Ghost Ship

Nearly five hundred feet along the narrow, cobblestone street, she heard the footsteps of someone behind her begin to follow.

She kept walking.

On the third corner, she turned and was greeted by two polizia officers.

“Stop right there.”

She stopped suddenly. “Yes officer?”

“We have reason to believe that you’re carrying that suitcase for a known criminal.”

“This suitcase?” She looked alluringly startled, mouth open, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you mean, this is mine.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to get you to prove that.”

“I don’t see how. It’s not like I carry a receipt around with me for it…”

The police officer wore an expression of mulish obstinacy. “Just open the damned case.”

“Hey, no reason to be rude, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The second officer, eager to please, said, “It’s all right, we’re just doing our duty, ma’am. There’s a violent criminal on the loose. He was seen carrying a suitcase that looked identical to that last night. So, if you don’t mind, we’re going to have to get you to open it.”

She drew a breath. Her face was set with an expression of embarrassment. “Okay, if I must.”

Catarina put in the code, unlocked the suitcase and opened it to reveal nothing but sexy Italian lingerie.

The police officer’s eyes went wide, their faces flushed, but their eyes turned away.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Strada Provinciale 61 was the only way out of Vernazza by road.

It was a steep, narrow, winding, and altogether dangerous road that meandered its way in sharp twists and turns over the heavily terraced landscape.

The Ducati Diavel hugged the road like a heat seeking missile, intent on tracking its target. Its powerful engine purred through the corners, celebrating a cacophony of exhaust sounds as Sam Reilly rapidly took the bike up and down through its gears. With its horsepower and torque, the bike eagerly climbed the steep hills without hesitation.

He had to work to restrain himself from picking up too much speed and letting the Italian sports bike run away from him. His eyes remained glued on the speedometer, paying meticulous attention to avoid drawing attention to himself. The last thing he needed now was to get pulled over by the Polizia for speeding.

He leaned into two back to back hairpin turns, his knees mere inches away from the blacktop below. On the second one, he straightened the bike upright, and jammed on the brakes hard — because up ahead, the traffic had come to a complete stop.

His heart pounded as he brought the Ducati to a standstill.

In a coastal hamlet that restricted the use of vehicles to local residents and government cars, it seemed impossible to believe that three cars had amounted to enough traffic to come to a complete stop.

Up ahead was a single workman, holding a stop sign. With bureaucratic authority the man’s face was plastered with obstinacy, as though he alone had the power to stop all traffic, despite there being no obvious work being done on a perfectly good piece of road. The road worker’s eyes seemed to scan the occupants of each car, meeting the various drivers with a dogged challenge, searching and daring them to defy his authority.

The place could have been getting its annual resurfacing, but it seemed unlikely. For one thing, the road surface seemed good, with the blacktop smooth and absent of any potholes. Secondly, even if there was roadwork going on — as the man with the stop sign suggested — the question remained, where were the workers?

At the front of the queue was a police officer on a motorcycle.

Sam swallowed hard and tried to shrink his shoulders back behind the Ducati’s large fuel tank, while reminding himself that the police were looking for a man with a metallic suitcase, not someone riding an obsidian colored motorcycle. Besides, with Catarina’s matching obsidian helmet, he doubted very much that anyone would be looking at him.

The second vehicle in the line was a Mercedes-Benz G-Class. The “G” was short for Geländewagen, which meant "cross country vehicle." The light truck looked like a jarring contradiction of purposes — on one hand it looked like a go-anywhere truck built to withstand the harshness of the most rugged terrains, while on the other, it was the ultimate statement of class and luxury.

This one was a G63 AMG, a special edition limited to 2002 and the only model with a 6.3 liter V12 engine.

The windows were tinted, preventing Sam from seeing the occupants inside, but already, his gut told him if there was to be an ambush, it would most likely come from whoever was inside the G63. The light truck was priced well above a quarter of a million dollars, in any currency. People with that kind of money bought supercars — hell, in Italy, someone with that sort of money to burn, would surely buy a Ferrari, Lamborghini, or Pagani — unless they wanted to make a different sort of statement? Something like, we’re a hell of a lot tougher than you.

And who wants to achieve that impression?