Viper

107

Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio Blue stopped the car on Jack's command. They were two kilometres south of the summit of Vesuvius, almost four kilometres west of the site where the bodies had been excavated. If his geographic profiling was accurate, Giacomo was following a cognitive map, homing in on a bolt-hole deep in his comfort zone. Lorenzo was right. If they didn't find him quickly, he'd be gone forever.

Sylvia stayed in the Alfa with Blue. They drifted another kilometre east of the drop point, into a fall-back position. If Giacomo slipped past Jack, then they'd be the last line of the dragnet.

Jack and the other three GIS men hit the ground running. Radios were choked to almost silent. Visual contact was maintained at all times and in the patchy, swirling fog that meant a spread of only fifteen to twenty metres.

They headed due west. Set a pace that would see a mile covered in about twelve minutes. Too slow to set personal bests for any of them, but just fast enough to make sure they didn't lose each other, miss anything, or make fatal mistakes.

Within minutes they pulled up sharp. Frozen to the spot. They listened like bats to the rolling echo of a single gunshot.

It came from in front of them.

Jack felt a jolt of excitement. He was right. Giacomo was heading home.

They jogged on. The combat suit and cumbersome goggles were already making them sweat. The NVD made the ground fluoresce an alien green as pounding feet crunched across the parkland. In Jack's hand was a semi-automatic Beretta 92. He knew the gun well – double action with no safety, a trigger as smooth and sweet to pull as a finger through melted chocolate.

He ran in the centre, alongside Brown, the two other GIS men flanking them. Up ahead, in the green foggy mist, he saw something that made them all spontaneously slow to a halt.

It was a large outbuilding of some sort. An ugly bunker of breeze-block concrete and corrugated iron, overgrown with ivy and lichen.

Maybe a forestry workers' tool shed.

Maybe a bolt-hole for a killer. Sal heard them long before he saw them. Heard the squish of their soldier boots as they squelched through spongy turf. Heard the crack of twigs and rub of rocks beneath their heels. Heard their hot breath snorting in the cold night air.

It wasn't until they were up close, almost breath-on-his-face close, that he saw them.

Full combat gear – one, two, three of them with rifles, a fourth with a pistol. They were GIS, he could tell, even in the thin moonlight. The rifles were MP5s. Serious fucking business. Twenty-five rounds in a blink of an eye. Not that he intended blinking.

They buzzed round the forestry outhouse, shaking locks, sweeping their NVDs up and down, arcing their weapons left, right and centre. But for all their technology, they couldn't see him there – right there – right among them.

Sal lay motionless, his breath so shallow it took him twenty seconds to exhale and another twenty to breathe in again. The Glocks felt warm in his hands. Their sturdy stocks nestled against his palms and itched for action. But he'd got his caution back. There'd be no hasty mistakes. Not with those MP5s around. One of the GIS men – a tall one to the far right – waved a hand. He curled his fingers and beckoned someone over. Sal watched as two men lined up behind each other and two spread wide. They were going to storm the building. The forestry building rudely erected right next to the grave of his first victim. Not Luigi Finelli. His mother. Strangled with a length of chain, long before he'd learned to shoot a gun. Her body dumped in the parkland grave and then burned to cinders. Burned for her sins.

Sal sould have buried the others next to her, if he'd had the chance. Only they'd moved in with their shovels and their concrete and iron, and they'd built right alongside her. That's what had driven him further into the park. Still, tonight his mother would be getting company.

Sal moved his index fingers inside the trigger guards. With one movement he could be in position to make two good head shots. But that wouldn't be enough. The sub-machine gun was still unaccounted for. And just one spray of that MP5 would cut him in half. He couldn't risk it. Not yet. Brown let off a burst of gunfire. The rough plank door splintered and its heavy steel padlock fell away. He and two GIS men were through the gap in a split second. Jack hung back. Adrenaline juiced him up and he swallowed hard. A helmet light burst on inside the hut. Even outside, the sudden intensity of white made him look away.

