Ercole said, “No, no, it’s closer to a hundred, one ten, in fact.”

Be still my heart, she thought, but said nothing. Amelia Sachs would never tarnish anyone’s image of his own wheels.

“You don’t have flashers in your personal cars?”

“The Police of State might. Inspector Rossi and Daniela. I am, as you know, with the Forestry Corps. We do not. At least none of the officers I work with do. Oh, we are to turn soon.”

“Which street and which way?”

“Left. That one up there. But I didn’t prepare. I am sorry. I don’t think we can get over in time.”

They got over in time.

And took the ninety degrees in a screaming second gear. He gasped.

“Next turn?”

“Half a kilometer, to the right. Via Letizia.”

He inhaled harshly as she accelerated to eighty kph, weaving into and out of all four lanes.

“Will they reimburse you, the Police of State?”

“It’s only a few euros for the mileage, hardly worth the effort of the forms.”

She’d been referring to repairing the transmission but decided not to bring that up. Anyway, how much damage could a hundred horses do to a tranny?

“Here is the turn.”

Via Letizia…

The road grew congested. Rear ends and brake lights loomed.

She was skidding to a stop, using both brakes, inches from the jam.

A blast of horn. Nobody moved.

“Hold your badge up,” she told him.

His smile said the gesture would do no good.

She hit the horn again and guided the car over the curb and along the sidewalk. Furious faces turned toward her, though the expressions of some of the younger men switched from indignant anger to amusement and even admiration when they noted the insane driver was a beautiful redhead.

She breached the intersection and turned as Ercole had instructed. Then roared forward.

“Call,” she instructed. “See if the—what’s the name of your tac outfit again?”

“Tac?”

“Sorry. Tactical. See where they are.”

“Oh, SCO.” He pulled out his phone and placed a call. Like most of the conversations she’d heard so far, this one unfolded lightning-fast. It ended with a clipped, “Ciao, ciao, ciao, ciao…” He gripped the dash as she shot between two trucks and said, “They’re assembled and on the way. It should be fifteen minutes.”

“How far are we?”

“Cinque. I mean—”

“Five.” Sachs was grimacing. “Can’t somebody be there any faster? We’ll need a breaching team. The Composer would have locked the doorway or gate again. He did that in New York.”

“They’ll probably think of that.”

“Tell them anyway.”

Another call. And she could tell from the tone, if not the words, that there was nothing to do to expedite the arrival of the tactical force.

“They have hammers and cutters and a torch.”

A fast shift, fourth to second. She punched the accelerator. The engine howled.

A phrase of her father’s came to mind. A bylaw of her life.

When you move they can’t getcha…

But just then: A blond teenager, his long curls flying in the breeze, steered a peppy orange scooter through a stoplight, oblivious to any traffic.