"We need to get Pietro out of here," Wyatt said. "And we need to confirm his credentials. I'm still wondering if this is all a complicated lie," he said, frowning at the dark-haired man.

  Juliette's mind was racing with possibilities. Could this man really be an innocent bystander? Or was he involved in the murders in some way? She had to find out the truth.

  "What did your contact look like?" she asked.

  "He was about my height, maybe a little taller. He had dark hair, and he had a scar here." He pointed to the side of his mouth.

  Juliette nodded. That sounded exactly like the description of the killer they had been chasing.

  "I can take you to my shop!" Pietro insisted. "I will show you where it is. My customers can confirm who I am, and that I am at the shop all day, every day. I have my ID in the drawer there, and the keys to it are here."

  He glanced down at a key ring looped to his belt.

  "We're going to have to do that," Juliette said. "But we have a new problem. Stefano is due to arrive here any minute, and there's no way we can let him come and go. If he arrives and the place is empty, he’ll know something went wrong. How soon can the police get here? We need them to stand by, but not too close, or this killer might be spooked and never reappear."

  Wyatt pulled out his phone and made a call, speaking rapidly to Dario.

  "There are police within five minutes of here, who can stand by and come in if they are needed," he said.

  "We need plainclothes officers," Juliette decided. "Two, now, and they will need to patrol this warehouse looking like casual passersby until he gets back. And in the meantime, I'll stay here and watch out for him," she said.

  Wyatt frowned. "I'm not liking that. It's too much risk to you."

  Juliette stood her ground. "It's no risk to me. I will stay in the background, out on the street, and just watch the premises. That's all. If I see him come back, and he walks inside, then we've got what we need and the police can close in. But until then, we have to keep a lookout."

  Wyatt nodded, accepting that what she said was the only viable way right now. He got on the phone again and updated Dario, speaking rapidly.

  "Okay," he said, cutting the call. "Dario is on track with that. Police will stand by, and two plainclothes officers will be here in the next fifteen minutes."

  "Fifteen?" What had happened to five, Juliette wondered.

  "Plainclothes takes more time to organize, it seems," Wyatt said. "So you'll need to be extra alert in the meantime, and remember, if uniformed officers are needed, you can make the call and they'll hustle straight here in five."

  Juliette still thought it was the best plan, and the most intelligent way of not alerting Stefano.

  "Okay. It'll be worth the extra delay, then," she said.

  "I'll get going then. Be careful," Wyatt said.

  "I will. I promise," Juliette agreed.

  She felt a prickling of her spine as she thought about the fact he could be here - right here - ready to close in on his new victim. From now on, every minute would be important.

  Wyatt left, escorting Mario back down the street to the car to confirm his credentials, and Juliette stepped outside the building.

  At any moment, Stefano might appear. She kept her eyes wide open as she crossed the now dark road, feeling suddenly aware of how the passersby in this dilapidated area had all but disappeared as night fell.

  She walked down the street, feeling oddly nervous, returning her gaze again and again to that door, but walking casually, so that nobody would suspect her of watching over the place.

  As she walked, something occurred to her, something they'd missed, and she made an impatient face.

  Seeing that Stefano would probably arrive very soon for his ‘meeting’ with Pietro, there wasn't any point in delaying the police. Stefano would probably be here sooner than ten minutes, and if Pietro was telling the truth, he’d be rushing in, ready to grab his victim. And that meant she could call the police now. There was no reason to wait any longer.

  Feeling thankful that she'd reasoned her way through that, Juliette pulled out her phone.

  But before she could make the call, she sensed a slight movement behind her.

  In a flash, she realized why she'd been feeling so jumpy, so distracted. It was her sixth sense, the feeling she had when being watched.

  A bolt of fear shot through her as she started to turn.

  But it was too late. With a thud, something solid and heavy landed hard on the back of her head.

  "No!" she tried to scream, but it was too late. The world went gray and fuzzy, and then faded out completely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  They were closing in. Paranoia flared inside the wingman as the woman went down; he grabbed her under her arms, lifting her light weight easily. He felt like he’d had a narrow escape, that she had been about to use her phone, about to make the call to her colleagues.

  When he’d come around the corner, he instantly saw her body language, her level of alertness, even though she’d pretended to be casual. His cop alarms had blared in his mind. He’d shrunk out of sight and waited, watched for just a few precious seconds. When he saw her glance for the third time at his warehouse door and take out her phone, he knew he had to act or risk discovery.

  Growing up in an environment where every one of his own moves was critically watched had made him very aware of the way others looked and reacted. It was better to be wrong than to be caught, This wasn't something he had planned in his journey to help him heal. But this woman was going to try to stop his plans, and because of that she needed to be stopped. Now, immediately.

  She was faster and more alert than he'd thought. She had already been twisting around as he brought the pipe down. The blow didn't knock her out as fully as he had hoped, but it would have to be enough.

  As he slung her over his shoulder, he noticed her phone lying there. It must have dropped out of her hand. He picked it up quickly. He'd dispose of it later.