'Clear!' shouted a voice. The light was snuffed and the men shuffled out.

The four huddled close. 'Nothing,' said Brown, his voice muffled by the balaclava. 'We checked the floor for trapdoors, floor pits. It's clean.'

'Then let's regroup and go on,' urged the tall one.

They waited for Jack's okay. He wasn't sure. Giacomo plainly wasn't here. But given the closeness of the gunfire he couldn't be far away. The fog had lifted a little again and the moon partially reasserted itself. Jack wondered whether to spread the team further apart – maybe thirty metres between each man – and slow the pace to a walking stride.

Brown took the initiative. 'Let's do the outside of this place once more. You stay centre and we'll make a slow sweep in three circles twenty metres apart. Then we'll move on. Right?'

Jack nodded and they were on the move before he could reproach himself for not taking command. Sal heard them fan out. Saw the tall one take a starting position barely three metres in front of him and begin his lap. By the time he completed it they would be face to face.

How long did he have? Twenty seconds? Maybe a minute? Certainly no more.

He looked up. The fog was clearing. Soon he'd be exposed.

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie…

Blam!

The Glock in his right hand kicked. The GIS man dropped dead in his tracks.

Sal rolled out of the overgrown stone well. Blam! Blam! He missed. Missed his second target. Fuck! He shifted behind the forestry building and sprinted east. If he was right then the other soldiers were still circling west. They'd have turned at the sound of gunfire, but he still had a head start.

When the world seems to shine like…

Jack whirled round. Saw the dark shape dashing into the mist. He levelled the Beretta and fired.

Missed.

He tried to sight again but even with the night-vision goggles he couldn't see clearly enough.

He tore into a sprint and prayed he wouldn't turn an ankle. Behind him the other GIS men broke their pattern. One rushed to his fallen colleague. The other raced after Jack.

A bullet sliced out of the darkness. A sharp pain erupted in Jack's kneecap. For a moment he thought he'd been hit. Then he realized the slug had hit volcanic rock directly in front of him and he'd been spiked by shards of stone.

A burst of automatic gunfire erupted behind him. Jack hit the ground.

Crossfire!

Christ almighty, he was going to die in crossfire!

More 9mm pistol fire came from in front of him. Jack rolled on his side. Pain stabbed through his left arm. Nerves twanged and sizzled – a painful reminder of his battle with the Black River Killer. He kept rolling. The pain kept coming, but he didn't stop until he was a good ten metres away.

He scrambled to his knees, kept his head down and tried to get his bearings. The moon backlit Vesuvius in front of him. The rocky ground opened up for as far as he could see. There was a hint of a path to his left. Shadows changed shapes. On it – he was sure – was Salvatore Giacomo.

Jack opened fire. Sal the Snake took the bullet in his left wrist. It destroyed the birthday watch that Finelli had given him, sent the Glock spinning out of his hand. He twisted round, fell to his knees, opened fire with his other Glock.

Two shots missed Jack, by less than a metre.

He seized the moment. Dashed closer to Sal. Fired off several rounds as he moved.

Two missed.

The third hit Sal's hipbone.

The Camorrista crumpled and his weapon fell.

'He's down! He's down!' shouted Jack. 'Don't shoot!'

Giacomo was prostrate. Flat on his back. Staring at the stars.

Jack could see both hands. Empty.

The man's face was contorted. Jack levelled the pistol at his head. His eyes locked on the empty hands. He fought the urge to pull the trigger. Blow the murdering bastard's head off. Save the state a lot of time and money. Deal out the kind of justice the victims' families deserved.

Brown was first on the scene. He flipped the body over and cuffed him.

Sal felt the soldier's knee in the middle of his spine. Felt blood puddle around his chest and waist. Felt himself blacking out.

It was a good feeling. A peaceful feeling -

When you walk in a dream, but you know you're not dreaming, signore.