“Beretta ninety-six,” she said. “The A-one. Forty caliber.” She took it and pointed it downward, moving the slide slightly to verify it was empty. She took two black magazines and the box of ammunition that Rossi had also brought.

“Sign here. And where it says ‘Rank,’ and ‘Affiliation’—those words there—write something illegible. But please, Detective Sachs, do not shoot anyone if you can avoid it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She scrawled where he’d indicated, slipped in a mag and worked the slide to chamber a round. Then, making sure it was on safe, she tucked the weapon into her back waistband. She hurried to the door.

Ercole looked from Daniela to Rossi. “Should I—?”

Rhyme said, “Go! You should go.”

Chapter 18

That’s it?” Amelia Sachs asked as they ran from the Questura. “That’s your car?”

“Yes, yes.” Ercole was beside a small, boxy vehicle called a Mégane, soft blue, dusty and dinged. He began to walk to her side and open the door for her.

“I’m fine.” She waved him off. “Let’s go.”

The young officer climbed into the driver’s seat and she dropped into the passenger’s.

“It’s not much, I’m sorry to say.” He gave a rueful smile. “The Flying Squad actually had two Lamborghinis. One was in an accident a few years ago so I’m not sure if they still have both of them. It’s a marked police car. What a—”

“We should move.”

“Of course.”

He started the engine. He put the shifter in first, signaled to the left and looked over his shoulder, waiting for a gap in traffic.

Sachs said, “I’ll drive.”

“What?”

She slipped the shifter into neutral and yanked up on the brake, then leapt out.

Ercole said, “I should ask, do you have a license? There are probably forms to be filled out. I suppose—”

Then she was at the left-hand door, pulling it open. He climbed out. She said, “You can navigate.” Ercole scurried around the car and dropped into the other seat and she settled into the right, not needing to adjust the seat’s position; he was taller and it was as far back as it might go.

She glanced at him. “Seat belt.”

“Oh. Here, no one cares.” A chuckle. “And they never give you a ticket.”

“Put it on.”

“All right. I will—”

Just as it clicked, she slammed the gears into first, fed the engine a slug of gas and popped the clutch, darting into a minuscule gap in traffic. One car swerved and another braked. Both honked. She didn’t bother to look back.

“Mamma mia,” Ercole whispered.

“Where do I go?”

“Straight on this road for a kilometer.”

“Where’re your lights?”

“There.” He pointed to a switch. The headlights.

“No, I mean the flashers. You have blue here, in Italy?”

“Blue? Oh, police lights? I don’t have them—” He gasped as she zipped into a space between a truck and a trio of motorcyclists. “This is my personal car.”

“Ah. And how much horsepower? Eighty?”