The Asian had the movements of a big cat. He turned and quickstepped out the door in Rizzo’s place, following Alex and, in Rizzo’s opinion, closing a trap on her.

Now she had a stranger on her back, not the noble old Roman bodyguard.

Rizzo cursed violently. Darkness was descending on him, but he still had lots of fight, more than his opponents expected from a geezer. With a chopping motion, he brought his hand up toward the Greek-speaking guy in front of him, a guy who was dumb enough to stand there with his hands down, just watching.

Rizzo caught the man in the Adam’s apple and felt a solid crunch on impact, a crunch that was loud enough to draw the attention of people at the bar.

The man recoiled and coughed violently.

Rizzo grabbed the man’s throat and tried to squeeze. He tried to claw.

Rizzo felt the flesh tear against the clawing of his fingernails. But Rizzo was losing strength fast. He threw an elbow backward, hitting the man behind him-the one who had jabbed him-in the ribs. But then something that must have been a fist came out of nowhere and walloped him across the back of the head.

The blow stunned him.

The ceiling spun away.

Rizzo knew he was losing consciousness. The foreign hands upon him were firm, and they threw him against the wall. He continued to fight and cursed in slow motion. He was furious. He hadn’t lost a bar fight in thirty years, but he was sure on the short end of one tonight.

There was laughter, and Rizzo heard them explaining to the bartender in Spanish, “…our friend has had too much to drink,” followed by more laughter.

“I saw you hit him,” the bartender said. “Get out of here before I throw you out.”

“We’re leaving. We’re leaving.”

Rizzo knew expletives in at least a dozen major languages and launched as many as he could. Then he settled slowly to the floor as his assailants moved away and toward the door.

Darkness overwhelmed Rizzo. As he lost consciousness, he wondered if he would ever gain it back or whether this was lights-out for good.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 10, 12:01 A.M.

Alex emerged from the bar alone and stopped on the sidewalk outside. The neighborhood was busy.

She looked both ways. She checked the street for vans or suspicious cars. The area was a minefield of things she didn’t like. Groups hanging around talking, single men, couples smooching in doorways, people sitting at outdoor tables that overflowed from other bars. Any single one of these groups, or any single person within them, could be transformed into a lethal adversary at any moment.

Her insides were so tightly coiled that she saw the whole architecture of the neighborhood in terms of menace. The traffic flowed the wrong way, approaching her from behind, meaning anyone could follow. She guessed that might have been by design.

“Okay,” she said to herself in a whisper. “Move!”

Far to her left, almost half a block away now, she saw her two cops, a duet of green uniforms moving at a quick pace.

Well, no turning back now. She walked briskly. Get this over fast. Make this your own type of smash and grab. No nonsense permitted. God bless Rizzo and his ice pick.

She felt in her jacket pocket and found the pick. She clutched it and felt her sweaty palm on it. She crossed one street corner. So far so good.

Now, once again: Where is Rizzo? She threw a sideways glance over her shoulder and didn’t see him. Where was he? She looked again.

Come on Gian Antonio. Don’t be slow about this. Timing is everything.

She continued walking. A second street corner crossing.

Okay, two thirds of the way there. So far so good. She was still alive. She tried to steady her pace. She knew Rizzo had to be back there somewhere. He had to be.

Far up ahead she could see the end of the block. She knew she needed to turn the corner to follow…She quickstepped her pace, got there, and did a quick evasive maneuver. She went out into the street, so as not to be too close to the building. She wished Rizzo would close ranks with her.

Where was he? How could she have lost him? Unlike the busier main street, the side street was quiet. Up ahead a parked car with Guardia Civil markings waited, as per the plan.

On the side street, windows were barred and grates were down against the night and the people who populated it.

In her gut she had the same feeling she had had in Kiev before all hell had broken loose. Was it an animal sense by now, an instinct telling her that danger lurked somewhere? Or was it just a survival skill, telling her to play the game carefully?

Then she could see the cruiser clearly. One of the men in uniform stood leaning against the front hood, near the tire, his arms folded, watching her approach. The other stood by the rear trunk. He was several years younger than the man in front. No nametags. No ranks. Like the rest of the evening, these guys didn’t look right. It wasn’t just that her radar was beeping now, the alarm sirens were raging.

She stopped short, about twenty feet in front of them.

“Buenas noches,” she said. She would handle this in Spanish.

“Buenas noches,” one of them answered. They almost laughed.

“La pietà,” she asked. “¿Dónde está?”

They both smiled. Something was off with their smiles too.

“In the trunk,” they said. The man in uniform at the rear of the car stepped away, several paces, very carefully. By now she knew, this was no ordinary transaction.

Where is Rizzo!

She didn’t want to turn. She knew better than to take her eyes off two players in a quasi-criminal transaction.

“Be a gentleman. Open the trunk for me and bring it here,” she said.

“Come get it,” one of them said.

“No. I’ve come this far. The final few paces are up to you.”

Her hand remained on the pick. But she felt naked. They had guns!

Where is Rizzo!

Then she heard footsteps behind her. Comforting ones. That had to be him, didn’t it? She felt eyes on her back. She felt a presence, maybe twenty feet behind her.

There was a moment of standoff.

“I brought a friend,” she said, still in Spanish.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the man to her left said.

“Just give me the pietà if you have it,” she said.

There was another moment of hot sweaty standoff. Five seconds that played out like a month. She cocked her head slightly and glanced behind her to see where Rizzo was, angling so that her eyes were only away from these two creeps for a millisecond.

No Rizzo. Actually, she saw where he wasn’t. But she could see a man she had never seen in her life before. An Asian, sharply dressed in a dark suit. Midthirties. Handsome. Killer-good-looks handsome.

Now it all made sense. She had been trapped and set up. She turned back toward the car. There was movement behind her, as if the Asian were jockeying for a better angle. She watched the men in front of her and saw something strange in their eyes too.

She was certain: the three of them were together and she had waltzed into their trap.

Then she read the look of the men in front of her. Their hands were moving slowly toward their weapons. She would have fled, but quick movements are suicidal during a crossfire.

In front of her, both of the uniformed men reached for their sidearms. And a voice came from behind her. The Asian screamed out in English.

“Alex! Get down! Get down! Get down!”

She saw the guns come up in the hands of the men in front of her. Big, mean, automatic pistols. Urban warfare stuff.

The two men spread out quickly to their sides to get a better angle on her pursuer. She was right in the middle. Her mind was so filled with pounding blood, fear, and danger that her instincts took over. She knew that if she moved to the left or the right, she would be in the line of fire from the Guardia Civil and if she stayed upright she could be shot in the back.