You see a flash of orange across the square, just for a moment.

It’s the first time that you’ve actually seen him, but you know there have been other times recently when you sensed him as well.

It was a him back then. Always a him. For that’s how you know they do it. Every time.

He’s gone now, after he knows you saw him. Not that he was anyone you actually knew.

~~~

But you did know of him, from the other times.

That one time in the back street in Siena. And the other time way up in Ravello, way across the valley from the restaurant. The pizza was the best you’d ever had and Michel was with you. He almost threw you off guard for a while. Those beguiling eyes that he used so much to his advantage, peering deep into your soul.

Then you saw it out of the corner of your eye. The glint of a reflection on the road between the villas. You thought it was a car, but it didn’t move at all. At first you didn’t react, then your training kicked in and you dived under another couples’ table. You actually did that! A tiny smile forms on your face when you think of Michel when you reappeared, from the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” he complained, jaw wide open.

You didn’t reply, for you were focused on another reflection; another intense flicker of light a little further down the road from the last. Your eyes squinted to see if you could make out what or who it was and then, in that moment, you realised. You didn’t bat an eyelid as you ran, dragging Michel with you back to the Lancia.

“Drive!” You hiss. “Just drive.”

He did as he was told. Without argument, for you were clear and firm. And he knew not to question it. You made your point with but one look of your eyes. And he complied. For the next 30 minutes, he did as you bid him. Driving fast, you made him take the hot and dusty cross-country lanes until you made it back to Sorrento and the little pension you’d taken.

“Pack. Quickly.”

Your adrenaline was in full flow now and you took no time to consider his needs.

By now Michel had reached his limit. He wasn’t going to be told what to do any more. Not without at least a sliver of detail. He was compliant with you back on that distant hilltop and now he wanted something back.

“What, Erica? What’s going on?” You knew he deserved to know. Not just because you loved him. More that he was now an integral part of the problem. Your problem, of course.

You were tempted to put him off and savour the joy of one more night with him, when you would slip away early and disappear. Play safe and avoid the station in town, get a taxi to the outskirts of Naples, the train to the city and then the bus to the airport.

But not a flight for you, of course, that would be too obvious. You’d rent a car there and drive up to that Best Western in Cassino you knew. You would be safe amongst the tourists up there and then you could call your people to get you out properly. It was the plan; rehearsed in your head so many times.

But no. Although he would now be implicated, you couldn’t do the right thing. The hard thing, you had to be fucking selfish and keep him with you. For his body.

And what he did with it. Utterly selfish. And stupid.

“I’m being followed.” You hear the words coming out and know that now, there’s no going back. They cannot be unsaid from now on. But as you speak them out loud, it’s an out of body experience for you. Like someone else is speaking them and you’re a bystander. A fly on the wall. Who said that? You ask yourself.

It was you, for fucks sakes. It was you.

“And it’s nasty. Far nastier than you could ever imagine.”

You tell him your story and see his eyes widening with incredulity. He is listening but after the first few moments, your words are going right over his head. You are overwhelming him with details he simply isn’t processing, so, you stop and take a breath.

“I suppose going to the police won’t work?” he proffers, but with very little belief in his words.

You laugh a little – but not a lot – of course. For this is deadly serious for both of you. Is it hysteria? Or are you past all this now. Who’s to say?

“Pack. Fast.” You spit the words out.

But his lack of savvy does for him. In you is the training and the experience to keep cautious at all times. But he’s too near the window as you hear the minute hiss and pop. They would never have known it was him, of course. They may have assumed it was you, that single bullet with Michel’s name on it.

And you have done it to him.

~~~

They are back with you now, once again. Across another square, hidden around another corner, in another quaint little hilltop village.

But you are so pissed with them. After the escape and holing up for a while, despite what your people said, you want to tease them out. You’re fucked off with all this again and again. It’s served you well in the past, this life, but now it’s time for a change.

So, it’s time to make a stand. Let them come. Let them fucking come. You’ve had enough.

The little procession makes its way towards you, full of small town pomp and circumstance on this holiest of days. The music and gaiety sate your tension for but a moment and then you are off using the crowds to conceal you, back to the weary dark rooms, in the old part of town.

Your month’s rental is but half-run and in normal circumstances, you would be packing up again and getting out fast. They told you to, until you dumped the burner and you can’t be contacted any more.

You could be tempted just to sit there with the Glock in your hand until they burst the door down, but they will have more resources than you and will wait longer than you can. Anyway, you don’t have the patience for it any more.

You change into clothes that will meet your needs and make your way down to where the little blue Fiat is parked. But today, you won’t be needing it, for you take one of the random buzzy mopeds that litter the street side.

Today it will end. For good.

~~~

As you ride the cobbled back streets you know you are a target and you know he won’t do anything obvious in town. But you do need to be out there, visible.

In a street to the left, his flash of orange as you see him, scampering to his own bike. And you hear it start up, more powerful than yours, as you expected, so there won’t be much time to spare. It’s so good that you have a plan this time with no distractions.

Like Michel had been.

The river is running high after the rains and the bridge is on a bend in the road. You’ve done your homework and know the layout and the timing has to be to perfection. You’re a professional, but are you better than him? The big bike is screaming behind you as the final straight approaches and that’s going to be how it will finish up, at last. And it will be over. You’ve had enough and it can’t go on.

He comes alongside you as you expect and there’s going to be nowhere for you to go as you reach the heavy stone parapet. You checked out its provenance and as far as you can tell it’s fourteenth century, so it will do its job and keep you apart as you approach the endgame.

He’s a guy, right? So you know how he will do this. That big bike mimicking his manhood between his legs and instead of making sure, he’ll use that to force you either into the parapet itself or down the rocky ravine into the river. He’s going to show his weakness and let his ego get the better of him, just as you expected him to. Big boy.

You’re getting close now and the metre-wide stone is coming up to you fast. This is where you get nudged as you hoped you might. Your bike is manoeuvrable, if slow, and so you use the biker skills you had from your misspent youth to make sure that you hit nothing hard. And you take the slope down to the river at such a lick that you take off and hit the water hard.

But you know how to do this. You know where it’s deep and how to miss the falling bike.

As you hit the water, you stay afloat long enough for him to see you dead. He’ll not shoot, not just because there’s a little traffic on the road, but also his ego-driven prowess will feed him that his bike and his balls did it to you.

So he’ll just watch as you float away downstream, around the bend.

~~~

You know the angles and you know when you’ll be out of sight to him, so you wait and you wait and you slowly, but surely edge towards the bank and the silenced Glock you hid two days ago. You check it quickly and start to run.

It takes you but a few minutes to take the track back to the bridge, where you can hear him on his phone.

“È morta.”

That’s all you need to hear. They know you’re gone and it’s over, at least for them.

Except for one thing, of course.

For Michel and for the others, you have one more thing to do.

You take aim as he stares down the river once more, to see if he can still see you.

Then, he peers over your way and straight at you in hiding and at that moment, that very moment, you pull the trigger. You see the tiny hole in his forehead and the surprise in his face as he sees the end. The shock is tangible and he falls into that raging river.

You watch for a moment and with no further hesitation, clamber up to his bike and take off, down the valley. To the rest of your life.

Wherever and whoever that may be.