  Then, with fear and worry spurring him on, he carried her to the warehouse, and out back to the small courtyard beyond. Here, he would work with her and set her to fly. Knowing that she was soaring skyward, that the cop lady would have met the fate she deserved, would bring him some comfort.

  Kicking the door closed, he began his work, this time going about his job with a furious haste. Where there was one cop there might be more. He knew what they were like. They were like flies, the way they clustered around a scene.

  He'd never trusted the police. That was one thing that he and his grandfather had shared. About the only thing, though. The old man was someone he always remembered a certain way, seeing him forever through the eyes of a child. He was lean, hard, brutal, and he’d abused the wingman horribly, forcing him to suck helium from the canisters whenever he was accused of doing something wrong, which was often. And that was in addition to the blows, the burns, the beatings he'd suffered. It had been a horrendous childhood. That was why he liked to think of himself as the wingman. Hearing the word Stefano always gave him a feeling of terror in the pit of his stomach, a certainty that bad things were going to follow.

  There had been that time his grandfather had tied him to the balloons, shouting and swearing, threatening him that this was the end, that he didn’t care anymore, that the wingman deserved it. Never had the wingman forgotten that breathless terror, the sense of panic that had filled him as he'd bobbed higher and higher into the sky. There hadn’t been that many balloons, but he’d been light and skinny and he’d gone over the rooftops before the balloon strings had tangled in a tree and the fire brigade had come and lifted him, shaking and speechless, to safety.

  The police had come, asked him questions afterward, but he'd known better than to give up information on his grandfather. He knew what would happen if he did that. The outcome would not be pretty. He, as the small, weak, and young one in the equation, would suffer – or else, die.

  And yet, his grandfather had been generous in his later years. He’d left him property, and a small business. And then later, when the old man had finally died, the wingman had heard about the other, long abandoned place in Naples.

  For a couple of years he'd ignored it, focusing on his life in the States. He was an Italian American who only knew American English. He’d never wanted to learn Italian, never wanted to speak with his grandfather’s accent at all.

  But then, curiosity got the better of him and he'd traveled to Naples to pick up the threads, arriving in the epicenter of the town where he hoped he might finally get healing from the scars and the anger that consumed him like an internal fire.

  Healing had happened in a different way than he’d thought, because in this town he'd seen people resembling his grandfather everywhere he looked. And he had realized that the best way of repairing the damage that had been caused was to take revenge.

  Every time he sent someone in the image of his grandfather to fly to their death, it healed one of the deep scars inside him.

  He had spent months planning this, carefully selecting his victims, watching, and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He had honed his skills, perfected his methods, until he was ready to take his revenge on the world.

  And this cop, who he now realized as he checked her pockets, did have FBI ID on her, had tried to stop him. She had interfered with his plans, and she would pay the price for it. He worked quickly and efficiently, using his years of experience to make sure she would never interfere again.

  He tied her to the railing and then inflated his extra-large balloons, the giant size ones. They took a whole large canister of helium each. This was eroding his supplies but it was necessary.

  Luckily this woman was light. He estimated that with eleven extra size, huge balloons, she'd be flying. Usually for the men, it took him fourteen. But he was happy, this time, with eleven. As he worked, wrapping the strings tightly around her limbs, he could feel the air pulling her up. She'd go into the sky, as high as he needed her to, and then the breaking point of the balloons would be reached, and down she would drop. The thought made him giggle aloud, but it didn’t slow the frantic pace of his work.

  Then, something caught his attention and he glanced at her phone, wondering if it had been ringing. He thought he'd sensed a vibration from it, but he was too busy with the noisy job of filling the balloons to worry about it further.

  Once he was finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. The cop, now tied securely to the balloons, was hovering above the rail, her body swaying gently in the wind, her limbs tugged upward by the balloons. Only the rope holding her to the rail was left to release.

  He stepped forward, pulling at the knot, breathing fast as he battled with it, hearing the jostling of the huge balloons above him in the light breeze.

  She'd be carried out to sea, where she would reach height, and fall to her death.

  Now, he had the rope loosened. And then, behind him, he heard a cry.

  Turning, adrenaline surging, he saw another cop burst out into the courtyard; a tall man who looked like he was US Special Forces from his lithe build ran into the room.

  "Wait! Do not let her go!" the cop screamed.

  But now, panicked, the wingman pulled hard on the rope, jerking it free, needing this lady cop to disappear, and fast. Trouble had landed. Where had this guy come from?

  "Get away from her! Get away!" he was yelling.

  The ringing phone, he thought, that damned phone. He'd been calling her and the wingman hadn't realized. Now, the cop was leaping - but not for him. For the dangling strap that had now come loose from the balcony.

  He had to let her fly! He jumped into the cop's way, trying to stop him, but a fist struck him like a thunderbolt and the world went gray.

  Sinking to his knees, he realized his legs had become water. That guy was furiously strong.

