"What makes you think Salvatore has any information on this?" he demanded. Juliette could see the tension in his body, as if he was ready to grab her at any moment. She knew she had to tread carefully.

  "I heard that Gianni used to work with Salvatore," she said calmly. "I thought he might know something about him that could help us catch the killer."

  "Wait here," he grunted, before disappearing through the door.

  Waiting nervously, she had no idea what to expect, but she knew that she had to be ready for anything.

  After a few minutes, the guard returned and gestured for her to follow him.

  Juliette stood up, and followed the guard through the door.

  She found herself in a large, opulent office, with plush carpets and expensive paintings on the walls. A large mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, and behind it sat Salvatore himself, looking every bit like the powerful mob boss that he was. He was a man in his late fifties, with graying hair and a face that showed every wrinkle of experience. His eyes were piercing and cold, and Juliette could sense a forcefulness emanating from him.

  He wasn't alone. Two guards stood in the room, and Salvatore had two other men sitting opposite him at the desk, now turning to watch her.

  "You are Juliette Hart? A cop? An American?" His voice was incredulous. "What are you doing here? You are not welcome."

  Juliette stood her ground, despite the warning in Salvatore's voice. "I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. Salvatore, but I need your help."

  "We don't help cops!" he shot back at her in strongly accented English. Then, in Italian, he snapped out to the guard, "Why did you allow her in?"

  In rapid Italian, the guard said to Salvatore, "She is here to find out about Gianni. She wants to know who killed him. Just as we do."

  Juliette took a deep breath. Drawing on all her reserves of Italian, she said in her best Italian accent, "Signor Salvatore, we believe this killer is an American. Possibly a dual citizen. He's killed two people so far, in twelve hours. We need to find out why, and stop him. And I hope you can help me with information."

  There was a stunned silence. Salvatore's eyebrows rose.

  "You do not sound like an American," he challenged her, now speaking more comfortably in his mother tongue.

  "I spent my teenage years in Europe," she explained, sticking to her host’s language now.

  The mob boss studied her for a moment before finally nodding.

  "We heard about Gianni's death. The questions you are asking, we were asking too, earlier today. Was this an enemy? Did he anger someone or cheat them? But the most we can think of is that it was a rival gang. We are still looking into that." He held up his hand. "If this is true, we will deal with it ourselves. We will not involve you."

  "And what are the chances?"

  "Of it being a rival?" He shrugged. "Not high."

  "The other man, Vincenzo. He was a gambler. Were you associated with him at all?"

  Salvatore shook his head. "No. He had debt, I am sure, but not with us. There are plenty of loan companies within Naples who are not connected with our business at all."

  "So you know nothing?"

  "Precisely," he said. "So, if that is all you have come to ask, there is your answer."

  Juliette nodded, her mind spinning. "Thank you for your time," she said.

  Then, feeling as if she needed to say something more, that the answer might be waiting if only she got the question right, she added, “You have a lot of connections. Have any of them reported anything troubling, anything strange? We are trying to figure out how the killer has done this.”

  Salvatore stared at her, his face inscrutable. Then he turned aside and had a muttered conversation with the other men.

  Turning back to her, he nodded.

  “There were reports, from one of our agents, that there was some sort of surveillance balloon floating over the city in the direction of the coast. He sent that report in to us yesterday night, and said it looked odd, and we should monitor it. We always keep aware of such things, but nobody else saw it.”

  A surveillance balloon?

  “Thank you. That could be helpful to us.”

  “Our aim is not to help the police. But if this is a mutual threat, we will not stand in your way,” he said carefully, gesturing to the door.

  As Juliette left the building, her mind was racing. A surveillance balloon? Was this killer floating his victims into the air?

  She rounded the corner, and then her heart jumped into her mouth all over again.

  Wyatt was running toward her, his face taut with anxiety.

  "Juliette!" he shouted when he saw her, panic in his voice.

  CHAPTER NINE

  What was happening? Where was he? There was something strange going on. Flashes of light, sounds, and an odd sensation that something was pulling at him.

  "I'm going to see you fly. And it’s going to feed my soul. It will make me whole, perfect again."

  A rough voice with an American accent, speaking in English, although the words were gibberish, interrupted his hazy return to consciousness.

  Claudio Pitti tried to focus his vision, but his head was throbbing, and he couldn't make out the figure looming over him. It was very dark and he was outside somewhere. And he had no idea what was happening. Something was, though. Someone was fidgeting with him, attaching something to his limbs. He heard a hiss of air and then, with a sickening lurch, the world went hazy again.

  There was a painful tugging on Claudio's arms and legs, a feeling that he was being whooshed upward by thin, tight fingers wrapped around him. And there was a buffeting sensation as if the wind was blasting through him.

  What was going on? His head ached. Memory was highly confused, and shot through by a veil of alcohol. There had been that time in the bar. He'd given into temptation and gone there, knowing there would most likely be a pretty little tourist looking for some company. And of course, there had been.

