One

FLORENCE, ITALY
JANUARY 3
0200

COUNTERTERRORIST OPERATIVE MAX ARIES FLUNG A LEG over the crumbling second-floor balustrade, then dropped lightly onto the narrow stone terrace. He'd spent some pretty damned phenomenal days and nights in this sixteenth-century palazzo. But he wasn't here to seduce Emily Greene. Not this time.

He presumed she was here. Her little yellow Maserati was parked out on the street, but she hadn't answered the doorbell when he'd rung a few minutes ago. Of course there were any number of places an attractive, single woman could be at two in the morning. If not for the urgency of her calls Max might have waited until a decent, civilized time to see her. He'd been awake for a straight ninety-seven hours, and he was punchy as hell. Sleep would've been good. A shower would probably be appreciated. But there hadn't been time for either.

He'd been on the T-FLAC jet, halfway home from an op in Grozny, when he'd called his answering service to check for messages during a break in debriefing. He rarely had personal messages; operatives didn't have time for real lives, so he was surprised to have received half a dozen.

All from Emily Greene. Apparently she'd been leaving messages for weeks. The messages had started out cool, but reasonable and sympathetic, then grown increasingly more annoyed as she'd practically summoned his ass to Florence for his father's funeral.

Message received loud and clear.

Fine. He was here, wasn't he? A few weeks late, and several dollars' worth of sincerity short, but he was here. He hadn't been that interested in the death of his sperm donor. But he was curious as hell to see Emily again. This was as good an excuse as any. And, he thought, amused, he'd practically been in the neighborhood.

The balcony doors were wide open to the chill damp air, and several of the spicy-scented potted geraniums crowding the patio were knocked over. There were dozens of possible reasons the pots had been toppled, but between one inhale and the next Max's hand went instinctively to the custom Glock in the small of his back. He left the SIG Sauer and Ka-Bar knife in their ankle holsters where they were. For now.

He wasn't the only one who'd entered her apartment this way.

Exhaustion dissipated as adrenaline reactivated his tired brain. Unless she had Romeo and Juliet fantasies, Emily had an intruder. First the old man's murder, now this? Max didn't believe in coincidences. He stepped over scattered dirt to slip through the open French doors where sheer white draperies fluttered in the rain-drenched air.

The delicate fragrance of woman was underscored by the familiar, but out of place, smell of male sweat and gun oil. The intruder had passed this way recently. Very recently.

Shit.

Moving quickly and soundlessly through the stygian darkness of the living room, he circumvented the enormous, down-filled floral sofa where he and Emily had made love their last time together. Max's night vision was excellent, and his eyes automatically adjusted to the almost-pitch-black interior even as he catalogued the blend of distinctive odors around him. The acrid smell of turpentine, the unmistakable smell of still-wet oil paint from Emily's first floor studio, dust, flowers, garlic—

The intruder.

He felt that familiar spike of adrenaline and smiled. Now he was wide awake. Alert to the smallest sound or hint of movement, he followed the man's trail like a bloodhound. Weaving his way at top speed through the overcrowded rooms, and heading toward the long hallway leading to the rest of the apartment.

Silently crossing the terrazzo floor of the entryway, he noted the flowers in a vase on the hall table, black in the darkness. A woman's purse lay beside the crystal vase. An umbrella and long raincoat hung from a hook nearby. No sign of moisture, indicating she'd been home awhile. Two suitcases stood sentinel nearby. Where was she going?

He noticed a dark shape lying twenty feet ahead on the floor in the hallway, just this side of the open bedroom door. Max's heart double-clutched.

Emily—

He raced toward the still figure.

God damn it.

Copyright © 2007 by Cherry Adai.