False Prophets by Sean Flannery

Author:Sean Flannery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group
Published: 2012-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

Frascati was a small town fifteen miles southeast of Rome in the Alban Hills. It was Thursday night. John Mahoney, driving a rented Fiat, followed the main highway for a mile or two beyond the ancient town, then turned north onto the Via Coronele as the instructions he had been given indicated. The narrow road wound its way up into the hills, and after a very short distance, John began to see the lights of the houses above him.

This was an area of expensive homes. Modern structures clung to the hillsides. Rubio’s, according to the notes he had been given, was on the Via Coronele, at the crest of the hill.

“There is an iron gate at the entry to Signore Rubio’s home,” the notes indicated. “The gate will be recognized by the Italian flags that fly over it by night as well as by day.”

A low-slung sports car came around a sharp curve from above him and passed in a flash, its lights bright, its tires screeching on the pavement.

John climbed around the next curve, and a hundred yards above him he could see a huge house, its front face almost all glass, perched on thick steel girders. Then he was around another curve, his view blocked for the moment.

It was Rubio’s home. His mouth was dry and his stomach rumbled. He was not an assassin. He was not cut out for this. Yet the compelling need to strike back was growing to frightening proportions within him.

He came around the last curve and had to slow down to a crawl to get past a half dozen police cruisers, their blue lights flashing. The road divided here, the left-hand lane leading to another way down the hill; to the right, a road led toward the police, into a driveway. An ornate iron gate was open. Two tricolor Italian flags flew over it. Just within the gate, well illuminated by all the strong lights, was a Jaguar XKE sports car, its top down. A woman was in the passenger seat. John could see her long, light hair. But behind the wheel was Rubio. He was less than twenty-five yards away. There was no mistake.

No one paid any attention to John as he passed slowly, and then he was around to the left, heading back down to the main road.

He had to wait at the bottom of the hill for several cars and a truck to pass, and then he drove back into Frascati, a shaky feeling in the pit of his stomach. Rubio was up there. And within twenty-four hours John was going to kill him.

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