  But he couldn't let the cop rescue that woman. He couldn't let his plans be ruined. With a growl, he pulled out the metal pipe he had used to knock out the lady cop earlier and lunged towards the Special Forces man. The cop dodged the first swing, but the second one connected with his shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards.

  "That will teach you," the wingman snarled, glad that he'd gotten the best of that hateful cop.

  Or had he? He felt a bolt of shock as the cop lunged forward and grabbed hold of the pipe. How had that happened? The wingman wrestled for control of it, but the cop was brutally strong. He tore it right out of his hands. And then he raised the pipe and brought it down, hard. This would be lights out, the wingman knew, in the moment before the pipe landed.

  Even so, he felt at peace that this might be his final revenge, but it was his most perfect one yet.

  He had not been stopped, because the balloons had already been released. The strap was unfastened, and the colorful orbs were lifting the woman cop higher and higher into the night sky.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  What was going on? What had happened?

  Reality filtered back to Juliette, but it was shot through with confusion. Someone was pushing her, pulling her. There were cords wrapped around her arms, her wrists. She thought she heard Wyatt, shouting in panic, his voice drawing her back toward reality from the gray haze where she'd been.

  And then, a juddering, soaring ascent. Air whooshed past her as consciousness returned and she realized, in a state of utter shock, where she was.

  She'd been tied to a flotilla of the giant balloons, and now she herself was whirling high into the night sky, with the lights of Naples circling dizzyingly below her as the balloons spun and swirled.

  "No!" Juliette cried, the word an automatic denial. This was impossible, but it was happening, and she knew that the consequences would be deadly. Visions of the broken bones and shattered bodies of the other victims flashed vividly into her mind.

  Frantically, she wriggled and squirmed, trying to free herself from the cords that bound her to the balloons. But she was already too high. Already, she could see a fall now would be deadly. If she got free, she'd plunge down to cold hard stone or solid blacktop as the wind took her over the city. Right now, the balloons were the only thing keeping her alive, even though they were going to burst and kill her.

  She could feel the wind tugging at her, the balloons pulling her higher and higher. There was no way of stopping this! With her mind now sharpening, and terror honing her perception, she thought about what would happen.

  She would ascend higher and higher into the sky until the balloons reached their breaking point. Then, she would fall to her death, just like the others.

  She gasped as reality set in. There was no way of avoiding this. No way of preventing the inevitability of physics. The balloons would rise, then burst, and then she would fall. She might be over the sea by then because the wind was taking her fast, but it wouldn't help. A drop from that height would kill her just as fast, whether she landed on ground or water.

  Scenarios spun through her mind. If Wyatt had been there, if he had seen her go up, perhaps he could do something - fire trucks might have big, padded mattresses that they used for rescuing people who fell or dropped from heights.

  But the chances of a fire truck having one ready to go, and being able to get it to the exact point that she would land were nonexistent, she admitted, with a terrible cold feeling inside.

  The balloons were very firmly tied to her wrists and ankles. He'd pulled the knots excruciatingly tight. She was a prisoner. If only she'd woken sooner, if only she'd been able to fight back.

  Juliette told herself firmly that she was wasting time thinking of 'if only' and all it might mean. This was not a time for regrets. This was a time for solutions, scarce as they might be, and as her mind ricocheted desperately from scenario to scenario, she found herself thinking of Sierra.

  She remembered the young woman's passionate interest in the physics of the balloons, her research, what she'd said about why they would burst.

  Juliette remembered all that, as she twisted and turned and spun higher and higher into the sky, drawn inexorably upward to the killing point. She would be carried out to sea, the balloons lifting her higher and higher until they reached their breaking point, and then she would plummet to her death. The thought of it made her heart race and her palms sweat.

  But this was the time for calm thought, difficult as it was when terror flared inside her every time she glimpsed the receding city lights and she realized that nothing more than gas, housed in fragile rubber packages and tied to nylon strings, was keeping her from crashing down.

  Taking deep breaths to calm herself, Juliette focused on the task at hand. She had to find a way out of this.

  Now, what had Sierra said, and was there a way she could use the information?

  Sierra had said that when the balloons reached a certain altitude, they burst. She wasn't sure why that happened, or what that height was. But what if she could make sure she never reached that tipping point?

  What if she could burst a few of the balloons earlier? That might allow her to slow the speed of her rising, or even to make a controlled descent.

  Finally, Juliette knew that she'd overcome her fear and was thinking calmly once more.

  She wished she'd had this thought earlier, because she didn't know how long she had left, or how much more height she would gain before they all burst at once. One thing was for sure, though, she had to act fast.

  Start with one, she decided. The closest one, a deep blue in color.

  She made a grab for the string, her fingers cold and numb from the constriction of the tight ties around her wrists and arms. She missed, and felt a lance of deep panic as she whirled still higher.

  Try again, she told herself. Just try again.

  With all the strength she could muster, Juliette reached up and grasped the string of the nearest balloon. Her fingers fumbled over it, but she didn't give up. She pulled and tugged until the balloon began bobbing and swaying down toward her.