  He remembered flirting, drinking, ogling her body and those long legs in that short denim skirt. How enticing they'd been. Once he'd seen those legs and her lovely smile, he'd felt there was no turning back and only one way for this exciting evening to end. He'd had in mind to go across the road to the hotel where the manager was very accommodating in renting rooms for a short duration at a lower than usual fee.

  Then, it was like memory had ceased. And now, something was very wrong. He felt unstable, as if he was on a ship. Or perhaps being taken somewhere. Was he being carried away by a mugger or robber? That could be possible.

  He opened his eyes and blinked in astonishment. He let out an agonized cry, stupefied by his view. Above him, framed against the night sky, was a flotilla of enormous balloons. White, blue, green. They were bobbing above him and weirdly, it seemed as if they were carrying him.

  Carrying him? Impossible!

  Panic surged inside him as he realized that it was, in fact, all too possible. It was happening. This was no nightmare, no alcohol induced fantasy.

  He struggled to free himself, but the grip on him was too tight. He realized that he was tied up and being carried by the balloons. Somehow, he had been kidnapped.

  Kidnapped and set free in the sky.

  The balloons bobbed and weaved as they carried him higher and higher into the night. He was helpless, at the mercy of whoever had done this to him. No, that was wrong. Now, he was at the mercy of the balloons themselves.

  As he rose higher, he glanced down and his stomach dropped sickeningly as he saw the city below him, the lights twinkling like stars. He was far above Naples and he was going to drop to his death.

  Sweat sprang out on his hands and forehead and a wave of fear, nauseating in its intensity, filled him.

  "Help me!" he cried, the sound waves seeming to batter the balloons.

  And then, to his consternation, he realized something terrible.

  The balloons were starting to burst.

  First one, then another, were popping with a bang, vanishing from his sight. He didn't know why. Why was this happening? Was it something to do with the height they had reached? It was as if an invisible giant with a pin was pricking every single one of them. He was gasping now, hyperventilating with horror as he watched his fragile supports winking out, one by one, as if unable to handle the dizzying heights they had boosted him to.

  "No!"

  But the intermittent popping noise was now increasing, it was becoming like rapid machine gun fire above him, and balloon after balloon was exploding, vanishing from the sky. It was like popcorn kernels, his mind thought randomly. First a few popped and then they all popped.

  But not with the same lethal consequences.

  And now, suddenly, as the last few balloons winked out, his trajectory was reversed.

  He was falling. The wind was buffeting him, ripping away the fragile strings around his arms, tearing at the pieces of balloon, making his eyes water and his body twist and flail as he fell.

  He was screaming. He was screaming for help, for mercy, for anything to save him from this fate. But the night sky was silent and uncaring.

  Regrets rushed through his mind, as rapidly as the air rushed past. If only he hadn't given in to temptation and gone to that pick-up bar. If only he'd gone home to his wife. If only he hadn't thought of taking that pretty little signorina to the hotel. If only, if only. So many regrets, all too late, because now there were no second chances. Only panic and terror.

  So many bad decisions and now, he was done. He couldn't even breathe. The speed of his descent was forcing the air from his lungs. Dizzyingly, breathlessly, he plummeted, falling faster and faster, the ground racing up to meet him.

  He screamed as all he could see was the ground, closer and closer, tearing toward him.

  And then, abruptly, there was nothing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "What is it?" Hearing the concern in Wyatt's voice, seeing the stress in his face, Juliette broke into a run as she rounded the corner of the mob headquarters. Had another bombshell landed while she’d been inside?

  "It's you! I was worried about you!" Sounding breathless, he strode toward her.

  "Me?" She stared at him, perplexed. The wire had been working, or so she'd thought. They'd tested it.

  Then the light dawned. The conversation had switched to Italian and that had meant Wyatt was unable to understand what was going on.

  "I couldn't keep up with it," he admitted, confirming what she'd just realized.

  "It's okay," she said, feeling a wave of affection for his obvious concern. "I switched to Italian because I needed to be on their wavelength. I didn't feel in danger - well, at any rate, not for long. They knew about Gianni and they are also looking for the killer. If it's a rival gang that did it, I doubt we'll ever know, though. But I did learn something else. Someone saw what they thought was balloon surveillance. Could that be an option? Could this killer be using balloons?"

  Wyatt nodded, relieved. "I guess it’s a possibility. Let’s look into it, but for now, we'd better be on our way. We don't want to stay here any longer than necessary."

  They climbed into the car and Wyatt headed out.

  "I'm going to start learning French and Italian," he said decisively.

  Her eyes widened. "You are?"

  "Yes. You know, this has helped me realize the importance of knowing a second language. I mean, I didn't have a clue what was being said. If I'm going to be able to function like I need to in this environment, I'm going to have to be able to understand everything that's being said. We may need it in this line of work. I want to be prepared."

  He glanced at her, his face set in determination.

  Juliette nodded. She knew he was right. They were going to need all the help they could get.

  "I think that's a great decision," she said. Inwardly, she was also surprised by it. She hadn't expected her all-American partner to embark on this of his own volition. It gave her a newfound admiration for him.

  “If that’s the case, then I’ll match you,” she promised.

  “What? You already know a heap of languages!”

