Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky

time.”
    “Will do.”

    EL-SAYYED STUDIED THE DIGITAL photo he had received over the Internet. He waited for the guilt to come, the remorse, the pity, but the emotions never arrived. No surprise. He handed the picture to Abasi. “Give it to the girl.”
    “Delaram.”
    El-Sayyed waved his hand. “Names are unimportant. She is still capable of carrying out our task?”
    “Yes. Tony took care in administering her punishment. She might limp some.”
    “Give her something for her pain. We don’t want her to think we are animals. The transportation?”
    “All is ready, just as you ordered. We can leave at any time.”
    El-Sayyed stood. “We leave in fifteen minutes. Tony will drive me along the main road and into the city in case there are eyes on us. My leaving will provide a distraction. You take the women down the back roads. Drive until you are sure you are not being followed. Keep your eyes turned toward the heavens.”
    “To Allah.”
    “I was thinking of helicopters, Abasi.”

    DELARAM SAT IN THE back of the Italian-made minibus holding a picture Abasi had forced her to see. He didn’t force it on her at first. Instead, he loaded all the women onto the bus then passed the photo around. Some of the women gasped, others turned away. The printed photo made its way to the back of the bus where Delaram sat, leaning against the window, trying to ease the pressure on her bruised thigh.
    She took the photo certain she could feel no more physical or emotional pain. In the photo she saw her mother sitting on the floor cradling her father’s head in her lap. His left eye was swollen shut and dried blood clung to his nose and lips.
    Delaram envied the girl who committed suicide.

    ALDO GRONCHI CAUGHT A glimpse of his image in the tinted glass of the police boat. His eyes lingered on the dim reflection. He was a vain man and made no apology for it. Tall, smooth dark skin, serious eyes, and a mouth quick to smile, he knew he was what the Americans called a babe magnet. He resisted the urge to pose for himself, tempting as such an action was. He was on duty, and the only thing he loved more than himself was his role as a captain in the Naples police department. Ten years on the job, he had risen quickly through the ranks. Good looks, good humor, quick wit, and unflagging courage meant he would climb many more rungs of success’s ladder. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he was Capo della Polizia.
    He would face no danger today. The task for this early evening was to analyze the ability of his men to patrol the Bay of Naples and the smaller bays that served as home to the hundreds of pleasure craft and yachts that plied the cerulean waters of the famous city.
    Gronchi raised binoculars to his eyes and scanned the many hotels that lined the shores. Blocks of commercial buildings and homes covered the slope upon which the city of more than a million people had been built. He was proud of the city and its rich heritage. Less than seventy years ago, Allied pilots bombed the city repeatedly until they had broken the back of Fascism. He thought about how things changed. During that same time, Japan attacked the U.S., bombing Pearl Harbor to the brink of nonexistence. Now Americans competed for Japanese cars. They also traveled to Italy by the droves to take in its history and charm.
    Such was the heritage that forced Gronchi to work fourteen-hour days for the last month.
    “See anything?” A young officer stepped to Gronchi’s side. He was shorter than Gronchi’s six-foot-two yet weighed considerably more.
    Gronchi gazed at the man. “Your green tint clashes with your uniform, Lorenzo.”
    The man shrugged. “I am not much of a sailor.”
    “Perhaps a little food would help you. I believe the captain brought sardines for lunch.”
    Lorenzo’s tint darkened, but he didn’t complain. Disappointed, Gronchi returned the binoculars to his eyes. “Did you make the contacts as I asked?”
    “Yes, sir. We will have our final