Private Monaco

Chapter 49

“Everybody out!” I yelled as I dragged the unconscious Michel into the small commercial kitchen at the back of the restaurant.

The head chef, her assistant and a waitress didn’t need to be told twice. They hurried away through the fire exit. The door had been propped open by a food-waste container and I could see the place opened onto a narrow alleyway that ran behind the neighboring buildings.

I dropped Michel on the floor and shut the door to the restaurant, ignoring the inquiring looks from a man who was brave enough to peer down the service corridor. I locked the interior door but knew it wouldn’t hold long against the police.

The distant sirens grew louder as I ran across the kitchen, dragged the bin away from the fire door and allowed it to swing shut.

I didn’t have long and started with a physical search. I took the man’s phone, tossing his wallet away because it contained nothing but cash and an Automobile Club swipe card.

I searched his pockets and rolled up the sleeves of his lightweight jacket to check for any distinctive markings. When I uncovered his left upper arm, I saw something that stopped me dead.

After a beat, I grabbed my phone and took photos of a tattoo of a fleur-de-lys inside a Jerusalem Cross. I’d seen this marking before in Rome; it signaled the man’s membership of Propaganda Tre, the secret society linked to the Dark Fates that I thought I’d eliminated in the Eternal City.

The sirens were close now, their shrill notes rising above the bubbling sounds from pots on the stove.

I had to be quick. I slapped the man, who stirred.

“Who are you targeting?” I asked.

His eyes rolled so I slapped him again and he came to, suddenly snapping awake with a start.

“Who are you targeting?”

He focused on me and smiled. “You shouldn’t have meddled in Rome,” he said, his heavy French accent drawing out the word “meddled.” “Everything that’s happened during your time here was planned.”

So, there was now no doubt we had been targeted because of our involvement in solving the Vatican murders.

“Who do you work for?” I shook him while I glanced around the kitchen for something to threaten him with.

I didn’t believe in torture, but intimidation might get me the answers I needed.

“Is Roman Verde calling the shots?” I asked. “Is this revenge for his brother? Or does he answer to someone else?”

My eyes settled on a meat cleaver, resting on a butcher’s block on the neighboring counter. I stood up to grab it, but Michel surprised me by kicking me in the chest and jack-knifing to his feet.

I was knocked into the counter and grabbed the cleaver as he pulled a knife from a nearby sink.

The sirens were almost on us as we faced each other.

“Are you going to take me, Jack Morgan? Can you do it before the police arrive? And if they take you instead, will you be safe in jail? Where do you think is beyond our reach?”

I heard cars pulling up outside and reached a decision.

I dashed across the kitchen. Michel gave chase. I slammed into the fire door, flung it open, and swung it shut behind me.

There was a dumpster beside it, which I shoved over just far enough to block the door. Michel cursed when he found his exit route blocked.

Satisfied I wasn’t in immediate danger, I set off along the alleyway that ran behind the terrace of buildings. I didn’t stop running until I was certain I was safe.