Page 85 of Skotos
“They’re heading for the Tiber!” I shouted.
Thomas nodded and begged the engine for more speed.
The river rose ahead. The Tiber’s edge was a rough, weathered place—less postcard, more pulse of the city’s industrial veins. Along the riverbank, the road turned to old stone pavers that sloped gently toward the water, darkened bycenturies of tide and time. Warehouses lined the dockside road, blocky and brutalist, their façades cracked and faded from years of rain and neglect. Some bore peeling signage—logistics companies, old shipping names, forgotten brands of oil and wine. Stained-metal shutters covered massive loading bays. Chains dangled from cargo hooks like iron vines. A few warehouses still showed signs of life—forklifts moved crates, men in grease-streaked overalls shouted to each other in coarse Roman dialect, radios crackled with static and the faint strains of opera.
And in the middle of it all, the black sedan sped like a demon loosed from confession, disappearing into the blinding light of the riverside curve.
We were almost on them when one of the rear windows rolled down. A gloved hand emerged—its owner’s long black sleeve billowing in the wind.
A flash.
The sound of the world cracking.
Thewhizof a bullet zipped past my ear.
Thomas jerked the handlebars.
Another shot.
Sparks danced off the cobbles near the bike’s wheels.
“They’re fucking shooting at us!” I yelled.
“Thanks, I didn’t notice!”
How can he be such a smart-ass in the middle of a bike-chase-gunfight?
Thomas yanked the handles, turning straight into the loading zone of a warehouse.
That’s when it happened, when everything lurched from high speed into slow motion, and I saw disaster rearing its dragon-like head before us. A forklift hauling pallets appeared in the alley from a side entrance. The driver didn’t see us.
Thomas shouted and swerved, but it was too late.
We clipped the pallet stack and slammed sideways into the corrugated metal siding of the warehouse. Pain exploded through my ribs and elbow as we hit the ground. Thomas flew off, landing some dozen feet away. The motorbike skittered away on its side, its heels spinning.
The forklift driver jumped down and shouted in Italian, but I couldn’t understand his words. My eyes were locked on the black sedan disappearing around a bend.
“Damn it!” I yelled, slamming my palm into the pavement and immediately regretting it.
Thomas rolled onto his side with a groan, one arm gripping his shoulder.
“You okay?” I asked, crawling toward him.
He nodded faintly, but his jaw was clenched. Blood seeped through the fabric of his shirt, dark and spreading fast. His earlier wound had split open again.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Of course you’re bleeding again. We can’t go two days on a mission without you leaking.”
Thomas offered a weak grin. “You should see the other guy.”
“We didn’tcatchthe other guy.” I pulled off my jacket and pressed it against his arm. “Let’s hope this warehouse has a first-aid kit. Or whiskey. Maybe both.”
“Hell of a date, Will.” He leaned his head back against the wall and laughed, breathless. “Can we just do dinner and a show next time?”
Fucking Thomas Jacobs.
Thomas snorted, then winced. He was trying to act brave or strong or . . . stupid. Yeah, stupid was more likely. The man needed to admit when he was hurt and let me help him, damn it. Why did guys have to be such idiots?
The forklift operator jogged toward us. I barely registered the sound. My focus was entirely on Thomas, on his shallow breathing and the way his eyes fluttered slightly before he forced them open.
