, wondering why he was taking instructions from some twenty-something female cop.
He was half on his feet when she fell on him, at a moment when his bulk was teetering off balance.
It was this, he thought later, that saved them both.
They fell, tumbling, back to the ground, and the roar of the gun was on them before they even touched the floor. Peroni grabbed her slender body and tugged and pushed the two of
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