It had been a long time since Pope had ridden a bike. He passed the interminable wait by recalling his long rides along the Gold Coast. And mountain bike adventures down the dusty, rocky trails of Alice Springs. The memory brought a smile to his face. Pope and his best mate Tommo freewheeling through the bush and scaring snakes out of the grass. Happy days. Happier than he’d realised. It was impossible to appreciate freedom until you had it taken away from you. Yes, he was out of that hellish sweatbox in Libya. But he was under no illusions. This wasn’t freedom. Still, it was better than maggot soup Mondays.
Pope scratched the itch in his crotch and pulled at the fabric squeezing the life out of his testicles. The skin-tight cycling outfit they’d given him was a size too small and he heard the booming voice of his bigger, older brother, Vince in his head. ‘Russ the Wuss’, he used to call him. Or ‘Wussel’. Or plain old ‘Wuss’.
‘’Ere, Wuss,’ he’d have said with a big, beer-swilling grin. ‘You look like a right fucking fairy. What are those, arms or weeds?’
‘Rack off, Vince,’ Pope muttered to himself. ‘See how long you last in a Libyan prison.’
‘What was that?’ Gilmore asked over the comms.
‘Uh, nothing,’ Pope said. ‘All good on my end.’
Pope rested his weight against the Flaminio Obelisk – a twenty-four-metre stone monument dominating the middle of the piazza. He tried to ignore the beautiful young Italian women strolling by. Instead he cast an eye towards the hotel. The meeting was well under way. In the near distance, Driver was serving the table their drinks. Pope couldn’t make out much of anything from his position. But Gilmore was quick to instruct. ‘Merlin’s had his drink. Move into position.’
Pope pushed off the wall and rode across the piazza towards the Audi Q7 parked across the street. He pedalled slow through human traffic onto the road and up to the passenger window of the SUV.
The brakes squealed as he came to a stop. He knocked on the glass. The men inside looked at each other. They yelled at him to take a hike. Their American accents were muffled behind the glass. Pope knocked again on the window, motioning for them to wind it down. The man in the passenger seat snapped, the glass whirring down.
He leaned an arm on the door frame. ‘You blokes order a pizza?’
‘I thought I told you, buddy,’ the dark-haired, grizzled passenger said. ‘We don’t want any.’
‘Steady on, mate, jeez.’
Pope heard a commotion over the comms, shot a glance at the restaurant and saw Merlin on his feet. The table was knocked over. He knew a blown mission when he saw one. The whole thing was a dog’s dinner. All Pope could do now was keep Merlin’s men occupied as they strained to see around him.
‘We didn’t order no pizza,’ said the Audi driver – a big man with a haircut like a loaf of bread.
‘You sure?’ Pope asked, taking his phone from an arm band. ‘Yep, says right here. Fourteen-inch pepperoni.’
‘You order food?’ the passenger asked the driver.
His partner shook his head.
Pope reached inside the container on the rear of the bike and lifted out a large pizza box. ‘Shame, ’cause it smells bonzer, mate.’
The driver pulled his sidearm on Pope. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
‘Whoa – easy, mate,’ Pope said. ‘Don’t shoot the delivery guy.’
A voice crackled on a radio inside the SUV – instructions from Merlin. Something about a pickup around the back of the hotel.
‘Leave the guy, we haven’t got time,’ the passenger said.
The driver lowered his weapon. Pope decided he couldn’t wait for an instruction. He scooped up his handgun from inside the empty pizza box and fired twice through the lid. The top of the passenger’s skull exploded red. But the man behind the wheel was alive. A non-fatal wound to the chest. He stepped on the accelerator and pulled away.
Pope dropped the pizza box. He jumped on the pedals of his bike and gave chase. The SUV swerved onto the kerb ahead of him, pedestrians scrambling out of the way. The wounded driver veered back into the road again, slamming into the side of a white Fiat Punto.
Pope zoomed around the crash and swerved around a gaggle of tourists. He hopped onto the pavement, then back onto the road as the SUV sped away from the crash. Screeching to a stop, Pope waited for the Audi to catch up. The V12 engine roared as it accelerated past. He took aim and got his shot away. At first Pope thought he’d missed. But the SUV swerved left and right, bouncing off parked traffic and straight into a lamp post.
