Chương 2 - THE COMPASS AROUND HER NECK
The bullet hit the brick wall hard enough to shower Sarah’s face with stone.
Marcus covered her with his body.
For one strange second, all she could hear was his breathing against her ear.
Then the street erupted.
“Second floor!” somebody shouted.
Three of Marcus’s men fired upward.
Another man came crashing through Sarah’s apartment window and landed on the iron fire escape. A Santoro guard struck him before he could raise his rifle again.
Sarah shoved against Marcus’s chest.
“Get off me.”
“Stay down.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“You’re breathing enough to argue.”
“That isn’t the standard medical test.”
Another gunshot cracked overhead.
Marcus dragged her behind the armored SUV.
Her groceries were scattered across the cobblestones. Tomatoes rolled through broken glass. Red wine ran toward the gutter like blood.
Sarah stared at the ruined bottle.
Yesterday she had been teaching tourists how to clear a flooded mask.
Now trained men were shooting at her apartment.
“This is because of you.”
Marcus looked toward the rooftops.
“Yes.”
No excuse.
No denial.
The honesty somehow made her angrier.
“You told me to forget you.”
“I underestimated how quickly they would identify you.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
One of his men approached.
“Street is contained.”
“Alive?” Marcus asked.
“One.”
Sarah looked at him.
“Alive?”
“He may know who sent them.”
There was no satisfaction in Marcus’s voice.
Only calculation.
That frightened her more.
Marcus opened the SUV door.
“Get in.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Sarah.”
“You said I could say no.”
“I did.”
“So no.”
He looked upward.
A piece of Sarah’s shattered window frame dropped onto the pavement.
Marcus pointed at it.
“Your apartment currently contains three armed men, one broken window, and enough ammunition to convince me your landlord will not be refunding the deposit.”
Despite herself, she almost laughed.
“I hate you.”
“I’m willing to survive that.”
He held out his hand.
Not grabbing this time.
Waiting.
That difference was small.
But Sarah noticed it.
She climbed into the SUV herself.
Marcus got in beside her.
The convoy moved before the door had fully closed.
Twenty minutes later, Sarah found herself inside an old villa outside Cefalù surrounded by olive trees, stone walls, cameras, and men who seemed to believe smiling was a security risk.
Marcus handed her a glass of water.
“I need my phone.”
“It’s being checked.”
“For what?”
“Tracking software.”
“My phone is seven years old. It barely tracks the weather.”
“Someone found your apartment within twenty-four hours of my rescue.”
“You came with six SUVs.”
“Because I already knew.”
That stopped her.
“How?”
Marcus sat opposite her.
The immaculate suit made it difficult to believe she had pumped seawater out of his lungs the previous morning.
“One of the men watching your building was identified before noon.”
“Who was he?”
“A contractor.”
“For whom?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Sarah folded her arms.
“Then why do you look like you do?”
“Like what?”
“Like you do know.”
Marcus glanced toward the door.
“My family has enemies.”
“Your family is the enemy in most conversations.”
“Also true.”
She studied him.
“Why would anyone think I knew anything?”
“Because you rescued me.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
He reached into his jacket and placed something on the table.
Her waterproof business card.
The one she had given him.
Someone had drawn a small black circle around her last name.
MITCHELL.
Sarah frowned.
“Where did you get that?”
“From the pocket of the man upstairs.”
Cold moved along her spine.
“My card?”
“A photograph of it.”
“So somebody saw me hand it to you.”
“Yes.”
“At the marina.”
“Yes.”
“Then they were already watching you.”
Marcus gave one small nod.
Sarah rose.
“I’m leaving Sicily.”
“Good.”
She stopped.
“You agree?”
“I would prefer you on another continent.”
“That may be the nicest thing you’ve said.”
“It won’t help.”
Her stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“The photograph of your card was transmitted less than two minutes after you handed it to me.”
“So?”
Marcus’s eyes settled on her surname.
“Whoever received it recognized you.”
Sarah laughed nervously.
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a scuba instructor from Oregon.”
“Tell me about your father.”
The question came so abruptly that she stared.
“What?”
“Your father.”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“Humor me.”
“No.”
Marcus leaned back.
“Then I’ll tell you what I know. Thomas Mitchell. American. Marine engineer. Commercial diver.”
Sarah went still.
“How do you know his name?”
Marcus continued.
“Worked in England for several years. Consulted in Malta, Greece, Sicily.”
“He worked everywhere.”
“Did he ever mention Santoro Maritime?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Sarah knew it.
Marcus knew it too.
“My father died eight years ago,” she said. “He has nothing to do with whoever tried to put a bullet through my head.”
Marcus watched her.
“What did he die from?”
“An aneurysm.”
“Where?”
“Portland.”
“Did he ever tell you why he stopped commercial diving?”
Sarah looked away.
Her father had hated talking about those years.
He used to say the ocean had taken enough from him.
“He had an accident.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“I asked plenty.”
“And?”
“He changed the subject.”
Marcus stood.
“That sounds familiar.”
Sarah’s patience broke.
“What exactly are you accusing my dead father of?”
“Nothing.”
“Then stop interrogating me.”
She turned toward the window.
Marcus’s gaze dropped to her neck.
His expression changed instantly.
“What is that?”
Sarah touched the small brass compass hanging beneath her shirt.
“This?”
“Take it off.”
“No.”
“Sarah.”
“It was my father’s.”
Marcus came closer, but stopped before touching her.
“May I see it?”
The sudden politeness made her uneasy.
She removed the necklace and placed it in his palm.
The compass was old.
Brass.
Scratched.
Its glass face had cracked years ago.
Marcus turned it over.
On the back was an engraved symbol: a tiny swallow flying above three waves.
All the color disappeared from his face.
“You know it.”
Marcus said nothing.
“Marcus.”
He pressed the small release near the hinge.
Sarah frowned.
“There isn’t a—”
Click.
A second lid opened beneath the compass face.
Sarah stopped breathing.
She had owned it since she was seventeen.
She had never known there was another compartment.
Inside was a tiny waterproof circle of paper.
Marcus removed it carefully.
Numbers had been written across it in faded blue ink.
Latitude.
Longitude.
And beneath them, one word.
TERESA.
Marcus stared at it.
His fingers tightened.
“Who is Teresa?”
His eyes lifted slowly.
“My mother.”
Sarah felt the room tilt.
Marcus looked again at the compass her father had carried for decades.
Then he gave her the one truth that destroyed everything she thought she knew about Thomas Mitchell.
May you like
“Your father was with my mother the night she died.”
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