  “No, it’s not languages I want to learn. It’s music. I commit, right here and now, to learning to play an instrument. Shall we say, the violin?”

  Wyatt looked astonished. “Violin? Isn’t that difficult?”

  “It might be. But let’s do it. Let’s set goals, and see where we are in a month. Deal?”

  “Deal,” he agreed, grinning, suddenly looking more relaxed as his tension ebbed.

  “So, what’s the plan tonight?” she asked.

  "While you were in there, Sierra did some research and found us a local place to stay, just outside of Naples," Wyatt continued. "I guess we need to get some rest, because apart from the balloon theory, which needs investigating further, we don’t have anywhere left to go," he said.

  She grimaced. "We don’t. And we might as well get some sleep."

  It was already close to midnight. She could see the car ahead, and Sierra looking anxiously at her from the back seat.

  She hoped that daylight would bring some new leads and new ideas, and allow them to research the possibility of balloons somehow being involved.

  Climbing inside, Wyatt programmed the coordinates into his map, and they set off on the short drive, with Juliette briefing Wyatt and Sierra on what had happened inside the mob warehouse as they drove.

  “Balloons?” Sierra asked curiously. “I’m going to investigate that!”

  "That will be very helpful. The hotel should be down this road."

  It had taken only a couple of minutes for them to drive out of the stark, threatening industrial zone and return to the brighter, lighter, and friendlier areas where tourists gathered.

  There were a few hotels along this street, and the one that Sierra had chosen was on the corner.

  They got out and entered the small lobby. It was comfortable, with a hotel lounge decked out in leather and dark wood, photos of Naples' historic and tourists sites on the walls, and a round-faced, smiling receptionist with curly, grayish hair who greeted them in a friendly manner, despite the late hour.

  "Welcome, welcome!" she said, her accent pleasant and melodic. "You have just reserved rooms, yes?" she said, flipping through the folder and producing a document for them to sign.

  Then she handed them the three access cards for the rooms.

  "You are on floor three, and you two both on the fourth floor. Will you need breakfast?"

  "We'll probably be leaving too early for it," Juliette said. "But thank you."

  "No problem. Have a good night's rest," she smiled.

  They agreed to meet in the lobby at seven a.m. to start the day's work, but as she headed up to her room, Juliette had a cold feeling of worry inside her that the day would end up starting earlier.

  It would all depend on if another body was found.

  ***

  When she woke, she opened her eyes to find herself in a place that was familiar and yet unwelcome, a place that filled her with a sense of dread.

  She was in the hotel where she'd stayed on the night her father was murdered. But this time, Juliette realized with a sense of terror, she'd opted to be inside the room where her father was killed.

  She was in the bed near the window. He was asleep in the bed near the door.

  But she wasn't asleep. She was watching the door and she could see it moving, hearing the tiny click that meant the latch was activated. They'd managed to get in, even though it was a secure hotel room.

  The door inched open and her breath started coming fast.

  She watched as the intruder stepped in, the glint of the blade in his hand. It was a long blade, sharp and deadly.

  The intruder was dressed in black with a stocking mask over his face that obscured his features. Through the narrow eye slits, she thought she saw a predatory glint as he surveyed the room.

  He was coming for her father.

  Juliette wanted to scream, to shout for help, but her throat was frozen. She wanted to move, to reach for the phone and dial for help, but her body wouldn't obey her.

  Her father was sleeping, so deeply. She needed to tell him to wake up, but she was a prisoner in her own dream, robbed of speech, incapable of warning him.

  The intruder took a step towards her father's bed, the blade glinting in the dim light. Juliette's heart raced as she tried to find a way to break free from the hold that kept her paralyzed.

  The intruder slowly approached her father's bed, his blade glinting in the moonlight, and Juliette felt a surge of panic. She had to do something, anything to stop him. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she could feel the cold sweat on her palms.

  As the intruder reached her father's bed, he raised his blade, ready to strike.

  Then, finally, she found her voice.

  "No!" she screamed. "No, no, don't do it! Leave him! He's my dad. He's done nothing wrong!"

  Her father remained asleep, his chest rising and falling. He couldn't hear her. But the killer did. The masked intruder paused, his blade hovering in the air. He turned slowly towards Juliette, and she could see the amusement in his veiled eyes. "What's this? Daddy's little girl trying to play hero?" he sneered. "Don't worry, sweetheart, you're next." He paused. "In fact, you're first!"

  Juliette's heart was pounding in her chest as she watched the killer take a step toward her. She tried to move, but her body was still frozen in place. She could feel the sweat on her palms and her heart was racing as the killer approached her.

  She wasn't an FBI agent. She had no training, no firearm, no combat experience. She was a twenty-one-year-old student, innocent, with no way of defending herself against what would come.

  She was going to have to try. She grabbed a pillow, but it was flimsy, nothing more than a strip of soft silk in her hands. Gasping in a desperate breath, she grabbed the bedside lamp, hoping that she could use it as a weapon, but the cord attached it firmly to the wall, and she couldn't wrench it away. It was useless in her hands. All her hastily thought out defenses were failing her and she had no recourse, no protection, as the killer approached with his long, dully gleaming blade.