The traffic snarled up in a honking mess. Pope cycled hard and skidded to a stop next to the SUV. He opened the driver door. Merlin’s driver spilled out, upside down. Alive, but bleeding from the chest and neck.
Pope looked up at the sound of a siren. Saw the flashing lights of an onrushing ambulanza. The polizia wouldn’t be far behind.
Driver picked herself up and plugged her earpiece back in. The comms were alive with irate chatter – Gilmore in the dark, the operation a mess.
Driver put a finger to her ear. ‘Merlin’s on the move. The rear of the hotel.’
She stepped up onto the windowsill – a three-foot drop to street level. She landed in a narrow alley, with Tom breaking left towards the main road. As Driver gave chase, he flagged down his ride. But the Audi careered into a lamp post, Pope screeching to a stop on his bike, his weapon drawn.
Tom rerouted. A hard left down the side of the hotel, back towards the piazza.
‘Pope, I need a weapon,’ Driver yelled, as she neared the exit onto the street. A second later, a pistol arced and spun high over the road, courtesy of Pope. Driver caught it clean on the run and darted left. She stayed on Tom’s tail, dancing around pedestrians. He glanced back over a shoulder – fit and fast, but suffering the first effects of the drug. It gave Driver a chance. If she could get close enough.
‘Sitrep,’ Gilmore barked in her ear as she chased Tom back to the piazza. To her left, she saw Wells staggering out of the restaurant entrance.
Lim was supporting his weight. ‘Yedmenov’s dead.’
‘Merlin’s support is down,’ Pope said over the rising volume of an emergency siren.
Baptiste came onto the comms. ‘Someone call an ambulance?’
Driver turned to see Baptiste and Rios rolling fast downhill in the stolen vehicle towards the piazza. ‘Abort the pickup,’ she said between short, shallow breaths. ‘Merlin’s on foot. I’m in pursuit.’
And she was gaining.
Driver tried to yell for Tom to stop, only to choke on his name. As he approached the towering monument in the centre of the square, he fired into the air, his silencer barrel unscrewed. The shot caused panic on the piazza. A stampede of bodies.
By the time Driver pushed her way through, Tom was running between two churches – grand in design with imposing stone pillars. They stood tall like guards watching over the square, creating a shaded thoroughfare where Tom let off a second shot. Another tide of people came rushing Driver’s way, the sound of gunfire alerting nearby police. A pair of squad cars sped into the square. They came to a sharp stop behind her.
Police officers flew out of the cars and joined in the chase. There were four in total, pursuing Driver between the two churches. Tom remained ahead of her, but slowed down by the small amount of the drug he’d consumed. Bouncing off a wall, he almost fell, yet regained his balance and pushed on towards the cover of a busy street.
Driver checked behind her. There were four police officers on her tail, armed and calling for reinforcements, their voices echoing loud in the solid stone corridor between the churches. It was obvious from their requests for backup they’d mistaken Driver as the shooter, yet she wasn’t about to give up the chase. Not when Tom was slowing to a walk, smacking his own head as if as if suffering a mental fog. He put a hand against a wall, his knees close to collapse.
‘Stop or we’ll shoot,’ the police yelled at Driver, their weapons drawn.
It was clear she didn’t stand a chance. Midway along the cut-through, Driver came to a stop, only a few agonising yards from Tom.
‘Drop the weapon,’ a male police officer said.
Driver looked down at her pistol. Damn it. She dropped the gun, but only inches from her feet.
‘Down on the ground,’ the officer commanded.
Driver hesitated, eyes locked on Tom.
‘Down on the ground!’
The police officers closed in around her. Driver dropped as far as her knees. She could still go for her gun. Take the officers down. Non-fatal shots. But what were the chances they’d roll over and take it? No, she’d have to kill them. Three innocent men and one woman, doing their jobs. Yet, there was Tom. And the billions of lives at stake. It had to be done.
Driver eyed her weapon. But a police boot kicked the gun out of reach. A strong hand on her shoulder pushed her down. She could disarm the officer and turn the weapon on him. But in the end, she couldn’t do it. She was an ex-field agent. Not a terrorist, nor an assassin. There had to be a line.
Driver put her hands behind her head. She watched as Tom staggered towards the main street behind the churches. She screamed in frustration as a cuff snapped down over her wrist.