We do the only sane thing after the bomb goes off—run away as fast as we can. Carson managed to peek through the passage into the courtyard on her way to pick me up and said all she saw was burning cars.
Now she’s flogging the little BMW north on Via Vittore Pisani through the usual SigAlert-level traffic. She’s trying to get us to Cinisello Balsamo, where Angelo dumped the semi on Friday. We’re stuck in a canyon formed by modern office and apartment buildings on both sides of the street, far away from where we need to go before that truck disappears. Fire engines and cop cars with their lights and sirens going scream by in the other direction.
Once again, I’m sitting on my hands to keep them from shaking. I’ve never been so close to an explosion, even if it was on the other side of the building. “Who did it? The Russians?”
“Nah.” She weaves through near-invisible breaks in the traffic. I close my eyes a lot. “Bombs aren’t their style. They’d just empty a couple mags into him. Plus he owed them money.”
“The Albanians, then? Burim thinks Belknap set him up?”
“They’ll come after you before they go after their fence.” She mutters at a small Fiat delivery van that cuts her off. “My money’s on Lucca. You must’ve told him about Belknap. He moved before the Russians got their payoff.”
I already knew that, I just didn’t want to think about it. If that’s what happened, then I killed Belknap. If he’s dead, that is. The first English-language reports about the bombing are just now hitting the Web; no casualties mentioned yet. I’ve always figured Belknap will slither out of dying like he does everything else.
Both my head and my chest are throbbing from everything I’ve done since I got up this morning. I knock back a couple ibuprofen (unfortunately, not the special kind) with a swig from Carson’s half-empty water bottle. I’m assuming she doesn’t have anything I haven’t already caught. “I’m worried about Gianna. What happens to her now?”
“Not your problem anymore. You heard Belknap. She’s pissed at you.”
“I know, I know.” I’m not sure why exactly she’s mad. It doesn’t matter—I feel the loss like we’d known each other for months instead of days. “If Belknap’s dead, he left unfinished business. That Fantin’s supposed to go to Belaiev, and his half-mil’s supposed to go to the Russians. Will they go after Gianna for it?”
“If they had mothers, they’d go after their mothers for it. Still not your problem.”
I have this quick, sickening flash of goons torturing Gianna for money she doesn’t know exists. “She went way out on a limb for me. I put her in danger. I need to fix it.”
“Nice thought, but dumb.” I can almost hear the gears turning in Carson’s head. “Maybe she set this up.”
“Seriously?” I glance at her. She doesn’t look like she’s joking. “Why?”
“Working with Angelo now. Who knows? Maybe she’s not as dumb as she looks.”
“Hey, back off.” Yes, I suppose it could happen. I can’t believe it, though. That’s not the Gianna I got to know last week. I can’t be that wrong about her. “She’d have to know about the auction.”
“Whatever.” She screeches into the plaza fronting the massive central train station. “Next time you see her, think with your head for a change.”
We eventually break out of the midtown traffic and race north on Viale Zara, which turns into Viale Fulvio Testi, the road that took us to our skate date Friday night. Carson’s trying to make Formula One drivers look lazy. More detail’s seeping into the news reports on the Web. They now say “at least one dead.” I don’t want to think about that.
We finally pull up in the turnout across Via Menotti from Morrone’s broken-down warehouses. They haven’t changed since sunset Friday.
Carson scans the place with her binoculars. “No movement.”
“If it’s still in there, what do we do with the pallets?”
“Take ‘em out.” Right. She pokes around some more. “It’s dead. Let’s go.”
It’s hard to look like you belong in a place when it’s obvious nobody belongs. The mosquitos are MIA, though, which is a nice change. We already know there are no cameras outside. When we get to the first warehouse’s door, Carson tosses me a mask and starts picking the padlock.
Now that we’re here, potentially a few feet away from what we’ve been searching for these past two-plus weeks, I let myself get a little hopeful. Angelo’s truck has to be the right one. There’s no reason for him to move it yet. We’re almost done. I can almost taste it.
“Ready?” Carson asks.