Aldo slowed his pace, glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being watched. The street was deserted, and no one was around. A dog barked in the distance, otherwise there was absolute stillness.
In the next moment, Fabio rose, wobbly, then staggered away, pretending to lean on the wall to steady himself. The wrapped package remained on the ground.
Aldo didn’t hesitate. He sped up, leaned over as he rode past, snatched it, and kept going. It was heavy, and he tossed it into the pouch on his handlebars.
Aldo found his heart beating hard, now that he had the pistols. There really was no going back now. He sent up a prayer for forgiveness. He resolved again to find a way to save Marco. Now it was time to get back to Rome.
He scanned the street, and it remained empty, dark, and quiet. He rode down the street, turned around, and steered back the way he came, due south. His eyes swept the streets as he pedaled faster, heading out of town. He left Orvieto and kept going, every muscle tense as he gripped the handlebars.
His thighs began to burn, and he accelerated, barreling into the dark night. The road wound this way and that, with a long ride ahead. The pistols in the pouch clinked against each other, making noise when he hit a bump.
Aldo lowered his upper body to improve his aerodynamics. He made his way through pastures with grazing horses and cows in the darkness. The headlights of a passing car shone on him, but he ignored it. He accelerated, then the car accelerated, but didn’t pass him. He didn’t understand. He signaled to the car to pass him, but it didn’t. It didn’t make sense.
Aldo held steady with the car at his heels, over his right shoulder. The big headlights illuminated him. He glanced over his shoulder to see it was a big, dark sedan. He felt a tremor of fright. He told himself to calm down, but it wasn’t working. He slowed, but the sedan slowed, too. He sped up, and the sedan sped up. But it still didn’t pass him.
Fear bolted through him, powering his fatigued body. The sedan dogged his back tire, toying with him. Aldo pedaled harder, channeling his fear into effort. The sedan sped so close that he could feel heat emanating from its big engine. He heard men laughing. Maybe drinkers, having fun at his expense. There was no one around to help. He was on his own.
The sedan gunned its engine, gaining on him. He couldn’t hope to outrun them, but he kept going, his heart hammering from a growing terror. Suddenly a bottle hit his shoulder, and the men burst into raucous laughter.
Aldo gripped the handlebars but didn’t fall. His front tire wobbled but he kept control. He tried to think of a way out. There was none. He was on a long stretch of road flanked by fences and farms, with no byway to the left or right. The men in the sedan must know the roads better than he. He was frightened, but prayed they would leave him alone.
Aldo could barely see in the darkness. Ahead the road curved to the right and disappeared. The wind buffeted him broadside, and clouds raced to conceal the moon. He steered around the curve to the right, then saw to his horror that the road was blocked by a line of sedans that were facing him, head-on. Their headlights were switched off.
An ambush.
Aldo braked as hard as he could. The cars switched on their headlights, blasting him with light, blinding him. He slid into a fall. His bicycle vanished from under him. The package of guns flew from the pouch.
Everything happened at once. He fell to the ground, half-rolling and half-skidding off the road. The asphalt tore his jersey off and flayed his skin. An agonizing pain ripped through his arms and legs. He couldn’t hold a single thought.
Aldo found himself coming to a stop in a grassy ditch, hitting a fence post. He smelled manure. He heard the thundering of hooves as horses ran off.
He struggled to maintain consciousness. The pain was agonizing. He hurt everywhere. He felt warmth all over his face. He knew it was his own blood. He opened his eyes with effort. Above him loomed a line of dark silhouettes, brandishing long clubs.
Fascists.
Aldo felt his heart thunder with terror. The Fascists must have discovered their plans. He struggled to his feet, but his legs buckled under him. Pain exploded in his right knee. It must be broken. He pitched forward and crumpled to the ground. His blood drenched him. He smelled the metallic odor.
The men laughed, coming for him. “Bolshevik pig!” “You’re under arrest, Communist!” “I see a gun on him, don’t you?” “Yes, I see it, too!” “We have to defend ourselves!”
Aldo realized they were going to kill him, not arrest him. He tried to crawl away. His legs seared with agony. He panted and grunted like an animal. He clawed his way forward with his fingers.