Bari, Italy
Day Three
Mulling over the strange tattoos found on last night’s attackers, Stryker checked his weaponry from the front seat of Sam’s black Fiat. His Glock was loaded and his knife moved freely in its sheath. He patted the extra magazine in the pocket of his leather jacket, and then inspected his clear, tight-fitting latex gloves, which would eliminate fingerprints. Finally, those shielded fingers patted the mask that hid his facial features. All set there, too.
Sam was staking out the front of the bar from the comfort of a café, and he had eyes on the rain-soaked alley just in case yesterday’s bartender had given today’s a heads-up that they’d been asking around. Better to play it safe.
It was early yet. Nine-ish. Another gray, rainy morning. Stryker wanted to be gone bef
