Chapter 10 - The Roofline
The rose trellis was old, wet, and deeply offended by Mia’s weight.
It creaked under her as she climbed.
Below, Matteo argued in a furious whisper until Bianca physically dragged him toward the cellar entrance with Lorenzo between them.
Good.
Mia preferred him angry and alive.
The sniper fired again, aiming at movement near the fountain. He had lost sight of Matteo but knew someone was still there. Mia climbed higher, shoes slipping on rain-slick wood, fingers digging into vines and thorns. A branch snapped beneath her foot.
She almost fell.
Of course she did.
She grabbed the gutter at the last second and slammed into the side of the roof hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs.
For a moment, she dangled there, breathing through pain, thinking about how Mr. Hensley would absolutely write “poor relationship with gravity” in her termination report.
Then she pulled herself up.
The sniper lay flat near the roof’s edge, rifle aimed toward the garden. He had not heard her over the wind and the broadcast still echoing faintly through the estate.
Mia crept forward.
A roof tile shifted beneath her foot.
The sniper turned.
Mia threw herself sideways as he fired. The bullet tore past her ear. She crashed into a chimney, rolled down the sloped roof, and grabbed his rifle barrel as he swung it toward her again.
They struggled.
He was stronger. Everyone tonight was stronger. Mia was getting tired of that.
So she stopped trying to overpower him.
She let go.
He jerked backward from the sudden release, off balance.
Mia kicked his ankle.
He slipped, slammed into the roof edge, and dropped the rifle. It slid down the tiles and vanished into the darkness below.
The sniper lunged at her with a knife.
Mia caught his wrist, twisted, and drove her knee into his stomach. He doubled over. She hooked his harness strap around the chimney and pulled tight, trapping him against the brick.
He cursed in Italian.
Mia answered in Italian, “Your accent is terrible.”
He stared at her.
She took his radio.
“Carlo,” she said into it, lowering her voice as best she could, “the girl is down.”
A pause.
Then Carlo’s voice came through. “Good. Bring Matteo to the west dock. We leave in ten.”
West dock.
Not the gate. Not the road.
Carlo had a boat waiting.
Mia looked down toward the estate. The cellar entrance stood open beneath the terrace. Matteo was inside. Lorenzo was inside. Bianca was inside.
And Carlo was heading there.
Mia climbed down the roof badly, painfully, and with absolutely no dignity.
She hit the ground near a hedge, rolled, and came up limping.
Then she ran.
Inside the wine cellar, Matteo and Bianca had found the relay behind the north wall. Wires spilled from an open panel. Lorenzo sat on a crate, breathing shallowly.
The recording continued.
Matteo looked up as Mia stumbled in, scratched, muddy, and furious.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How badly?”
“Emotionally, because that roof was rude.”
Bianca didn’t look away from the wires. “I can shut it off, but if Carlo linked it externally, the damage may already be done.”
Mia stared at the relay.
Then at the old analog line.
Then at the sprinkler pipe overhead.
An idea hit her.
It was probably stupid.
Most of her best ideas were.
“Bianca,” she said, “can water short this system?”
Bianca looked at the pipe. “Yes, but it could fry the entire security grid.”
Mia picked up a corkscrew.
Matteo stared. “Mia.”
She climbed onto a wine rack.
“Please tell me this is not your plan.”
“My plan is evolving.”
She jammed the corkscrew into the sprinkler valve and twisted.
Nothing happened.
She twisted harder.
The valve snapped.
Water exploded from the ceiling.
Everyone shouted.
Sparks burst from the relay panel. The recording cut off mid-sentence.
Darkness fell.
Then silence.
Mia slid off the rack, landed badly, and knocked over three bottles of very expensive wine.
Lorenzo stared at her.
May you like
“That,” he said slowly, “was a 1947 Barolo.”
Mia wiped water from her face. “You’re welcome.”
