Page 4 of Bonded in Death

“I am Giovanni Rossi.”

“Signore Rossi, let me take your bags. Do you have more luggage?”

“No, this is all.”

“Please follow me.”

The man spoke with an American accent, and with deference as he asked how the flight had been, and hoped Rossi enjoyed his visit to New York.

Giovanni hadn’t expected a limousine, but wasn’t surprised. After all, Fox worked for a very important and wealthy man.

The driver opened the door for him, and Giovanni slid into luxury seats of smooth leather, flowers in bud vases, a bottle of wine already opened for his pleasure.

“With traffic, I’m afraid the drive will take about twenty minutes. There’s music programmed if you like.”

“Grazie.”

“Please let me know if you need anything.”

Though Giovanni wouldn’t have minded company or conversation, the privacy shield slid silently into place.

He poured the wine, settled back to enjoy the ride.

It had been nearly a quarter century since he’d seen New York, and seen it as an operative of Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna.

Interesting times, he thought as he sipped, and looked out the window at the lights sparkling in the city that, like Rome, had come back from a brutal beating.

Frowning, he thought of the message, encrypted, he’d received.

XII

New York

Do not contact me under any circumstances.

Transportation will be waiting at the international shuttle

station on your arrival.

Your ticket is attached to this message.

Urgently, Fox

How long had it been since they’d communicated? At least ten years, he thought. How those years flew by. And what could he possibly do, a man of his age, soft in the middle?

But a vow was a vow. And he’d taken that vow with blood still fresh on his hands.

A little sleepy from the trip, the wine, he sat back, closed his eyes. And, drifting just a bit, caught the taste of something in the air, something that wasn’t the flowers in the vase, the wine in the glass.

He was a man over seventy, retired for nearly a decade, but training kicked in.

He bolted up, dropping the glass, spilling the wine.

But the window didn’t open, the door refused to budge. Levering back, he kicked viciously at the privacy shield, but it held.

It took only a few minutes for him to slip into unconsciousness, barely that much again to die.

The driver took his time, enjoying himself, humming along to the music he’d programmed as he watched Rossi’s death on the small monitor. He knew exactly how long the gas took to debilitate a man of Rossi’s size, how long it took to kill.

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